Chapter 9
Alina
It’s dark outside again.
There’s no clock in this bedroom that is my cell, my prison. So my best estimation of time comes in the meals the woman brings me, and the light that’s come and gone. If I’m right, I’ve been here two days now.
A knock tears me from my thoughts, and, like the other times, I sit down on the bed, pressing my lips together.
“Hi there,” the woman says as she pushes the door open with her shoulder.
Just like I make it a point to say as little as possible, I also made it one to forget her name. It’s silly, childish even. But being held captive isn’t exactly grounds to bring out my best behavior.
“I made you mushroom soup,” she continues.
As soon as she puts the tray down on the small bedside table, my stomach lets out a loud rumble. The steam from the bowl carries the scent of earth and heavy cream.
I’m so hungry my mouth actually aches with the need to swallow. Hell, I’m even tempted to reach for the bread that looks like it was in the oven for five minutes too long.
Even as I move from the tray to the far side of the room, the scent follows me like a ghost of a meal that feels like… I don’t even know how to explain it.
So far, I haven’t eaten anything. And it’s not from lack of an appetite. But I can’t accept anything that risks making me even more indebted to the Debt Collector of all people.
Reaching for the water resting against my knee, I uncap it and drink most of it. There, that’ll have to do for now.
I let out a relieved sigh when the woman heads back out, happy I’ll once again be alone in my misery. The saying that misery loves company is wrong. Dead wrong. I want to be completely alone in mine.
“Mr. Russo said you didn’t have anything to wear,” the woman says, re-entering the room.
This time she’s carrying four paper bags; three of them are black with three gold leaves forming a triangle. I once heard Sabrina tell Mom about the company.
“You don’t get it, Mom. You can’t just buy things from Trefoil House. There’s a waitlist and you have to be invited before they’ll let you buy anything.”
“I got some things for you.” The woman places the bags on the bed. “Have a look through them and let me know if you need different sizes.”
“Thank you,” I say, my manners winning out.
Pointing at the one bag that isn’t black, she adds, “This is just some toiletries and bathroom stuff.”
Without waiting for me to say anything else, she walks back out of my room.
After thirty minutes, my skin is crawling with need.
I pace the room, nails digging half-moons into my palms. The mushroom soup’s aroma has become a form of torture; each inhale is a knife twisting in my empty gut.
Those bags on the bed mock me—Trefoil House, for God’s sake—and I can almost hear the rustle of expensive fabric calling my name.
My resolve is fracturing by the second, like an addict locked in a room with a loaded syringe and nowhere to run.
I need… to get away from the temptation.
My stomach’s cramping so violently I almost double over as I practically run to the bathroom. I crank the shower to scalding and quickly strip out of my dirty clothes before stepping under the spray. The water scorching my skin pink feels like a relief.
I stand there until my fingers prune and my mind goes numb, desperate to drown out the gnawing emptiness inside me. When I finally emerge, trembling and raw, my gaze falls on the pile of filthy clothes crumpled on the floor like a shed skin.
The jeans and shirt I arrived in are stiff with sweat and fear, but they’re still wearable.
My panties, though—God, they’re a biohazard at this point.
Just the thought of sliding them back up my thighs makes my stomach heave.
I’d rather go commando and risk chafing than trap myself in that damp, sour cotton for another minute.
“Guess you win,” I whisper dejectedly.
There are only two options, and both feel like surrender. Wear filthy clothes that reek of fear, or accept his charity like a good little captive. My hands shake with pent-up emotions as I tighten the towel around my chest.
I stalk to the bed, grab the first bag, and violently upend it—watching the contents cascade onto the pristine duvet like evidence at a crime scene.
Bras, panties, and socks all spill out of the first bag when I turn it upside down on the bed. My cheeks flame when I look closer. Lord, some of these sets are… raunchy. Pretty, but so not my usual style of whatever-shapeless-cotton-set-is-on-sale.
The next contains yoga pants, jeans, and some formal-looking black dress pants. In the third and last black bag, there are sweaters and shirts. Each one is soft like butter. Every single item here both looks and feels expensive.
Now that I’ve been through the black bags, I turn to the white one. Just as the woman said, it’s all bathroom stuff. I take it to the bathroom and place it in the cabinet under the sink. I can inspect it all later.
Returning to the bedroom, the first thing I put on after underwear is the first thing that caught my eye. A charcoal cashmere sweater.
When I pull it over my head, it doesn’t scratch like my thrift-store wool. If anything, it breathes. For a second, the warmth of it almost feels like a hug, and that’s what makes me rip it off. I don’t want a hug from Raffaele Russo. I don’t want his warmth.
Where the jeans and a few shirts are a tight fit, most of it—including the underwear—fits perfectly. The bras are an even better fit than the one I had on when I arrived here. And the sweaters and yoga pants feel like they were made specifically for me.
I spend what feels like hours trying on every single piece of clothing—a private fashion show for my eyes only. The mirror in the closet becomes my judging panel.
Looking in said mirror doesn’t come with the usual disgust. Not in these clothes. The patterns and strategic cuts make my curves look a lot better than the baggy clothes I usually try to hide behind.
With a longing sigh, I strip off everything but the underwear and socks, which I’m definitely keeping. But the rest… I can’t accept it. Not when I don’t know how Raffaele will expect me to repay him.
Folding up the new clothes, I gently put them back into the paper bags and place them in the bottom drawer of the dresser. There, out of sight, out of mind.
I’m still standing there in just the thin lace and socks when the chill of the room finally bites. My skin is prickling, a physical reaction to the cold air and the vulnerability of being nearly bare in a house that doesn’t belong to me.
Remembering what he said about spare blankets, I grab one—a heavy, cream-colored throw—and wrap it tightly around my shoulders and tuck the ends over my chest until I’m cocooned in the thick knit.
The cold mushroom soup beckons with each breath, its scent twisting deeper into my gut. My stomach convulses, a hollow beast clawing at my insides, demanding to be fed. Saliva floods my mouth as I stare at the bowl, my vision narrowing until all I see is that creamy surface.
No. Not one drop. Not even if it kills me.
My hands shake violently as I lunge for the tray, nearly knocking it over in my desperation to get it away from me. I slam it down by the door with such force that soup sloshes over the rim, spattering the tray like evidence of my weakness.
Every cell in my body screams at me to drop to my knees, to lap it up like a starving animal, but I back away, chest heaving, sweat beading on my forehead despite the chill.
Needing something else to do, I walk back into the bathroom and look down at the pile of my dirty clothes on the floor.
The jeans are stiff, the shirt still carries the faint, dusty scent of the bakery. Not to mention, I’ve slept in it. Determined not to wear the clothes from Raffaele, I turn on the faucet, the water coming out scalding.
I attack the fabric with the hand soap, scrubbing until my fingertips ache. I scour the jeans first, like I’m trying to erase more than just flour. Like I can somehow wash away the hours since I was… collected.
Once I’ve wrung them out until my arms ache, I drape them over the heated towel rack. Then I wash the shirt, underwear, and socks. Not stopping until everything I wore when I arrived hangs on the heated rack. Hopefully, they’ll be dry by morning.
I hear the knock on the bedroom door, followed by the door opening and Onyx meowing.
“She still hasn’t eaten her food.” I recognize the woman’s voice and the disappointment in her tone.
It’s not until the door closes again that I realize I had been holding my breath while she was here. Thank God she didn’t come looking for me in the bathroom.
Panic immediately replaced those thoughts. She was in here without me watching her. What if she took my teddy? With those thoughts swirling through my head, I rush back into the bedroom, finding Mr. Lemon, as I named him when I was a kid, under my pillow.
Knowing I can’t relax until I know if she took it, I turn him over and find the small zipper on his back. Even though I can feel the box, I pull it out and tear it open. Only when my eyes land on the silver chain with a small heart-shaped pendant, can I relax.
“It’s still here,” I tell Onyx.
Mom gave me this necklace three years ago on my twentieth birthday. But instead of openly handing it to me, she kept it secret so Sabrina wouldn’t throw a fit. I’ve hidden it since, too afraid to wear it.
Yet… what’s stopping me now? My sister isn’t around to take it from me. And that way I don’t have to keep having a heart attack at the thought of someone taking it from me.
My hands tremble slightly as I place it around my neck, triple-checking the lock is in place so it can’t fall off.
Then I climb into the bed, the heavy blanket still wrapped around me as I slide under the duvet. Onyx hops up immediately, his weight a grounding presence against my neck. I bury my face in his fur, breathing in his scent—warmth and home.
Outside, the wind howls against the glass, a lonely, jagged sound that matches the state of my soul.
I’m a baker without a kitchen. A sister without a family. A woman whose heartbeat is just counting down until Raffaele decides I’ve outlived my usefulness.