10. Bianca
10
BIANCA
“D on’t thank me just yet, my dear. I have a feeling you won’t be thanking me for much longer.”
The sound of the lock clicking into place echoes through the room, a harsh, final sound that sends a shiver of fear down my spine. I stand there, frozen, my heart pounding in my chest as the reality of my situation slowly sinks in.
I’m not just Rork’s unwilling wife. I’m his prisoner .
The thought sends a wave of panic crashing over me, and I can feel my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. My eyes dart around the room, taking in the opulent furnishings, the plush carpet, the luxurious accents.
But where once I might have seen luxury and comfort, now all I can see is a cage. A beautiful, gilded cage, but a cage, nonetheless.
I think back to Rork’s words at the end of the tournament, the way he spoke of burying the hatchet and uniting our families. At the time, I’d been too shocked, too horrified by the revelation of his identity to really process what he was saying.
But now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see the insincerity dripping from every word. The false smile, the mocking tone, the glint of something dark and dangerous in his green eyes.
I knew it, but it still scares me to admit it. He never meant a word of anything he said. It was all just a ploy, a way to get what he wanted.
And what he wanted was me .
No, what he really wants is Mama. But since he can’t have her, he took me instead.
The thought makes my stomach churn, and I can feel the bile rising in the back of my throat. I think of the way he looked at me, the possessive gleam in his eye, the way his hand tightened around my waist as he led me away from the altar.
Like I was a thing, an object to be owned and controlled. Not a person with thoughts and feelings and dreams of my own.
I sink down onto the bed, my legs giving out beneath me as the full weight of my situation crashes down on me. I’m trapped, helpless, completely at the mercy of a man who hates my family with every fiber of his being.
How did he get into the tournament? How did he find out about it? A thought horrifies me—who did he kill to get the invitation? Nausea swirls in my stomach, and I have to press a hand to my mouth to fight the urge to vomit.
I think of my father, of the desperate plea in his eyes as he promised to bring me home. At the time, I’d wanted so badly to believe him, to cling to the hope that he could somehow find a way to save me from this nightmare.
But now, locked away in this sprawling mansion in the middle of nowhere, I can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever find me. If anyone will ever find me.
The thought sends a fresh wave of panic washing over me, and I can feel the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I want to scream, to pound on the doors and beg for someone, anyone, to help me.
But I know it’s useless. Rork has made it clear that I’m completely at his mercy, that there’s no one here who will come to my aid.
I’m alone, trapped, with no way out and no one to turn to. I don’t even have my cell phone.
My mind races with the realization of Rork’s true intentions, and a sickening sense of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. He didn’t win the tournament to make peace with my family. No, his motives are far more sinister than that.
I feel bile rise in my throat. He’s finally gotten what he wanted, a piece of my mother through me. It’s like I’m nothing more than a consolation prize, a way for him to fulfill his warped fantasies and exact revenge on my parents.
The panic rises in my chest once more. If Rork doesn’t want to bury the hatchet, then what does he want? What plan does he have in store for me, for my family?
I push myself up off the bed, my legs shaking beneath me as I start to pace the room. My eyes dart to the windows, the doors, searching for any way out, any means of escape.
But there is none. The windows are barred, the doors locked tight. And even if I could get them opened, I’m on the second story. I wouldn’t be able to escape without hurting myself.
I’m well and truly trapped, a prisoner in this mansion that feels more like a mausoleum than a home. Tears well up in my eyes once more. I want to rage, to scream, to tear at the walls until my fingers bleed.
But what good would it do? Rork has me exactly where he wants me, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.
Finally, after what feels like hours of pacing and searching and fighting back tears, I concede defeat. With a heavy heart and a sense of utter hopelessness, I start to get ready for bed.
But even the simple act of changing into my nightgown feels strange, surreal. Like I’m moving through a dream, or a nightmare from which I can’t wake up.
Every sound makes me jump, every creak of the floorboards or whisper of the wind against the window panes. The mansion feels suddenly spooky, haunted by the ghosts of Rork’s past and the specter of my own uncertain future.
The sheets feel different—scratchier, not as soft—as I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I’m suddenly hit with a wave of homesickness. I miss my room, my bed, and my family. I miss my routine. I miss being Bianca Marino.
Tears cloud my vision, and I sniffle, breathing in and out of my nose to prevent the panic attack threatening to bubble up. The room is too dark, too unfamiliar.
I want to go home. I squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself that this is just a dream and soon, I’ll wake up back home in my own room, warm and cozy in my bed, listening to the birds chirp outside my windows, hearing the knock on my door from one of the maids telling me to get up.
But when I open my eyes, I’m still in Rork’s mansion. This is a living nightmare.
I lie in bed, staring up at the ornate canopy above me, my eyes wide and unblinking in the darkness. The room is silent, save for the sound of my own breathing and the occasional creak or groan of the mansion settling around me.
Despite the stillness, I can’t seem to relax. Every muscle in my body is tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap at the slightest provocation. My heart pounds in my chest, a rapid, erratic rhythm that seems to echo in the emptiness of the room.
I can’t shake the feeling that at any moment, the adjoining door will swing open and Rork will come striding through, his eyes glinting with malice and his hands reaching out to do me harm.
The thought sends a shudder through me, and I pull the covers tighter around my body, as if they could somehow shield me from the horrors that lurk just beyond that door.
The door. The door that connects my room to Rork’s.
Oh, God. What if he just comes in whenever he wants? What if he watches me when I go to sleep, if he comes in when I’m changing or showering?
Bolting out of bed, I rush to the door and examine it. There’s no lock on my side of the door. It’s only on the other side. Panic seizes me as this means that Rork could easily lock me in here too whenever he wants. He could make this room my tomb.
I’m too afraid to open the door and see whether there’s an adjoining hallway between our rooms or my door opens directly into his room, so I scurry back into bed, curling myself into a ball.
But even as I try to convince myself that I’m safe, that Rork wouldn't dare to hurt me on our wedding night, I can’t ignore the sickening sense of dread that coils in the pit of my stomach.
I know what kind of man he is. I know the depths of his hatred for my family, the lengths he’s willing to go to exact his revenge. I’m terrified that in his eyes, I’m nothing more than a pawn to be used and discarded as he sees fit.
The hours tick by, each one feeling like an eternity as I lie there, my eyes glued to that adjoining door. I try to distract myself, to think of happier times and better places, like when I toilet papered Sofia’s room, the first time I kissed James Ambrosio, Papa’s warm hugs, and Mama’s perfume.
But every time I close my eyes, I see Rork’s face. That cold, cruel smile, those eyes that seem to see straight through me to the very core of my being.
And I can’t help but wonder what he has planned for me. Will he simply kill me? Will he keep me alive, a prisoner to be tormented and tortured at his leisure? Or will he want me to be exactly like my mother, the woman he’s clearly pined over for the last twenty-plus years?
The thought makes my blood run cold, and I can feel the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes once more. I’ve never felt so helpless, so utterly alone and abandoned.
As the night wears on and the first hints of dawn start to peek through the heavy curtains, I realize that I haven’t slept a wink. I’ve spent the entire night lying here, paralyzed by fear and dread, waiting for the moment when Rork will finally make his move.
But he doesn’t come. He kept his promise—the adjoining door remains closed, the mansion still and silent.
And somehow, that almost makes it worse. Because I know that he’s out there somewhere, plotting and planning and biding his time.
And when he finally does come for me, it will be a horror beyond my wildest imagination.