15. 15 - Zella
“Princess.”
Ryder sounds a little desperate, and I turn to him with a sniffle. He hands over another box of tissues, and I tug one out and blow my nose loudly, the honking sound echoing around the large room.
“Sorry,” I cough out, turning to him with a wobbly smile. He shrugs, but there’s a frown crinkling the middle of his handsome forehead.
“So, you like the view?”
Nodding, I turn back to the view that stole the breath from my lungs and had me sobbing like a baby for the last twenty minutes.
“Yes,” I whisper. My fingers raise to touch the clear, floor to ceiling glass. “I like it.”
There’s a shift in the air as Ryder steps up next to me, both of us looking outside. Miles upon miles of greenery sweep away from us, hills and trees and even what looks like mountains in the distance.
And there’s so much color . Brilliant oranges, reds and yellows mix in between, a paint palette I’ve never seen before.
“Is this autumn?” I ask Ryder, bouncing on my feet as I press both hands against the glass, getting my face as close as I can. “It looks like autumn.”
“It is. October. You know the seasons?”
I know the seasons. Despite my limited upbringing, Ethan at least taught me something – mathematics, biology, physics, literature, languages, art.
“He taught me plenty,” I mutter. “Just never anything about the actual world outside.”
Nothing about history, unless it’s directly connected to books or art. I have no idea how the world works, governance structures, politics. They’re all hazy terms to me.
My lips tighten, but I can’t find any anger in my heart.
“How could anyone be unhappy with a view like this?” I whisper, my voice full of awe. “If I’d had a view like this, maybe I would never have wanted to leave.”
Ryder’s weight brushes against me, the touch unexpectedly warm, comforting.
“I think,” he murmurs, “that the limited world you inhabited could never have been enough for you, Zella. Anyone with half a brain could see that.”
Tearing my eyes away – just for a second – I look up at him.
Chocolate-colored hair falls lazily over his face, and he doesn’t bother pushing it back.
His eyes flicker as he glances down at me, the warm hues not out of place with the world outside this window, almost amber in the fading afternoon light.
The darkest hint of stubble lingers at his jaw. “What do you mean?”
He grimaces. “That place… it was one of the coldest places I’ve ever set foot in. Not in temperature, but in feeling. It would have sucked the life from you, Zella. And that would be a tragedy.”
“It would?” I ask softly.
He turns, giving me his full attention, and his lips quirk. “You’re the most vibrant person I’ve ever met. You don’t belong in that cold place, princess.”
I half-smile, suddenly a little flustered by the look in his eyes. Swallowing, I spin to stare back out of the window. “I don’t belong anywhere, really.”
It’s a confession, a tiny piece of truth in the air between us.
Ryder is right. I didn’t belong there.
I know that. I can feel it with every beat of my heart, every pulse of relief that I’m not trapped within those walls any longer.
But I don’t belong here, either.
I begged them to take me with them, and they did.
But they have their own lives. This isn’t forever.
Swallowing back the burn in my throat, I step away from the window, my hands hugging my elbows. “I should get ready for dinner.”
My hair alone will take forever, and I don’t have a lot of time.
Ryder doesn’t move immediately, his eyes tracking me, lips parting as though he’s not finished with our conversation. But eventually he nods, stepping back and heading towards the door. “I’ll be back to get you in thirty minutes. Don’t leave this room until then.”
The large wooden door slides closed behind him, and I glance around the ornate room.
Ryder seems to enjoy calling me Princess, and this room makes me feel like one.
An ornate, four-poster bed with soft golden sheets takes up most of the middle of the room, with an equally detailed armoire and dressing table at one side.
Taking my pillowcase, I pull out the items I brought.
My hairbrush is placed carefully on the table.
My dress is hung up in the empty armoire.
My sketchbook is placed next to my bed.
Toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, I pull open the door in the corner, my eyes rounding at the pretty bathroom.
There’s a bathtub, a gigantic, clawed thing with pretty golden feet that looks like it might swallow me up if I tried to lay down in it.
I am in love.
I know what I’m doing later.
But now I’m really late. I scrub my teeth frantically, splashing water on my face and hustle back to the bedroom.
My hair is a lost cause, but I still try to wrestle with it, dragging the strands into a new braid that I’m still looping when Ryder knocks on my door again.
“Coming!” I call. I look like I’ve been asleep for ten hours and I have hair sticking out everywhere, but it’ll have to do. I don’t want to waste my one dress on dinner, not until I know how I can wash clothes here.
My breathing is a little fast as I pull the door open, and the sight of Ryder leaning against the door doesn’t help in the slightest. Dressed in an olive shirt and dark trousers, the shirtsleeves hug his arms, showing the muscle underneath.
His eyes sweep over me. “Princess. You look ravishing.”
I scoff, just a little. I’m the last thing from ravishing.
And why do I suddenly wish I had something prettier to wear? Next to Ryder, I feel like a sack.
I don’t even have any shoes, I realize, as his smart black shoes tap against the oiled wooden floorboards. My bare feet pad along next to him as he leads me down the hall, and I glance around at the paintings on display. My feet trip as I recognize some of them.
“Is that a Monet?” I gasp, when Ryder grabs me to stop me from falling on my face for the third time.
He grins. “It is.”
I crane my neck to look up at it. “It’s an original?”
When I turn to look at Ryder, there’s a dull flush of deepening red spreading along his cheekbone. “How’d you know?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m certain, not without examining it more closely. But that looks like original canvas, and I can see the texture.”
Craning my head, I look up and down the hall. More familiar art jumps out at me, and my eyebrows fly up.
Ethan would love this.
My throat dries up. I wonder if he knows I’m gone, yet.
What he’ll do.
Pushing the thoughts away, I turn back to Ryder. “Quite the collection.”
He throws out a hand carelessly. “I enjoy acquiring art. It’s a process.”
I know, probably more than he realizes. Ethan would be away for weeks sometimes to work on building his collection. I never even saw most of it, a lot stored in the gallery he always told me about. But he always talked about the process .
Ryder nudges me, offering his arm. “Come on, princess. Maverick hates lateness. He’s a bit of a stickler for the rules.”
Taking his arm, we make our way down a beautiful double staircase and into a large, open room with a long dinner table. Candles flicker, the light coming from the large windows throwing golden light across the white tablecloth. I crane my head, taking in the new angle of the trees outside.
Maverick is seated at the end of the table. He stands when we enter, moving to a chair next to him.
“Zella. Why don’t you sit here.”
It’s not a question. His voice is so deep I can feel it, a faint vibration inside my chest. Swallowing, I step away from Ryder and walk around, sliding in with a whispered thanks as Maverick pushes the chair in until I’m tucked under the table.
He sits back down, completely focused on me. I look down.
There’s something about Maverick that ties my tongue into knots.
“Well, this is very formal,” Ryder drawls. He throws himself into a chair opposite me, on Maverick’s other side, and reaches for a glass. “You drink wine, princess?”
“Um. Sure.”
I have never, in fact, drank wine. Or any alcohol. But I don’t tell Ryder that as he pours me a large glass and passes it to me. I can feel Maverick’s eyes on the side of my face as I take a sip.
“Good?” he asks in a low tone. When I turn to him, his blue eyes are completely focused on my face. Heat suffuses my cheeks.
“Lovely,” I murmur. The rich taste takes a little getting used to, so I take another small sip and place it down. “Will Enzo be joining us?”
Ryder laughs. “I very much doubt it.”
But the door bangs on the edge of his words, and Enzo stalks in. His tattoos are hidden beneath another black shirt as he pulls open the chair at the furthest end of the table, dropping into it and glaring at us like we’ve personally dragged him in and tied him up.
The lump in my throat intensifies when he stares at me, his brows drawing down.
He doesn’t say anything.
The silence stretches out for a few minutes, until two black-clad people enter, setting down trays on the table. My eyes round at all the food, and I nearly bounce in my seat.
I’m so hungry.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile to one of them, and he slides wide eyes to me before his head dips in a nod. When he lingers, a deep voice rumbles from the end of the table.
“Remove your eyes from her, before I do it for you.”
It takes a second for the words to register in my head. The man pales, backing away with a fumbling apology and disappearing out of the door as I frown down towards Enzo. All he does is stare back at me, his face expressionless.
The delicious smells soon distract me, and I take a deep breath.
“Hungry?” Maverick asks, and when I nod, he stands up. “Allow me.”
Wide-eyed, I watch as he makes his way around the table, adding food to the plate in his hand. He towers over me as he comes to a stop beside me, and I stare up at him.
“Open up, Zella,” he murmurs. Electric blue eyes don’t move, and my mouth opens without thinking. He lifts a fork to my mouth, sliding it in slowly, and my lips wrap around it, taking in the offering.
I barely taste it as I chew, my eyes still on him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. My stomach flutters. I jump at a slamming sound, but when I look down the table, Enzo is digging into a plate of food, not looking at us.
Ryder is watching us with a strange expression, but he doesn’t say anything as Maverick sits back down with my plate in his hand. I inhale sharply as his hand reaches out, dragging my chair closer to his.
He holds up another forkful. “More.”
It’s not a question.
Maybe this is how they treat all their guests?
Obediently, I lean forward, taking the food he offers. It melts in my mouth, some type of meat and sauce, and Maverick leans forward.
His thumb slides across my bottom lip, dragging it down, and my breath tangles in my throat as he pulls away.
Maybe.