Chapter 10 The White Swan #3
Steam wrapped around her as she undressed, gasping in pleasant surprise at the heat radiating from the tile floor. How luxurious. Carefully removing the locket from her pocket, she clasped it back around her neck where it belonged.
Turning, she stilled—her smile faltering as her gaze fell upon the thin woman staring back from her reflection.
The sharp jut of her collarbones matched the protruding harshness of her hips.
The visible ladder of her ribs had her curling a protective arm around her waist. While some women might strive for her figure due to some skewed beauty standards, the unintentional result of a waif-like form only filled her with shame.
Hunger and neglect did this. The proof of hardships and sacrifices showed in every defined rib.
“I may not have to hide at all tomorrow. Who would want this?” Her harsh words hurt, and maybe they should. She was angry and had only herself to blame for neglecting her needs for so long.
But then defensive pride rose up inside of her. She hadn’t chosen this. And she would not choose to play the victim now. This entire journey was about choosing better, for herself, for her future, for…ever.
Lifting her chin, she met her stare in the mirror, and this time she didn’t flinch away in shame.
From here on, things were going to change.
Not just her circumstances, but her body.
She was a work in progress, a masterpiece in the making, and she refused to feel ashamed of the girl who got her this far.
She took it all in—the limp hair hanging in pale tangles from the root, the freckles that stood out like rust spots on her pale skin. Her eyes, so familiar to her mother’s, bruised from exhaustion.
This is what poverty looks like, she thought, refusing to shrink away from such raw honesty. “I’m here,” she said out loud. “This is the last day I’m going to be poor.”
She turned away from the mirror and carefully stepped into the tub.
She now understood why these next hours were called The Becoming. How poetic that they brought the tributes to a place called The White Swan.
Settling into the water like a lone ugly duckling, she smiled and welcomed the transformation ahead.
As she soaked, ears muffled below the placid surface, she thought of the person behind all of this. Wondered why they did it. What did they have to gain?
A shadow. One she might never meet or understand.
Aunt V called him J. Thorne. That made sense since the invitation had been signed J.T.
Daisy decided then and there that, should she ever meet Mr. J. Thorne, she would thank him for this gift, even if it turned out to be nothing more than a warm bath in a lavish palace for one magical night.
She stayed soaking in the luxury for some time, held weightless by the water, the delicate scent of jasmine filling her lungs, existing in a place she’d never been before. With nothing to do but rest, she found her mind suspended somewhere between hope and fear.
Once she dried herself with a lush towel from the heated rack, she slipped into the robe that had been hanging in the closet. Plush folds wrapped her from shoulder to foot, monogrammed in gold with the delicate swan motif she’d come to love.
She bet the bed was as soft as a cloud. After brushing her teeth with the freshly packaged toiletries waiting on the mirrored tray, she went to find out, but froze in the doorway to the main room.
Heart hammering hard in her chest, Daisy stared at the bed with wide eyes. The covers were turned down. Folded back in precise invitation. Different from how the bed had looked an hour ago.
A single chocolate resting on the pillow, and a tray of fruit and cheese waited on a draped cart by the windows. The curtains had been drawn against the night, and the lamps had been dimmed to a soft amber glow.
“What the hell?”
Her eyes darted from each little detail, proof that someone had been in her room.
A sense of violation washed over her like a tsunami, knocking any remnants of relaxation out of her bones. How could she have been so careless, lying naked in a tub, eyes closed, ears under water? Did they see her?
She clutched the lapels of her robe shut and gripped her locket, unsure what to do. Then she moved through the suite with new alertness, searching every shadow.
No one was there.
The suite was completely empty, but any sense of privacy was long gone.
Tension tightened her shoulders.
Slowly, she crossed the room, her hand prematurely reaching for the knob, but she already knew what she would find.
It jiggled, but didn’t open.
Locked.
Her heart tripped into overdrive as she rattled the handle again.
Pressing her weight against the wood, she slapped her palms on the sleek surface. “Hello? Anyone?”
No use.
She was locked in from the outside. They never gave her the key.
How could she have been so stupid? She wasn’t supposed to trust anyone, yet she walked right into a cage and let them lock her inside.
Helpless.
“Fuck!”
She didn’t even have a phone. And for all its luxurious amenities, neither did the suite. “God damnit!” Her hands balled into fists.
“What do I do?” She turned like a fool searching for solutions that didn’t exist.
She went to the window, flinging back the drapes. Her hands pressed on the glass, but it wouldn’t budge. Night had fallen, and her troubled reflection stared back at her in a mirror of black.
“Shit.”
Shadows moved in the distance, a shimmer, like a ripple. Stars pierced the sky like pinholes in a sheet of endless blue. Daisy framed her eyes to block out the interior light, and they adjusted to the darkness.
Was that water?
The moon’s filtered glow reflected below, undulating as if rolling over smooth waves.
Was she on an island? Or a peninsula of sorts? The clue to her location should have grounded her, but it was really just a larger cage.
She was locked in a room on a possible island in the middle of God-knew-where.
Number 1922.
Backing away from the windows, her stomach cramped with a mixture of hunger and dread. Any consideration to eat their food vanished.
She was a rat in a cage, in whatever experiment this was. Sometimes, people wore white coats and did unethical things. To humans. To rats.
Snatching the tempting chocolate from the pillow, she threw it against the wall. “Fuck!”
She fell back and stilled, groaning in absolute frustration. “God damnit,” she snapped. “It is soft.” She punched whatever thread count this was and growled.
She had no other option but to do as she’d been told—sleep and pray to God someone would let her out in the morning.
The Becoming started at ten. That was less than twelve hours away. She needed to sleep to keep her wits about her and stay sharp for whatever came next.
Forcing her frustration aside, she climbed under the covers and tried to fall asleep. But any sense of decadence was permanently overshadowed by feelings of distrust.
She shut her eyes.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time moved strangely in this place, elastic and uncertain.
She twisted and turned, not used to such comfort. After a while, she tried lying on the floor, hoping the stiffness might remind her of home.
It didn’t.
Her senses were on overload.
She moved back to the bed. Stared at the ceiling. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to quiet.
The clock on the bedside table continued to move. 3:47 AM. In a few hours, breakfast would be served. Then, The Becoming. Then The Feast of the Fallen would begin.
She needed to sleep.
By four-thirty, she was convinced she was going to die before Monday. Completely freaked out and wired despite her exhaustion, she gave up. Her survival required rest.
Climbing out of bed, she went to the counter and downed the cup of cold tea. “Oh, God,” she gagged, setting the porcelain aside with a shaky hand. The bitter, medicinal taste stayed with her for several minutes, then started to fade as she lay in bed, waiting for it to take effect.
Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. Time softened at the edges as her surroundings blurred, and blinking became harder and harder. Her limbs grew heavy. Her thoughts, which had been racing for hours, drifted into faint whispers.
Trust no one, she thought, the words fuzzy and distant.
Survive.
Don’t...get…caught—