Chapter Twelve
Romy
C aius doesn’t let go of my arm, but I do stop fighting. He’s striding with purpose, and since it’s toward the elevators, my curiosity is piqued. There’s still so much about this place I don’t know about.
Once inside the elevators, he rapidly puts in a code, or from the looks of it, a certain movement of his fingers that unlocks the digital keypad. From my vantage point, I can see there are ten numbers, a P, an R, and a B. Though I could be wrong, my best guess is penthouse, rooftop, and basement.
He hits the B, and we begin our descent.
Are we going back to the pool? To his father?
“Where are we going?” I demand, finally finding my voice. “Where are you taking me?”
I’m at a disadvantage since I’m in nothing but a robe.
“Chalet de la Nuit,” he answers in a cold tone.
“We’re going to France?”
He makes a snorting sound as he rakes his gaze over me. “No, little girl, we’re not going to France.”
A flash of anger bubbles through me. He’s such a prick. “Don’t call me little girl. I’m an adult woman.”
Another snort.
I give him my most witchy glare, but he’s unmoved. The elevator dings and opens once we’ve reached B.
He steps out, tugging me behind him. We turn to the left and go down a long hallway with drab gray stucco walls. When we reach the end, a solid mahogany door stands in our way. There’s another keypad like the one on the elevator. I pay careful attention to the motion of his finger. A half a circle from top to bottom. Then he drags his finger up to the top of the circle and repeats the movement.
Two half-moons?
What is it?
The door clicks and then he turns the knob to open it. We enter a well-lit, cavernous space that smells faintly of oil.
It’s a garage.
My heart rate quickens. All I need is for him to open one of the garage bays and I’ll be given my freedom. I bite on my bottom lip to keep the grin from spreading.
So close.
What about Megan?
If I can get out of here, I can gather the proper resources to come back for her. I’ll never get out of here if I keep hunting for her with zero regard for my own personal freedom.
Guilt niggles at me.
I ignore it to take in the magnificent garage. There are probably twenty or thirty vehicles parked in the huge space, but I don’t see any bays that open. I’m not exactly sure how we get out of here. We walk past a champagne-colored Rolls Royce, a cherry-red Bugatti, and a pearly-white Aston Martin. None of them look as though they’ve seen the outside of this garage.
“This one,” Caius says when we come to a matte black Mercedes-Benz G-Class with strange triangular metal devices in place of wheels. He pulls a key fob from his pocket and hits a button to unlock it.
“What kind of car is this?” I ask as I attempt to figure out the crazy-looking wheels the Mercedes has.
“Your dad has one of these cars. Don’t act like you’ve never seen one.” He opens the passenger side door and releases my wrist. “Get in.”
Asshole.
He hits another button on his fob and a running board comes down. It’s still high off the ground, so I have to hike my leg up to reach it. I quickly scramble into the vehicle, careful not to flash him my nakedness under my robe. Once he closes my car door, he strides around to his side and climbs in.
The engine purrs to life. I pull on my seat belt, though Caius doesn’t bother with his. I’m eager to get out of this hotel of horrors and around some real people. Maybe Chalet de la Nuit will be somewhere in town. My chances of escape are increasing.
“Why are you people doing this to me?” I ask as he puts the vehicle into drive. “This is all just so…crazy.”
Rather than responding, he gives me the cold shoulder and pulls through his parking spot before turning right. We drive down a narrow corridor until we reach a garage bay. It must have a sensor because as soon as he reaches it, it begins to open.
So close to freedom.
When we’re out of here, I could jump out at a stoplight and flag down another car. I’m going to escape, that much I do know.
Bright white assaults my vision and for a moment, I wonder if another car is driving toward us. I squint against it and try to see. It doesn’t take long for me to realize it’s not headlights.
It’s snow.
A lot of it.
Now the strange tires make sense. They’re some sort of snow tires.
Where the hell am I?
Caius is relaxed as he drives—one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console. While he maneuvers expertly through the snowy terrain, I strain my eyes, trying to make sense of my surroundings.
There’s snow everywhere.
Snow and trees and mountains.
I twist around to see what I’m leaving behind. It’s a massive building but not a hotel. I’m guessing it’s a ski lodge—or at least used to be one. Now it’s where they torture their victims.
I’m unable to guess the size of the lodge and don’t care to. I turn back around to see where he’s taking us. All thoughts of running away have been extinguished. I’m not going anywhere barefoot and in nothing but a robe.
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the snow outside. The inside of the Mercedes is toasty. No, the cold chill settling in my bones is because I realize I’m still a captive. The scenery has changed, but my predicament remains the same.
As Caius winds through the trees, we pass a small, typical-looking log cabin. Two deer just beyond the cabin stare at us as we pass.
“Is that Gareth’s house?”
“Recognizing things again?” he tosses back, not answering my question.
We bump along the snow-covered road, which eventually sends the deer running for safety in the thick woods behind the cabin. As we drive, we seem to be climbing higher in elevation.
It’s obvious we’re not going to the city or where people who can save me are.
We’re just going farther and farther away.
He drives through a tree-lined area of the road and when it opens back up, a large, snow-covered home stares us down. It’s enormous and beautiful.
“What is this place?” I ask as we drive toward it.
“Chalet de la Nuit,” he says in an emotionless tone. “Our home.”
Dread pools in my stomach. Nothing about this is familiar. This is not my home. I’m a college student at… My brain blanks out for half a second, sending spasms of panic through me.
I’m a student.
I’m a student at…
I’m a student at USC.
Relief floods through me at remembering. My brain is short-circuiting, and I don’t know why. Perhaps I’m in shock and am having trouble making any of this make sense in my head.
The beautiful home is partially on stilts and the other part of it appears to be built into the mountain. Beneath the home between the stilts is a charcoal-colored Range Rover. Caius pulls the Mercedes into the area next to the other vehicle and shuts it off.
He opens his car door and an icy wind blows inside, making me squeal. After he shuts it, he takes off toward a door that must lead inside the house.
I can’t believe he left me here.
Alone.
Grabbing hold of the door handle, I peer through the window, my nose touching the chilled glass. I won’t get far with no shoes. Filled with frustration, I fling open the door and squeal again. There’s no snow in this car alcove, aside from what’s come off the strange wheels, but the concrete is still ice-cold. I run full speed after Caius.
Once I’m inside the home, I close the door behind me, eager to get out of the ridiculously cold air.
The room I’m in is a mudroom, with a few coats hung up on hooks. Several different types of boots and shoes are tucked away in little cubbyholes under the bench. As much as I’m tempted to grab a coat and boots to make an escape, I know it’ll be pointless. Running from wherever we are isn’t on the table. I’ll die within an hour.
I step out of the mudroom into another room that’s much warmer, to my delight. It appears to be a giant, but somehow still cozy, living room, complete with a fireplace that’s crackling with a lit fire.
Quickly, I rush over to it, eager to warm my hands and feet. Caius has already disappeared. I’m not exactly sad about it either. Once warmth has found my digits, I take in the grand space. It’s big enough to hold a sectional sofa and an enormous chaise lounge. A low, wide, rectangular coffee table sits in front of the sectional. The only decoration on the table is a silver tray with matching wine goblets and a carafe. I’m tempted to sit down on the chaise and curl up under the soft, black furry blanket there.
Don’t get too comfortable.
This is all a game.
When I turn back toward the fire, I notice the mounted head on the wall. Is that a…gazelle? I let out a huff of disgust.
“Some things never change,” Caius says from behind me. “You hated it the first time you saw it. I suppose with your memory loss, you still found a way to hate it.”
I shudder at his nearness. He’s changed out of his dress clothes and now dons dark athletic pants and a gray long-sleeved shirt that fits his muscular physique nicely. A stirring of heat tickles my core and I ignore it.
I’m not attracted to him.
This isn’t real.
“What now?” I demand, crossing my arms over my chest. “What other lies do you plan on spoon-feeding me?”
He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes, watching me as though I’m truly a mystery. Because I am a mystery. They freaking kidnapped me. I think.
They did.
“I need something to wear,” I say hotly.
His nostrils flare. “So go find something to wear. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your boyfriend, not your assistant.”
With those words, he turns on his heel and starts out of the room.
“Wait,” I blurt out, suddenly panicked. “Where are you going? You’re just going to allow me to walk around freely?”
He stops and drops his head. The muscles in his shoulders and back are plain as day as the material stretches over them, revealing each curve and hard line.
“This is your home.”
Liar.
“Why now, then?” I ask, stepping closer to him. “Why keep me in the horror hotel for God only knows how long?”
He chuffs. “I’m wondering that myself.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
“I don’t understand any of this,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s not real.”
Caius turns around, eyebrows furled together. “Everything about this—us—is real. You’re mine.”
His?
I curl my lip up in disgust. “I’m not—”
“Save it, little girl,” he practically spits out. “I have work to do. Get dressed. Find food. Nap. I don’t care. This is your house too. Maybe you’ll finally remember.”
No boyfriend calls his woman little girl .
This time when he storms off, I don’t stop him. I listen for his footsteps as they fade away down a hallway and then the sound of a door closing. As soon as I know he’s gone, I begin my search for a bedroom where I might find some clothes.
I pass a couple of immaculate, seemingly untouched guest rooms, the closed door to what must be his office, a powder room, and then come to an enormous bedroom with a whole wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that give a stunning view of the mountains.
The bedroom has a king-sized bed with a couch at the foot of it. In front of the couch is a small coffee table and a long, deep red ottoman that appears to be used as another area for seating. Across the room is a lit fireplace with two armchairs and matching ottomans. An intricately detailed rug sits in front of the fireplace.
Why does someone need so many sitting areas in their bedroom?
On my way to what I hope is his closet, I see a vanity with a mirror and a chair. I stop when I realize my things are on the vanity top. Makeup, hairbrush, jewelry.
I stare at it all, an oily feeling settling in my gut.
Why is my stuff here?
It’s then I see a framed picture. I swallow down the unease rising in my throat and force myself to pick it up.
No way.
I stare at the picture in confusion. It’s a picture of a couple on the beach. She’s in a tiny red bikini and wears a massive floppy hat. He’s in a pair of black board shorts. They embrace with familiarity and love, her legs hooked around his waist and arms encircling his neck. His hands are on her ass, holding her to him.
On her hip is a small birthmark.
I know that tiny section of discolored skin because I always hated it growing up.
The woman is me.
And the strong, flexed arms that are holding me up are colored in ink. The same artful tattoos I’ve seen earlier on Caius.
My stomach clenches and I feel dizzy.
I carefully inspect the picture, looking for anything to tell me it’s a Photoshopped fake. Nothing. It all seems so real. The only hope I have is that I can’t see their faces that are hidden behind her hat.
But what if it is us?
What if I really did somehow hurt my head and they’re trying to get me to remember?
For the first time since all this began, I’m starting to question reality.
I don’t know what’s happening.
And I definitely don’t know what to do about it.