Chapter 10 Kateřina
Iwake up from a nightmare, though that’s nothing unusual for me. Seeing my parents and the house I grew up in is routine. The unusual thing is that when most people dream of their parents, they think of home. Security. Calmness. But that isn’t the case for me. I never felt good in my own house.
The house always felt cold when my father was angry. Not the kind of anger that exploded into shouting or slammed doors. That would have been easier. His rage was quiet and controlled. It was the kind of cold that made me feel small and unprotected.
Like the night that I—
I stood in the dim hallway, my stomach twisting itself into knots. My father was in front of me, calm and composed. He wasn’t yelling, cursing, or slamming his hand on the table. That wasn’t his style. His fury was silent in the way his eyes bored into mine like I was a problem to be solved.
“You don’t listen,” he said with a smooth voice. That was the worst part. How calm he always was when he hurt me. “You were told you couldn’t go out. And yet, you thought you could do whatever you wanted.”
“I—” My voice shook. “It was just a few hours. Just my friends—”
He didn’t react. No change in his expression, no shift in his stance. He didn’t care that I hadn’t done anything reckless, that I hadn’t been sneaking off to meet some older guy or to drink behind the school. He didn’t care that I just wanted to feel normal for one night.
I turned my head toward my mother, searching for something in her face. She stood slightly behind him, arms crossed, staring past me at the wall like she wasn’t really there, like this wasn’t happening.
“Mom—” My voice cracked. I hated how weak I sounded. “Please.”
Her lips parted slightly. I thought, for a second, that she might speak. That she might tell him this was too much, that I didn’t deserve this. But then her mouth closed, and she looked away.
My chest clenched so tightly it hurt.
My father moved first. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging painfully into my skin. It wasn’t enough to bruise me but enough to make his point.
“In.”
I swallowed hard. My legs locked into place. I didn’t want to move.
His grip tightened.
“I said in.”
I took a slow step back, then another, my body moving on its own. We passed the family portraits on the walls. Those smiling, frozen faces that had never felt like mine. They were never genuine or honest. We passed the living room.
Then we were at my bedroom door. He opened it and motioned inside.
I hesitated. That was one more mistake.
I felt his hand press harder into my wrist, just enough to remind me that he could. That I would do as he said, no matter what.
I stepped inside. The door shut behind me. The lock clicked, making my eyes well up yet again.
I knew how this would go. A day, maybe two, and he’d come back. Or he wouldn’t. Sometimes, it was the whole week. Sometimes longer. He never starved me or hit me; however, that made it worse somehow.
Because it meant he knew exactly what he was doing. He forgot about me and treated me like a dog he simply couldn’t leave dying on its own.
I turned to the window, but it was locked. Of course. I sank onto my bed, curling my fingers into the fabric of my sheets, pressing my pillow against my face to keep from making a sound.
Then I heard footsteps, but not his.
My heart thudded. “Mom?” I whispered.
A pause. Then, finally, her voice was so soft I almost didn’t hear it.
“Go to sleep.”
It wasn’t comfort or sympathy. It was an instruction. A plea for me to make this easier on myself. On her.
Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
She wouldn’t open the door. She never did. She never went against him, not because she was afraid, but because she always saw me as a problem as well.
I lay down, curling into myself, staring at the ceiling, at the nothingness.
And I waited for the time to pass or for something to change.
But I knew it wouldn’t.
They never paid attention and never really cared for me. They never flinched at my screams when I said I wished they had never had me or at least given me up for adoption. It was evident that these people couldn’t love their child.
They couldn’t love me.
As if I wasn’t enough.
As if I wasn’t capable of being loved.
My fists clench, gripping the sheets tighter, just like that night. But the memory is stronger than me.
A whole day has passed—an entire day of thinking and remembering, hating and cursing.
A whole day without seeing him. He didn’t come to my room, and I avoided going out after evening because I knew he’d be back.
I’m wondering who he is, and how he has so much money and power.
He can’t be a celebrity; I’d have known him.
I’m guessing he’s an “ordinary” businessman, and I don’t know him because I’m not native.
Emily didn’t know him either; she’d have mentioned something.
Probably, he’s in the mafia and owns half of the planet, just like we see in the movies.
But on the other hand, the saleswoman at the store where I met him said he reminds her of someone. So inconvenient that she couldn’t remember who.
I still don’t understand why he kidnapped me. Protect me … protect me from whom? And who will protect me from this savage man? What the hell does he want from me?
And this place … it’s like something from a horror movie. Every night, every door locks automatically, and all of his staff remain in their rooms. How can they be okay with it? Don’t they feel like captives as well? Don’t they feel deprived of their freedom?
I’d like to know if his door locks every night, too.
During the day, I spent a lot of time contemplating. I wonder if he belongs to the occult, or if he’s a Satanist and sacrifices people to Satan. Would it be so obvious? Then why did he try to help me get through the panic attack last night?
My mind is going to explode.
Having the knife I stole close to me makes me feel safer. However, I have no idea what I’d do if someone attacked me. I hate violence, but I have to survive. I have to get out and go to Emily. She must be terrified and so worried. I wish I could at least inform her.
It’s almost night, and I’m bored to death in this bedroom. I came out only to eat lunch because I was starving. However, I didn’t talk much to Eleanor. I sneaked back into my room, wishing I wouldn’t meet him or any of his men. And that Landon and Bruce … they’re such creeps.
I’m wondering what time it is now. Will he be back yet?
I need to go out and take a walk for a while. Maybe I’ll see something, perhaps a clue, or maybe I find someone not so creepy that I can talk to.
Screw it, I’ll go out …
I hesitantly exit my room and wander around, keeping the knife in the hem of my jeans, underneath my shirt, just as I did the previous time.
Gosh, this place looks so spacious, yet vacant, with only the necessary items. It’s primarily black with a modern and classy touch—all of it except for the bedroom I stay in.
I walk and walk until I find myself in a maze-like corridor I haven’t explored before.
Eventually, I reach the living room, and of course, it’s massive, just like the rest of the place.
Large balcony doors line the room, replacing walls, but the shutters are completely closed.
I suppose that’s the intention, so that I won’t try anything.
Around the room, at least five vases loaded with red roses fill the air with their beautiful fragrance.
In the corner, there’s a big black piano. I’m sure it’s there just for decoration. Nice touch, though.
In the middle of the only wall in the room, there’s a massive fireplace, its flames crackling softly. Someone must be tending to it, yet the place feels deserted.
I have always loved fireplaces. I never had one in any of the houses I’ve lived in, and I always wondered if they have a calming effect on the people around them. Involuntarily, I step closer to it and sit on the black couch so its heat can reach me.
It’s so peaceful. Listening to the flames, and only the flames, is something I never thought could bring such peace.
A slow, calculated walk breaks the absolute stillness of the room, a prowl, I’d say, that makes my skin crawl. It’s so quiet and measured, like a cat silently stalking me.
“Look who decided to sneak out of her nest.”
It’s him.
I gulp as my breathing becomes more forceful. He’s already affecting me.
Slowly, I raise my eyes and look at him. He seems so calm and easygoing, one hand in his slacks pocket and the other holding a glass of scotch. He is … shirtless.
Why is he walking around his huge mansion like that?
Immediately, my body stiffens. I can feel it, and I’m sure it’s obvious. I don’t talk. I have nothing good to say.
“Enjoying the fire?” he asks again, taking a sip of his whiskey. I hate whiskey. I hate its smell almost more than the smell of cigarettes.
“Did you bury the body?” I scoff.
“No.” He smiles brightly yet softly. “My men did.” He sips his whiskey. “I buried his head.”
“You’re sick!”
He hums with a soft smile. Unbothered, he walks up to the small round glass table that holds a bottle of whiskey and another glass. He pours some and walks back to me, offering me the glass.
I shake my head.
“Take it, little rose. You’re too tense again.” His voice is calm and gentle. I gaze back into his olive-tinted eyes and hesitate for a bit. “Join me for a drink,” he insists.
With a clear of my throat, swiftly I take the glass. I mean, what else can I do when I have a sadistic killer right in front of me?
“Cheers.” He clinks our glasses and gives me a warm smile.
He looks different. Calmer. More approachable. What if he’s drunk? Perhaps if I play along and go with the flow, I’ll manage to convince him to let me go. Or I can even escape. I need to be smart.
He sips. “You don’t drink, huh?”
“No. I hate alcohol.”
“Such a heavy word for a pure soul like you.” He sips again.