Chapter 4 Eloise #2
I’ve tried to get closer to the sullen guard over the past four months, but so far, his little barely there grin is the most I’ve gotten out of him.
I suspect it’s because he has strict orders from Dave not to interact with me, but there’s no way for me to know for sure.
So I don’t hold his silence against him or think him rude.
Forest is employed by Dave and Dave alone.
He owes no loyalty to me, and the fact he tolerates my daily annoyances is more than enough for me.
Plus, Forest is a hell of a lot better than the last guard. He’s kinder and far less likely to scream at me for daring to come within fifteen feet of the front door. So I’m grateful.
“Well, I’ll talk to you later, Forest. Gotta get back to practicing.” With a wave, I turn on my heel and move toward the entertainment room, taking a large bite from my own apple as I go.
There’s no TV, but a circular stage sits in the center of the space, adorned with a beautiful black Steinway. The chairs that usually line the floor have been packed away, but when my guardian Dave hosts parties, I’ve known the room to fit at least two hundred people comfortably.
I take a seat at the bench, scootching forward slightly and extending my foot to the pedal.
I close my eyes and raise my hands to the ivory-colored keys, letting muscle memory take over.
My fingers fly over the keys, filling the room with an explosion of sound, a booming melody.
It’s sad and it’s sweet, achingly beautiful and horribly depressing all at once.
And it makes me feel absolutely nothing.
I continue like that for at least half an hour, running through songs my fingers know by heart so I can tune everything out and pretend I’m somewhere else. Doing anything else.
The grandfather clock chimes, signaling the end of an hour. The repetitive gong draws me from my trance, and only then do I realize someone is in the room with me.
My back tenses as footsteps draw nearer, my heart rate spiking abnormally. I’m so unnerved, I end up stumbling over a transition I’ve played thousands of times, and an ugly clanging sound replaces the caress of perfectly placed notes.
“Seems like someone needs a lot more practice before Friday.” Dave’s expensive cologne assaults my senses, paired with the stench of menthols he loves so much.
It coats my nostrils with every shallow breath, and I have to fight the urge to gag as he steps up to the bench, hovering over my shoulder with an eye as watchful as a hawk's.
“How was your day, precious?”
“Fine.” I lower my head, my gaze focusing on the movement of my fingers over the keys, determined not to make another mistake in his presence. “How was yoga?”
“Wonderful, as usual.” He leans in, pressing his lips to the top of my head and breathing in deeply. A shiver of repulsion runs across my skin, but luckily, I make it through the complicated chord progression without stumbling.
“That’s good.”
“Mmm. Yes.” Four heartbeats later, Dave pulls away, allowing me to breathe again. “How do you feel about salmon for dinner?”
“Fantastic.” I stare hard at my hands, though it’s been weeks since I needed to watch where my fingers land on the keys. “I’ll finish the song and help.”
“No need,” he says, reaching out to pat my head. “I’d rather listen to you play. My own personal little show.”
Dave leaves to make dinner, and I continue my shaky performance. I’m safe for a few minutes, but then he calls out from the kitchen, his voice demanding and coated with a hint of rage.
Though it’s the last thing I want to do, I stop playing the piano and head into the kitchen to investigate this erratic—but not unusual—change in temperament. As soon as I step past the threshold, Dave turns on me with a deep scowl, eyes narrowed accusingly.
“What’s wrong?”
He thrusts a meaty finger toward the printed sheet pasted to the fridge. “You didn’t weigh in today, Eloise. That is what’s wrong.”
Though I don’t want to, I shrink. I had been so excited for my guitar lesson with Riot, I had forgotten—singing and dancing around my bedroom all morning like a lovesick teenager instead of doing my weekly chore.
Dave points toward the scale in the corner of the kitchen. “Go on, Eloise. Hop onto the scale.”
My stomach roils with disgust, but I know from experience that fighting it will do nothing.
Stifling my anger, I do as he requests. I’m two pounds under my usual weight, which pleases Dave but causes that horrible numbness to spread through my veins.
I’m not thin by any means, but I happen to like my curves, the softness of my stomach, the fullness of my hips and breasts.
If only that mattered.
“Hmm. Good.” Dave smiles down at the scale, and my skin crawls.
“I was worried I’d have to lock up the fridge again.
” He reaches out, pinching the flesh at my hips, and his grin dims slightly.
“We still have to do something about these love handles, though. Are you sure you don’t want to meet with Dr. Bryer?
He said he could squeeze you in for a lipo appointment next week. An hour tops, and—”
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I have a migraine, Dave. Would you mind if I went to lie down?” I ask, feigning a look of pain and clutching my forehead. “Just for a few minutes before dinner is ready? I’ll make up the practice time before bed.”
Dave frowns but nods, shooing me off. “Be back down in half an hour. Not a minute more, Eloise.”
I nod, scurrying up the stairs and into my room. The door has no lock on the inside, so I don’t bother closing it. I can hear if Dave decides to come up the stairs better this way, anyway.
I press my forehead to the door, choking back the scream that’s desperate to claw its way out of my throat.
Suddenly, everything is too much, and I can’t keep my mind off how fucked my life has become.
I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman, a fully capable adult, yet I’m forced to take orders like some pet.
Trapped in this beautiful mansion—a pretty little cage—and forced to sing when all I want to do is fly away.
Most days, I push thoughts like these to the back of my mind.
I lock them away, I forget they’re even there, and I can make it through the day in comfortable numbness.
But today… Today, with Riot, I remembered what it was like to feel.
To laugh, and joke, and remember I’m a person—not just some pretty doll put on a pedestal, living for others’ entertainment.
On days like today, I wish, stupidly, that my parents were still alive. I wish they didn't leave me alone with this monster. I wish the world were fair. I wish I had the freedom to walk outside without an escort. I wish I could live.
It didn’t used to be just wishing, either. I’ve tried so many times to escape—mentally, physically, lawfully—and none have had any impact. I’m stuck. I’m trapped. And the worst part is, it’s starting to feel comfortable to me.
But it’s best not to think about that. Better to distract with something brighter.
I set an alarm for thirty minutes and hop into bed, pulling open the romance book lying on my bedside table.
My books are my cherished possessions, and over the years, I’ve managed to collect at least fifty.
The pages are so old and worn out, they’re practically falling apart, but I take care to preserve each and every one, keeping them perched on the shelf beside my piano.
Books have offered me a reprieve from real life ever since I was a little girl, but in the past couple of years, they’ve become a lifeline for me. Whenever I’m losing it, when the world seems too cruel, I can crack open a book and enter any world I want to. I can escape the one I’m living in.
My eyes pore over the pages, snorting as I read a particularly funny line from the sassy female lead. She’s giving her shifter mate, Bec, one hell of a talking-to because he gave her a hickey.
Of course, this leads to spicier conversation, and before I know it, the pair are in bed doing the horizontal tango.
My face heats as I fly through the passage, taking in every dirty word and salacious action with increasing fascination.
I can’t help but picture Riot as I read.
Him laying me down on the mattress, whispering dirty things in my ear as he touches my body and pleasures me.
I picture him standing in the doorway, smirking and shirtless, his swirling ink peeking out from the top of his low-rise leather pants.
I imagine what it would be like to kiss him, to run my tongue over those two rings at the center of his lip.
To find out if he has any other piercings—the kind I’ve only read about in super-spicy romance books.
But that will never happen. It shouldn’t. It can’t. Right?
I set my book to the side and close my eyes, letting out a deep sigh.
Riot seems like he could ruin me, and I’d beg for more.
He’s dangerous, reckless, and slightly broken.
But that’s exactly what I like about him.
He’s perfectly imperfect and someone I’m desperate to get to know on a deeper level.
I can try all I want, but I don’t think I’ll be able to deny this strange pull toward my guitar teacher. I don’t even know if I want to.
Next week’s lesson can’t come soon enough.