Chapter 6
The bells that ring in my steeple are just seizures disguised as people…
Kieran
Kieran woke up angry.
Not the confused, medicated drift of yesterday, but sharp awareness that felt like being slapped awake. His head still ached, but the fog lifted enough to remember exactly why he was in this fancy bedroom instead of his own crappy apartment.
He kidnapped me. Vale Rose fucking kidnapped me.
The clock on the nightstand read 6:43 AM. Pale morning light filtered through curtains that probably cost more than Kieran made in three months of busking. Everything in the room was beautiful, expensive, and absolutely wrong.
Time to figure out how to get the hell out of here.
Kieran listened at the door for a full minute before opening it. Silence. No footsteps, no coffee machine sounds, no indication that Vale was awake yet. Good. That gave him time to actually explore this prison without an audience.
The hallway had artistic lighting, leading to rooms that probably had names like “the conservatory” and “the library.” Rich people bullshit. But right now, Kieran didn’t care about Vale’s aesthetic choices—he cared about finding an exit.
The first door he tried was locked. So was the second. And the third.
Okay. Not great.
He found a bathroom, still unlocked. That was good, though the idea of just randomly pissing in a house plant was becoming more and more appealing to him the longer he stayed trapped.
The thought gave him a small burst of satisfaction that lasted until he tried the next door.
Also locked.
And the next. And the next.
Every door except the bathroom and his bedroom required a key. Vale literally locked him into a two-room section of this house like a pet in a cage.
Fuck.
Kieran’s hands shook, but he forced himself to keep moving. There had to be something. A window he could open, a phone he could access, anything that connected to the outside world.
The kitchen was unlocked—of course it was, Vale had to eat—and Kieran immediately went for the windows. They were large, offering views of farmland that stretched to horizons he couldn’t see the end of. Beautiful. Isolated. Terrifying.
He tried the first window. Locked. The latch required a key he didn’t have.
Second window. Same.
Third window—Kieran noticed the small sensor in the corner. An alarm system. Even if he broke the glass, Vale would know immediately.
“Shit.” The word came out quiet, defeated.
He turned to the counters, looking for a phone. He found a landline mounted on the wall and grabbed it with shaking hands. No dial tone. The line was dead—or had been cut.
Kieran didn’t know where his phone went.
The refrigerator was full of fresh food—organic vegetables, soft cheeses, things Kieran had only seen in grocery stores he couldn’t afford to shop at.
The pantry held enough supplies to feed someone for months.
On the counter sat a basket of fresh fruit that looked like it belonged in a still-life painting.
Vale’s been planning this for a while.
The thought turned Kieran’s stomach. This wasn’t impulsive. This was methodical.
How long has he been preparing to take me?
“Good morning.”
Kieran spun around so fast he knocked into the counter, his hip bone connecting with granite hard enough to bruise. Vale stood in the kitchen doorway, his black hair perfectly styled like he’d been awake for hours.
Or like he’s been watching me this whole time.
“Sleep well?” Vale asked, moving toward the coffee machine like everything was perfectly normal and he wasn’t talking to someone he kidnapped.
“The d-doors are locked.” Kieran’s voice came out steadier than he expected, anger cutting through the anxiety. “All of them.”
“For your safety. You’re still recovering—I can’t have you wandering around and getting hurt.” Vale began preparing coffee with the kind of attention most people reserved for surgery. “There are stairs, uneven floors, and equipment in the music rooms. Too many variables.”
“The phone lines are c-cut.”
“Are they?” Vale didn’t even look up from the coffee machine. “That’s unfortunate. Rural infrastructure can be unreliable.”
“Bullshit.” The word felt good coming out, sharp and angry. “You di-did it on purpose.”
“Language, Kier.” Vale poured coffee into two mugs and added cream to one without asking how Kieran preferred it. “Drink this. Caffeine will help with your headache.”
“I don’t want your f-f-fucking coffee. I want to leave.”
Vale set both mugs on the counter and turned to face him fully. His expression was patient, understanding even, like he was dealing with a child having a tantrum.
“Kieran.” Vale’s voice was soft. “I understand you’re upset. That’s a normal response to head trauma and medication. But—”
“St-st-op acting like this is normal!” Kieran’s stutter surfaced stronger, but he pushed through it. “You kidnapped me. That’s n-not trauma management, that’s a felony.”
“Is it?” Vale moved closer, each step deliberate and measured. “I found you unconscious on a sidewalk and brought you somewhere safe to recover. That’s called being a Good Samaritan.”
“You won’t let m-me leave.”
“Because you’re not well enough to leave yet.” Vale was too close to him. “Your judgment is impaired by post-ictal confusion. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m thinking clearly enough t-to know this is wrong.”
Kieran tried to move past him toward the kitchen exit, but Vale’s hand caught his wrist—not violently, but too firmly, just on the edge of painful.
“Let go.”
“Where are you going to go?” Vale asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. “The nearest neighbor is four miles away. The nearest town is twenty minutes away by car. You don’t even know what direction the road is.”
Kieran tried to pull his wrist free, but Vale’s grip was immovable. “I’ll f-figure it out.”
“In pajamas? In an unfamiliar area where you could have another episode and no one would find you for hours?” Vale’s other hand came up to rest against Kieran’s chest, palm flat over his racing heart. “That’s not a plan. That’s suicide.”
Kieran grabbed Vale’s wrist with his free hand, trying to pull it away from his chest. “Don’t t-touch me.”
“Your heart rate is dangerously high.” Vale’s clinical tone made it worse somehow, like Kieran’s body was just data to be collected.
“B-because you won’t let me g-go!”
“Because you’re not accepting reality.” Vale’s grip on his wrist tightened. “Fighting me isn’t going to change your situation. It’s only going to make you sick.”
Kieran shoved at Vale’s chest, putting all his weight behind it. Vale didn’t even budge.
“Get off me!”
“Kieran.” Vale’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “You need to calm down.”
“F-fuck you.”
Vale’s expression shifted, and something almost fond flickering across his features. “There you are. I was wondering when I’d see the real you instead of the apologetic version you show strangers.”
“Let. Me. Go.”
“I can’t do that.”
Kieran twisted in Vale’s grip, trying to break free, but Vale caught both his wrists in one hand and spun him around.
Before Kieran could process what was happening, his chest was pressed against the kitchen counter, arms pinned behind his back, Vale’s body a solid wall pressing down on him, preventing escape.
“Stop fighting me,” Vale murmured against his ear.
Kieran tried to kick backward, but Vale shifted his weight, using his hip to pin Kieran more completely against the granite. The edge dug into Kieran’s stomach.
“G-get off—”
Vale’s free hand came up to wrap around Kieran’s throat. Not choking, not yet, just resting there. Kieran went absolutely still.
“That’s better,” Vale said softly. “See? You know how to listen when you want to.”
Kieran’s pulse hammered against Vale’s palm, betraying every ounce of terror he was trying to hide. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Vale’s fingers pressed slightly, just enough to make Kieran aware of how easily he could restrict airflow. “I’m helping you calm down.”
“It’s not—that’s n-not—” Kieran couldn’t get enough air to finish the sentence, couldn’t think past the pressure on his throat and the weight of Vale against him.
“Shhh.” Vale’s breath warmed his ear. “Your body is telling you to panic, but your mind knows better. Focus on slowing your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
The pressure on Kieran’s throat increased, and his vision started to swim with dark spots. Not dangerous yet, not cutting off blood flow completely, but enough to make everything feel distant and strange.
Can’t breathe properly, can’t think, can’t—
“There you go,” Vale murmured. “Feel how much calmer you’re getting?”
And the worst part was, he was right. Kieran’s body was responding to the restricted blood flow by slowing down, panic giving way to something floaty and disconnected. His muscles relaxed despite his mind screaming at them to fight.
“That’s my good boy,” Vale said, and the approval in his voice turned Kieran’s stomach. “See how much better you feel when you’re not fighting me?”
Vale released the pressure on his throat, and Kieran gasped with a noise that sounded too much like a sob. Blood flow returned to his brain, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.
“What...” Kieran’s voice came out wrecked, throat aching. “What did you do...”
“Anxiety management. Very effective when applied correctly.” Vale released his wrists but kept him pinned against the counter with his body. “You were hyperventilating. This helps reset your nervous system.”
Kieran’s hands came up to touch his own throat, checking for damage, trying to understand what had just happened. His skin felt hot where Vale’s fingers had been, and he could still feel the phantom pressure of that controlled grip.
He knows exactly where to press. How long to hold. How much pressure before it’s actually dangerous.
“You’ve done that b-before,” Kieran whispered.