18. Brynn
I t’s stupid to do it.
I know it is, but I can’t just sit here and wait for him to come back. For him to spurt more lies, more filth, and for him to fuck me again.
I have to try. I have to keep trying.
I refuse to just roll over and become what he wants me to be; docile, compliant.
The door creaks as I open it. It’s heavy, must be made of solid oak. Being twice the height of a normal one, it takes almost all my strength to get the damned thing open.
Half of me is surprised it opens. I expected him to lock me in, to keep me contained. What does that say about his home? Is it so secure that he doesn’t care where I wander because he knows I can’t get out? I bury that thought, stifle it. Thinking like that won’t help, thinking like that won’t get me out of this shit.
I peer out into the space beyond and see a corridor; a hall that is so wide that it must span the size of most people’s homes.
This house is nothing like the modern penthouse. The grandeur here is old money, old power. Every surface drips with history and wealth—ornate wallpaper, gilded mirrors, priceless artwork. It's the kind of place that makes you feel small, insignificant. Oh, I knew the Blake’s were filthy rich. I knew their family legacy predates even our own, but to see this level of grandeur, to see the history practically laid before me makes my heart stop.
How can you fight someone who has this level of wealth, this level of power? No wonder my grandfather was so anxious to overlook Conrad’s indiscretions and bind our name with theirs.
He’s a Reaper.
The thought sends a jolt of fear through me. As if I’m not petrified enough.
According to the rumours he may not have any notable kills to his name, any notable catches, but that doesn’t negate what he is. What he is capable of. It was probably a walk in the park to carry me out of my home, to disappear into the night, to vanish like a phantom.
Do my family even realise I’m gone? Surely, they must have noticed by now? They must have realised I haven’t eaten anything, haven’t left my room. I don’t even know what day of the week it is. How much school have I missed?
Would they be rejoicing at my absence? Would they even care?
I think of my aunt, of what she did, how she wrapped me up and gave me away like a present. I think about the fact that she watched as Conrad raped me, she got off on it. The tears stream down my face before I can stop them. But they’re not sad tears, not ones of pain.
No, these tears are full of anger, full of venom.
I want to make that bitch pay. I want to make her suffer. She has made my life a living hell from the moment I stepped into that house, and why? Because I look like the sister she was so jealous of? Because I reminded her of the one person she could never compare to in my grandfather’s eyes?
She’s a petty, nasty bitch, and I’m going to make her suffer just as much as she has made me.
I clench my fists, hardening my resolve. I can only achieve that if I’m not shackled to my new husband, if I’m not essentially chained to his bed.
I need to get out of here. I need to get as far away from all these people as I can.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I take one tentative step after another. The plush carpet muffles my footsteps, but I still flinch at every tiny creak of the ancient floorboards beneath.
The corridor stretches out before me, lined with portraits of what must be generations of Blake’s. Their eyes seem to follow my movements, judging me, condemning me. I try not to look at them directly. I don't want to see the family resemblance, nor do I want to be reminded of the man who now owns me.
I pause at the top of a sweeping staircase, gripping the polished banister. Still no signs of life. No guards, no maids, nothing.
Could it really be this easy? Has Conrad made a mistake in leaving me alone here?
My fingers brush against the wedding ring he forced onto my hand. The metal feels like it's burning my skin. I want to rip it off, throw it away, but I know better. I need to be smart about this.
The main hall below is cavernous, with a black and white marble floor that reminds me of a chessboard. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching on crystal chandeliers and sending prismatic patterns dancing across the walls. In any other circumstance, I might have found it beautiful. Now it just feels like another gilded cage.
I descend the stairs as quietly as possible, constantly looking over my shoulder, but I don’t see anyone. Not a damn soul, it’s unnerving. Creepy even. A house like this, a place this big must have an army of staff to cook, clean and maintain it. This has to be a trap, right? Conrad wouldn't just leave me here unguarded. He's too controlling, too possessive for that.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I'm still alone. The vastness of this place almost overwhelms me. Doorways branch off in every direction, each one leading to another wing, another potential maze of rooms and corridors. I could hide here and be lost for days before Conrad finds me.
No, that’s ridiculous. He probably knows this place like the back of his hand. Add the fact that he’s a Reaper, and I bet he’d have me cornered within the hour.
I choose the door that looks most likely to lead outside, my bare feet silent on the cold marble floor. The shirt Conrad dressed me in barely covers my thighs and I'm acutely aware of how exposed I am, but clothes aren't important right now. Freedom is.
Another grand room opens before me; this one filled with display cases housing what must be centuries of Blake family treasures. Golden chalices, jewel-encrusted crosses, ancient manuscripts - the wealth on display is obscene.
My reflection catches in one of the glass cases, and I barely recognize myself. I look wild, desperate, my hair tangled and my eyes far too wide.
A door at the far end stands slightly ajar, sunlight streaming through the gap temptingly. My heart leaps; could it really be this simple?
I quicken my pace, no longer caring about stealth. Twenty steps. Ten steps. Five. I push through the door and find myself in what must be the morning room, windows stretching from floor to ceiling, looking out over perfectly manicured gardens.
There, just beyond the French doors, is freedom.
My hands shake as I turn the brass handle. It's unlocked. The door swings open and fresh air hits my face, making me dizzy with possibility.
The gardens stretch out before me, perfectly maintained with high hedges and stone fountains. Beyond that I can see trees, actual woods. If I can make it there, I might have a chance.
I take off running, my bare feet slipping on the dewy grass. The shirt flutters around my thighs, but I don't care who might see me. I just need to reach those trees, I need to disappear into their shadows.
I'm halfway across the lawn when I hear it, the thunder of footsteps behind me.
"No, no, no," I gasp, pushing myself harder. My lungs burn, my legs ache, but I'm so close.
The impact hits me from behind, sending me crashing face-first into the grass. A heavy body pins me down as I thrash and kick, my screams muffled by the earth.
"Going somewhere, Mrs. Blake?" A deep voice asks; not Conrad's, but one of his men.
I buck harder, twisting my body, but another set of hands grabs my legs. They haul me up between them like I weigh nothing, my feet dangling uselessly above the ground.
"Let me go." I shriek, not caring how pathetic I sound. "Please, just let me go."
But they're already dragging me back toward the house. Now I can see them; the guards who must have been watching me the whole time. They emerge from behind hedges, from around corners, at least six of them in total. This was never going to work. Christ, I was a fool to think it would be so easy.
"The master said you might try something like this," one of them says, his grip tightening painfully on my arm. "Said you needed time to learn your place."
Tears of frustration and humiliation stream down my face. My shirt has ridden up, leaving me practically naked as they march me back inside. The morning sun that had seemed so promising moments ago now feels harsh, exposing. Taunting even.
I’m taken back through the French doors, past the display cases that mock me with their wealth, across the marble floor that's now smeared with grass stains and dirt from my feet. They keep dragging me up those grand stairs that I'd descended with such hope just minutes ago.
They throw me back into the bedroom with enough force that I stumble and fall, and the door slams behind me with a finality that makes me want to scream.
I curl up on the floor, my body shaking with sobs. I should have known better, should have realized Conrad would never leave anything to chance. The freedom I'd felt was just another one of his games, another way to break me down and show me how powerless I really am.
The sound of a key turning in the lock echoes through the room. He'll be back soon; I know he will. And then he'll punish me for trying to run, for daring to think I could escape him.
I drag myself to the bathroom, needing to wash away the evidence of my futile attempt at freedom.
I know if I don’t, if I remain like this, he’ll only strip me down and force me anyway. Surely, it’s better to be clean on my own terms?
In the mirror, my reflection is a mess - grass stains on my knees, dirt smudged across my cheeks, tiny scratches from where I hit the ground. The shirt is ruined, torn in places from the guards' rough handling.
But it's my eyes that catch my attention; they're different now. Harder, the last flicker of hope dying as I truly understand my situation. This isn't just about being locked away in a fancy house, this isn't just about being Conrad's perfect little wife.
This is about total control. Complete submission.
I turn the shower on as hot as I can stand it, letting the water scald my skin. Maybe if I stay here long enough, I can wash away the shame of being so na?ve, of thinking that I could outsmart a Blake.
The bruises are already forming where they grabbed me. More marks to add to my collection, more evidence of my husband's "love."
I don't know how long I stand there, but eventually I snap out of my despair long enough to turn the shower off. I wrap myself in one of the thick towels, trying to stop shaking. When I step back into the bedroom, I know what's coming next.
The waiting is almost worse than the punishment itself.
Conrad will return, and he'll remind me once again that I am his, that there is no escape. That my only choice now is to accept my fate or break myself trying to fight it.
In this moment, soaked and shivering and utterly defeated, I'm no longer sure which option I'll choose.