Chapter Seven
Romy
I tried to keep my eyes open after Caius left, but I couldn’t do it. The fatigue from all I’d endured thus far dragged me into its abyss. Now, after an unknown amount of time, I wake in a panic.
The bedside lamp is still on. The bathroom door remains open as I left it. The scent of expensive cologne lingers in the air, reminding me of my visitors—Orion and Caius Crowne.
My stomach grumbles fiercely. Apparently, my demand for food went ignored. Assholes.
I have to get out of here. Every bone in my body aches and my muscles twitch with tension. I’m exhausted and wired all at once. It takes everything out of me to peel my body out of the comfortable bed, but I eventually manage, only swaying slightly once on my feet.
Where are my shoes?
I know I went to bed with them on. A quick pat of the covers tells me they weren’t kicked off while I slept. And after a sweep of the bedroom and bathroom, they’re missing from those places as well.
They took my shoes.
The robe remains pooled on the floor by the bed just as I left it. Except it isn’t exactly as I left it. In fact, it’s not the same one. It’s smaller. I pick it up to confirm and it’s definitely not the same one. The other one swallowed me. This one is for someone closer to Megan’s size—petite and barely five feet tall.
My heart stutters in my chest as I begin cataloguing anything else that’s different than when I went to bed. In the bathroom, everything looks the same except a washcloth hangs instead of a loofa. And the bodywash is on the left of the shampoo and conditioner, not on the far right.
What is happening?
Did I remember it wrong?
No.
Someone made these changes to mess with me.
I stop at the sink and turn on the faucet. After several greedy handfuls of water, I dry my hands and face with a hand towel and go back into the bedroom to investigate the differences.
The door indeed is still locked from the outside. And, like before, no sounds can be heard from the other side. Just to make sure I’m not losing it, I check the curtains. Still a wall rather than a window hiding on the other side. After I’ve canvassed the entire room, I finally give up and sit back down on the bed.
A smaller bed.
The bed was queen-sized when I fell asleep. Now it’s a double.
I bring my shaky hands to my hair and run my fingers through it. After grasping thick handfuls, I tug slightly. This used to be something I did as a child when I felt like my world was closing in around me.
This is confusing, but it’s real.
I’m not crazy.
Slipping my fingers to my neck, I press down on the bruise that lingers there. How long have I been here? Will they feed me? Am I even remembering the events correctly?
“It was a dream, Romy.”
“Stop making up stories for attention. I’m a busy man.”
“The monster isn’t real.”
Dad’s voice inside my head used to bother me when I’d think about his words as a child. Now they comfort me. They’re so strong and sure.
I need my medicine.
I can feel like I’m unraveling too quickly. Soon, I’ll have to add withdrawal symptoms to my already dire situation. I’m not even sure if whatever Caius injected me with is compatible with fluoxetine. What if I die from a lethal medicine combination?
The room spins as nausea washes over me.
I want to lie down again, but I’m afraid my surroundings will change once again. So instead of sleeping, I commit to memory every detail of this room—mentally measuring from wall to wall, the exact shade of gray paint, the smell of the laundry detergent on the bedding. I do this for what feels like hours until I fall sleep.
A smell wakes me this time.
Food.
My stomach growls angrily. I sit upright, wishing all this were a dream, but I’m met with the same prison bedroom and a pounding headache.
And my socks are gone.
I cry out because the fact another piece of my clothing is gone without my realizing is too terrifying to comprehend. Have I been drugged again? That would explain the sluggishness in my veins and lingering headache.
I hate these monsters.
With tears flooding my eyes, I note that I’m once again in a queen-sized bed. The room size is exactly the same as is the paint color. I can’t smell the laundry detergent on the bedding because the food smell overpowers it. Slowly, I slip out of bed, the cold assaulting my feet the second they’re on the floor.
First, I rush over to the curtains.
No window.
I leap past a silk robe lying in a heap and shudder. The other two were chenille. This whole situation is really starting to freak me out. I next run into the bathroom and there’s no loofa or washcloth or any shampoo or conditioner or bodywash. The fixtures aren’t nickel but instead a cream-colored porcelain.
Crushing overwhelmingness nearly makes my knees buckle. I brace my bruised shoulder against the doorframe of the bathroom to catch my breath and stave off the waves of dizziness.
They’re doing this to you to make you feel crazy, Romy.
I stagger over to the bedroom door and try the knob. Locked. A choked sob rattles through me. Weakly, I pound on the door.
No one comes.
Then something brushes over my toes. I stifle a scream, thinking it’s a mouse, but it’s just a notecard. Bending over, I pluck it up and read the manly writing.
Eat, Romy. You’ll need your strength.
The notecard even smells like him. Caius. I mean, it could be from Orion or one of the other men, but I find it easier to associate it with him for some reason. Choosing one person to blame feels a lot more manageable than taking my fight to the entire Crowne family.
I crumple the note in my hand and skim my gaze over to the nightstand. There, calling like a beacon of hope, sits a plate of food. My cold feet practically run toward the colorful spread.
Scrambled eggs, flaky croissant, blackberries, strawberries, and two pieces of crisp bacon. Beside it is a glass of orange juice and two red ibuprofen tablets.
I’ve never been so happy to see food in all my life.
I swipe at the tears now rolling down my cheeks as I dive into the food like the starved captive I am. Everything tastes sweeter and more savory than I could have imagined. After gulping down the orange juice and taking the pain medicine, I then pick up the plate to lick off any crumbs or croissant flakes left behind.
Already, I feel a thousand times better.
Since I have no one to talk to and absolutely nothing to do, I crawl back into bed. But rather than lying down, I cover my chilled feet and sit against the headboard.
Think.
How am I going to get out of here?
Since they keep coming after me while I sleep, it’s obvious I need to do whatever it takes to stay awake. I’m not sure how to do that, but sitting in the bed seems like I’m already failing that mission. I yawn heavily and then wonder if my food was drugged.
Stupid!
I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself. My entire body shakes and my teeth chatter. The isolation is killing me.
My mind drifts back to class with Megan. I remember when we were trying to choose our conspiracy theory topic. We’d been interested in most of them, to be honest. The topics varied from satanic elite pedovore—a disgusting, and hopefully complete fiction , combination of a pedophile and carnivore who eats the flesh of kids—families who subsist on adrenochrome to intelligent aliens walking among us, to MK Ultra mind control to people living in a matrix, to underground tunnels used to traffic children, to flat Earth theories, to the Illuminati, to human cloning and so on. Our professor said they were either made up or they were all a part of a huge government coverup, but it was up to us to investigate and report back.
If only I could go back in time. I could have paid better attention to Megan. Maybe I could have prevented our kidnappings in some way.
When I start to nod off, I jolt and my heart races. Falling asleep again will only lead to another scenery change. I’m not sure my brain can handle another one without explanation.
I need something to ground me.
Some semblance of control.
The fork on the plate catches my eye. I reach over and snag it. Then I slide it into my hoodie pocket. If anything, it could be a useful weapon. Though I try desperately to stay awake, sleep drags me under anyway.
Noise.
I wake to the sound of voices. Jerking upright, I take in the sight of my prison room. Everything looks the same at first glance. But because I tirelessly catalogued every detail, I quickly spot the differences.
No plate on the bedside table.
Bed is once again a double.
As soon as I plant my feet on the floor, I realize my socks are back on as though I never took them off. A shiver wracks through me as I scramble to the window. When I yank open the curtain, I nearly cry with relief at seeing the courtyard. It takes a few seconds to realize it’s a painting of a courtyard. With a howl of frustration, I pound on the stupid painting.
“Get me out of here!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
No one comes rushing to do my bidding, so I make my way to the bathroom. A discarded robe is at the foot of the bed, this time, a light pink chenille. I burst into the bathroom, knowing things will be different there too. It’s all the same color and looks just as the first bathroom did, but this one has a single toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste sitting by the sink. Ignoring them both, despite feeling as though my breath is deadly, I rush into the bedroom. It’s then I realize the door is ajar a couple of inches.
I creep over to the door as silently as possible. My heart hammers inside my chest as fear threatens to consume me.
What’s on the other side of the door?
Is this another trap?
It’s then I remember the fork. I shove my hand into my hoodie pocket and curl my fingers around the metal handle.
I still have my weapon.
The scent of cigar smoke wafts its way in through the cracked door. Everything in me wants to yank open the door and take off in a sprint. But I have no idea what’s on the other side of the door.
I steel my nerves and tighten my grip on the fork. Slowly, with my free hand, I pull the door open, hoping it doesn’t creak or give me away. Once I’ve opened it far enough to slip through, I ease my body through the opening.
My eyes blur as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. It almost feels like a dream. In front of me is an endlessly long hallway with doors and light sconces lining it.
Am I in a hotel?
The prospect of finding someone who can help me escape overwhelms me. A giddy laugh bubbles out of me, but I quickly swallow it down before it gives me away.
I just need to find a stairwell, elevator, or exit.
The smell of food is enticing, but my potential escape is all the sustenance I need.
At first, I walk slowly, but soon, I find myself running as fast as I can down the never-ending hallway. Ahead of me, a door opens. Before I can slow down, a beast of a man steps in my path. I’m unable to stop myself from slamming right into his massive chest.
I cry out in shock and yank my hand from my hoodie pocket, ready to stab the man with it. He grunts when I make a stabbing motion toward his eye but easily snags my wrist in his strong grip.
We both look at my fork.
It’s not a fork anymore.
It’s a spoon.
A useless silver spoon.
I blink in confusion and utter a whimper of defeat.
The man—whom I quickly realize is the middle brother, Gareth Crowne—booms with laughter.
They’ve tricked me once again.