16. Isabel
16
ISABEL
Present
T he room they’ve put me in is big, almost luxurious, with high ceilings and polished hardwood floors that gleam in the sunlight streaming through the oversized windows. The bed is enormous, with soft, fluffy pillows and a comforter that’s way too warm for how cold I feel inside. There’s even a sitting area in the corner, complete with an armchair and a small bookshelf stocked with novels I might’ve enjoyed under different circumstances.
But none of that matters. I can’t be thankful for any of it.
They kidnapped me, for God’s sake.
No amount of comfort or niceties can erase that fact. The sheer audacity of it makes my blood boil. They took me from my life, my freedom, and now they think they can pacify me with a pretty room and a soft mattress.
I get up from the bed and pace to the window, wrapping my arms around myself. The view outside is stunning—rolling green hills, dense trees stretching toward the horizon, and a winding path that disappears into the woods. It’s the kind of place people would pay to vacation at, a place meant to feel like peace.
I feel anything but peaceful.
Pressing my palm against the cold glass, I stare out at the picturesque scenery. It feels like a cruel joke. All this beauty, all this freedom, just outside the walls of this house, and I can’t touch any of it.
My fingers curl into a fist against the window, and I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. Losing my temper won’t help me. It won’t get me out of here.
There’s another reason for my stomach twisting. They’re trying to keep me comfortable for a reason. And I know what it is now. They want me to work for them, become their mouthpiece, tear down their father’s legacy in The Black Quill and expose him for the monster he was.
I agreed.
Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t have a choice.
I turn away from the window, scanning the room. The ornate furniture, the soft rug beneath my bare feet, the books—it’s all an illusion.
It’s almost laughable. Just days ago, I was in the basement, pacing in circles like a caged animal. I had refused to eat, drink, or give them the satisfaction of thinking I’d accept their care. When Julian brought me food, I threw the plate at him.
He didn’t even flinch. He just looked at me with those dark, unreadable eyes before dragging my flailing body to the basement.
I regretted it the second the door locked behind him.
The hours dragged on. The longer I sat there, the more the silence crept in.
Were they going to leave me there?
Would I rot in that cold space, nothing more than a stubborn fool who refused to play by their rules?
Fear warred with fury.
I hated them.
I hated that they held my fate in their hands. No matter how much I wanted to fight, I couldn’t control what happened next.
And then, Theodore came. He made me kneel, put his hands on me, slapped me until my skin burned.
I should have despised it. Screamed , clawed at him, done something . But I didn’t.
Part of me—some twisted, shameful part of me— liked it.
Heat rushes to my face, and I shake my head, as if it will drive the thoughts away. No . I won’t let him get into my head. He won’t manipulate me like that.
I might have agreed to help them, but I am not theirs.
They can dress me in silk, give me a warm bed, but it doesn’t change the truth.
I am still their prisoner.
It’s hard to tell how long I’ve been here. Days ? A week? My sense of time feels warped, stretched thin like the nerves in my body.
Days before getting locked in the basement, I overheard them talking just outside my door. They thought I was asleep, but I’ve learned to stay quiet.
“ She burned it to the ground,” one of them said. I think it was Maxwell ; his voice held an edge of amusement that felt out of place. “ The old mansion, gone. Poof .”
I had frowned in the dark, straining to catch more. Who had burned it? They’d moved on to other plans, something about shifting power, but I couldn’t focus on their words after that.
My mind kept circling back to that one sentence. She burned it to the ground.
At the time, I didn’t know who they meant. But when Theodore told me Valeria and Camila were responsible for Lionel’s death, it all made sense.
Of course, it was her.
A smile tugs at my lips. That fire has Valeria’s fingerprints all over it. She has always been reckless, willing to do whatever it takes to strike back against people like them .
I wish I could have seen the old, oppressive mansion collapsing in on itself, reduced to nothing but ash and rubble.
I sit back down on the edge of the bed, bouncing my knee as my thoughts race.
My smile fades almost as quickly as it appeared. I miss her.
Valeria , where are you?
I know she’s still out there, looking for me. She has to be.
A sound outside my room pulls me out of my thoughts. One of them is coming.
I scramble back on the bed, pressing myself against the frame as the knob turns.
I don’t know which brother it will be this time, but it doesn’t matter.
The door creaks open, and I whip my head toward it. Julian strides in and tosses a towel at me. It lands in a heap on the bed as he chucks a small bag. It bounces once before coming to a rest next to my leg.
I stare at it, then up at him, narrowing my eyes. “ What’s this?”
He crosses his arms, his face giving nothing away. “ I thought you’d want a shower.”
I snort, shaking my head. “ No , I mean, what’s in the bag?”
His jaw tenses slightly, but he doesn’t answer right away. Curious , I reach for it. Inside , I find an assortment of—oh.
Oh .
My face heats up immediately as I pull out a box of tampons and a pack of pads, followed by a little bottle of painkillers and a heating pad.
I look up at him, deadpan. “ Seriously ?”
He shifts awkwardly, his usual unflappable demeanor cracking just a little. “ You’ve been here for a month,” he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. “ I figured you’d need some of that stuff soon.”
I blink at him, trying to process what’s happening. Out of all the things I expected, this wasn’t one of them. For a moment, I’m caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to tell him to fuck off. It’s oddly thoughtful, but also so unbelievably awkward. I don’t know how to respond.
Julian avoids my gaze, his hands stuffed into his pockets, as if he’s already regretting the gesture. There’s something endearing about how uncomfortable he looks, but I squash the thought before it takes root. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he did something sweet, even if—well, maybe he has.
Out of all the brothers, Julian seems to be the one who’s the most… human. The most caring, even. But somehow, he also gets the worst of my attitude. Probably because he’s always the one hovering and checking on me like I’m some fragile thing about to break.
My fingers tighten around the bag as a realization hits me like a freight train. I’ve been here for a month.
A month.
Thirty days of being trapped in this gilded cage, at the mercy of these men and their cryptic motives.
My chest tightens, and I try to push the rising panic down, but it’s no use. My breathing quickens, and my hands shake as I clutch the bag.
Julian’s gaze sharpens. “ What’s wrong?”
“ Get out!” I snap.
He doesn’t move. Instead , he tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’m some kind of puzzle he’s trying to solve. “ Relax , corazón,” he says softly.
The words disarm me for a moment, but I shake it off. I don’t want his concern, his softness, or his awkward attempts at kindness.
“ Just go,” I seethe, not meeting his eyes.
Julian lingers for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then , he turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.
* * *
A couple of hours later, I’m freshly showered, my skin still warm from the hot water.
Hunger gnaws at my stomach, refusing to be ignored any longer. I hate that my body betrays me like this, that it needs anything from them. I don’t want to be caught eating after I’ve stubbornly declined almost every meal they’ve offered.
But I can’t sleep like this. My stomach growls again, the sound loud, and I give in. Quietly , like a mouse, I decide to sneak down to the kitchen to find something to eat.
Obviously , I’ve been eating when my body demands it—no one can live on pride alone—but I’ve been careful not to let them see.
Barefoot , I tiptoe down the stairs. The house is eerily silent, and I cling to the hope that none of the brothers are lurking around. The last thing I want is for one of them to catch me scavenging for food.
I glance toward the front door as I pass, my eyes automatically drifting to the lock. Still bolted. The windows I’d tried to pry open my first few days here remain firmly shut; their latches stubbornly unyielding.
It was na?ve of me to think they’d just leave the house unsecured. These men might be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.
The kitchen is dark when I step inside. My bare feet make no sound as I move toward the fridge.
I hesitate, glancing over my shoulder.
The fridge hums as I pull the doors open. I scan the shelves quickly, my eyes landing on a leftover container of pasta. I grab it, along with a fork from a drawer nearby.
I don’t bother heating it up. Instead , I slide down to the cold tile floor, my back against the cabinets as I dig in. The first bite is heaven, and I have to stop myself from moaning. I eat quickly, shoveling the food into my mouth like someone might snatch it away at any second.
Halfway through, I pause, fork hovering over the container. My eyes dart to the shadows at the edge of the room, paranoia prickling at my skin.
I finish the meal in record time, barely savoring the last few bites as I scrape the container clean.
Quickly , I get to my feet, rinsing off the fork and container in the sink. I’m careful to dry them and place them back exactly where they belong. If I’m lucky, they won’t even notice.
I turn to leave, feeling accomplished in my stealth, when a voice cuts through the darkness.
“ I know you’re there.”
I scream, my heart leaping into my throat as I stumble back, nearly knocking into the counter. My eyes dart to the living room, where the voice came from.
Squinting , I spot Julian in the far corner of the room, lounging in a chair under a lamp, his head bent over something in his lap. A pencil is in his hand, moving lightly against the page of what looks like a sketchpad. He doesn’t even glance up, like startling me out of my skin wasn’t worth the effort of lifting his head.
“ Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?” I snap, pressing a hand to my chest, still catching my breath.
“ You’re the one sneaking around in the dark, mama,” he replies, unbothered. “ I’m just sitting here.”
I glare at him, though I know he probably can’t see it. “ Why didn’t you say anything when you saw me?”
He shrugs, finally glancing up. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your meal. I figured you’d scream at me or something.” He smirks faintly, and my cheeks burn.
“ Well , congratulations, because I screamed anyway.”
Julian chuckles, looking back down at his sketchpad.
I shift awkwardly, unsure what to do. “ How long have you been sitting there?”
He doesn’t look up. “ Long enough. I know you’ve been coming down here every night. You’re not exactly quiet.”
My stomach drops. Embarrassment floods my body, hotter than the steam from my shower earlier. “ You’ve been watching me?”
“ What do you think?” he says, his pencil scratching lightly against the paper.
Ah , yes. I’m their prisoner.
“ Relax . I’m not gonna tell anyone.”
“ Good ,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably. “ Because there’s nothing to tell.”
Julian doesn’t respond immediately. He just keeps sketching, focusing on the page. I take a step toward the doorway, ready to retreat to my room, when his voice stops me again.
“ You don’t have to sneak around, you know,” he says without looking up. “ No one’s going to stop you from eating.”
The statement catches me off guard, twisting something in my gut like a splinter lodged too deep to pull out. I don’t know what to do with it.
However , instead of heading back upstairs, I find myself lingering at the edge of the living room. My feet seem to move on their own, carrying me closer to the soft glow of the lamp where Julian sits. I berate myself for doing it, but I do it anyway.
Carefully , I step around the coffee table and lower myself onto the couch, leaving a decent space between us. Julian doesn’t acknowledge my presence as his pencil continues its soft scratching on the page.
“ What are you doing?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“ Drawing .”
I roll my eyes at his clipped answer. “ Drawing what?”
At this, he pauses. His pencil stills, resting lightly against the paper as he exhales. Slowly , he lifts his head, and his gaze meets mine.
He turns the sketchbook toward me.
My breath catches in my throat.
It’s me.
My own face stares back at me, rendered in graphite with stunning detail. The sharpness of my eyes, the curve of my lips, the soft fall of my hair—it’s all there, perfectly captured.
The expression on my face in the portrait is... vulnerable.
It’s as if Julian somehow sketched the parts of me I try so hard to hide—the fear, the anger, the loneliness—and laid them bare on the page.
My fingers hover over the sketch, not quite touching it. “ You drew me?”
Julian shrugs, setting the sketchpad on his lap. “ Yeah .”
“ But ... why?”
He shrugs again, like it’s not a big deal. “ I don’t know. It’s just a hobby.” He leans back in the chair. “ And I’ve been seeing a lot of you lately, so…”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t stop staring at the portrait. How did he manage to make it look so alive? So ... me?
“ Can I keep it?” I blurt out before I can second-guess myself.
“ Yeah , whatever.”
I carefully tear my eyes away from the sketch to look at him. “ When did you start drawing?”
“ When I was a kid,” he says simply, picking up his pencil and tapping it lightly against the arm of the chair. “ More after my mom died.”
My chest tightens at the bluntness of his words. “ What about your dad?”
“ Never had one.”
“ You’re an orphan,” I murmur, the realization dawning on me.
Julian doesn’t react at first. He just keeps tapping the pencil against the chair, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the floor.
Finally , he nods. “ Yeah .” No elaboration, no details.
I feel a pang of guilt for how I’ve treated him since I’ve been here. Not that being kidnapped warrants politeness, but... still. Out of all the brothers, Julian has been the kindest to me, the least threatening. And now, seeing this other side of him—the quiet artist, the boy who grew up without parents—it catches me off guard.
“ I didn’t know,” I say softly, unsure why I feel the need to say it at all.
He looks up at me. “ Why would you?”
I don’t have an answer to that.
I glance down at the sketch again, my fingers brushing the edge of the page. The detail in it, the care... It’s like he sees more of me than I want anyone to see.
“ You’re really good at this.”
Julian grunts, like he’s not used to compliments. “ It’s just something I do to pass the time.”
My gaze drops to the tattoos lining his forearms, intricate designs that curl over his knuckles and peek out from under his sleeves. There’s a fresh one, still covered in a thin layer of clear wrap, inked into the skin near his wrist—a small, detailed moth with its wings spread wide, perched just above a burning matchstick. I tilt my head, curiosity getting the better of me.
“ What does it mean?” I ask.
He glances down at it. “ Being drawn to something you know will destroy you, but going to it anyway.”
The words hit harder than I expect, sinking under my skin like the ink on his.
I know he’s talking about more than the tattoo. And worse— I know exactly what he means.
“ Did you draw it?”
“ Yeah .” A pause. “ I inked it myself.”
My brows lift. “ You tattooed yourself?” I’m equal parts impressed and horrified.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “ Sometimes , you’ve got to take things into your own hands.”
“ I can’t tell if that’s impressive or insane,” I mutter, shaking my head.
He laughs, and it’s entirely unexpected. It catches me off guard, wrapping around me in a way I don’t like. The sound is so foreign coming from him, and it tugs at something in my chest, something I don’t want to acknowledge.
I shouldn’t be warming up to him. I shouldn’t care about the way his voice dips when he speaks or how the warmth in his eyes lights up like a flame that could just as easily burn me.
My head feels crowded with too many thoughts, most of them centering around this strange, quiet man in front of me.
“ You should sleep,” Julian says abruptly, breaking the moment. “ It’s late.”
“ Yeah . Thanks ... for this.” I hold up the sketch, offering him a small smile.
He nods, already turning his attention back to the blank page in his sketchbook.
As I walk back to my room, I clutch the portrait to my chest, my thoughts a tangled mess.
For the first time, I wonder if there’s more to Julian than I thought.