Chapter 22
Annabelle
The morning light is a mistake. It bleeds through the curtains, forcing my eyes open when all I want is to stay in the grey void of sleep. My head is heavy, filled with the leaden weight of everything I’ve lost. I shift, and the rustle of the sheets reminds me I’m not alone.
Callan is still here. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, his back to me. He looks like a statue carved from shadows, even in the dawn. The memory of his mouth on mine makes my stomach do a slow, sick flip. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. It wasn’t supposed to feel like home.
“You’re awake,” he says. He doesn’t turn around. His voice is flat, stripped of the strange intensity from last night.
“Hard not to be,” I mutter, pushing myself up. My hair is a tangled mess, and my skin feels tight. I look at my hands. They’re shaking.
“I need to go to work, Callan.”
“We know. You’re going. I will drop you off. Aidan will pick you up.”
“And Ethan?” I ask, my mouth filling with saliva because I don’t really want to know.
“He’s taking the middle shift.”
“What does that mean?”
“He will be outside. If you need him. He will be there.”
“I won’t need him.”
“Liar,” he whispers.
“You can’t stalk me at my place of work.”
“It’s not stalking. Not this time. You know we will be there, protecting you.”
“I don’t need protection at the town library.”
“No. You need protection from yourself. You will go outside for lunch today. With Ethan.”
He stands up, and I’m trapped in a corner of the mattress.
I hate how my heart skips a beat at his proximity.
I hate that I can still taste him on my tongue.
I don’t say another word as I stand and head for the shower.
There’s no point. They’ve already decided my schedule, my safety, and my soul.
I’m just the body they’re moving from one room to another.
As I brush my teeth, change my tampon, and use the toilet, it hits me that I’m doing this on my own with anger in my blood.
I haven’t felt this alive in years. Even if that life is fuelled by rage, want, need. It’s still there. I’m moving through my morning routine without dread in my heart and the weight of everything crushing me.
I hate that.
Part of me had gotten used to it. It was familiar.
Now it’s like I’m forgetting. They are making me forget.
The day is already warm, so I keep the shower cool. It refreshes my addled brain. Reminds me where I am, what is happening to me. That I’m letting it happen.
I could run. Today. Out the back.
They would never know.
But where would I go?
What would I do?
Stepping out of the shower with a sigh, I towel off and wrap it around myself, heading back into the bedroom.
Callan is busy pulling my clothes out of the bags I didn’t unpack and placing them in the wardrobe and the drawers. He is meticulous and efficient.
“Your outfit is on the bed,” he says, not looking at me.
I purse my lips as I stare at the clothes, but I move towards them anyway.
I didn’t have to think about what to wear. It’s already been decided.
Callan doesn’t look at me as I drop the towel. He doesn’t help me dress. He simply carries on unpacking all my things like I agreed to this.
But I didn’t not agree. Not really. If I did, I’d be refusing to move. I’d be forcing them to move me, dress me, and shower me. My compliance is my agreement, and we all know it.
“Ready?” he asks, closing the wardrobe and drawers before he turns to me.
His gaze goes over me, and he nods at my black shorts and short-sleeved top. “You will be cool enough. It’s going to be hot today.”
“The library is air-conditioned,” I murmur.
“That’s why I’ve added a cardigan for you to take in your bag if you get cold.” He gestures to the folded light-weight white cardigan on the edge of the bed.
I grab the cardigan and shove it into my bag. It feels like a leash. Everything he does is designed to remind me that he’s inside my head, anticipating my needs before I even have them.
He takes my hand and leads me into the open-plan living area.
I take it in. Yesterday, I was in too much shock, too tired, too drained, too busy being fucked to within an inch of my life.
Now, I look. It’s staggeringly expensive.
Everywhere you look, there is marble, big windows, and art that makes no sense. Everything is clean. Pristine.
Ethan. He is a cleanaholic. If that’s even a word. It is now.
“Do you like it?” Callan asks, almost shyly, dropping my hand.
“It’s lovely,” I state as coldly as I can, but he sees straight through me.
“Morning, little bell,” Aidan says, coming up behind me and kissing the back of my neck before he turns me and hands me a mug of coffee. In his other hand, he has a tablet.
My herbal anti-depressant replacement, which probably doesn’t work but doesn’t make me feel like a zombie.
I take it from him and put it in my mouth. I already know from the look on his face that he will force it down my throat if I don’t.
“I’m working on a vitamin regimen,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me towards the kitchen breakfast bar, where a full plate of food is waiting.
Bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, and toast. My stomach churns.
I’m not used to so much rich food. “You will take them every day to help heal your body and mind.”
I nod, because what else can I do?
“Eat as much as you can,” Callan says. “But if we decide it isn’t enough, we will feed you the rest until the plate is clean.”
The threat isn’t empty. I can see it in the way Aidan looms over the counter, his blue eyes tracking every move of my fork. It’s a performance. I’m the lead actress in a play I never auditioned for, and the audience is made up of monsters.
“I can’t eat all this,” I say, pushing the plate away after a few bites. My stomach is a tight knot of nerves and lingering nausea.
Ethan steps into the kitchen, his dark hair damp from a shower.
He looks refreshed, balanced, and utterly terrifying.
He reaches out, his fingers grazing my jaw as he tilts my head back.
“Five more bites, Annabelle. Then you can go.” The quiet command in his tone is enough to make my hand reach for the fork again.
I swallow the food. No one speaks, only watches.
When the plate is half-empty, Callan checks his watch. He doesn’t touch me, but his presence at my side is a constant, humming reminder of the kiss that broke my resolve.
“Time to go,” Callan says.
I stand, grabbing my bag. My heart hammers against my ribs. I’m going back to the library, back to the books and the quiet dust, but nothing is the same. I’m a marked woman, and the hunters are the ones driving me to the door.
The car ride is silent. Callan drives the way he does everything. Like he’s already decided how it ends. His hands don’t shift on the wheel. Mine are in my lap, picking at the skin around my thumbnail until it stings. Outside, the streets look wrong somehow. Too bright, or too narrow.
He pulls up at the curb outside the library. The familiar stone building looks like a relic from another life. My sanctuary now feels like a target.
He turns to me and cups my face, making me look at him. “I’ll be here for another couple of hours before Ethan takes over.”
“Okay,” I whisper. It’s just easier than fighting.
I get out, and the humid air hits me, thick and heavy. I walk toward the entrance, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else. When I reach the glass doors, I turn back. The black car is still there. Callan is watching.
I push inside. Margaret is already at the desk, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose.
“Morning,” she says without looking up.
“Morning,” I mumble back, heading for the staff room to dump my bag.
The staff room is empty. I lean against the counter and close my eyes for just a second. My chest feels tight, like someone’s wrapped rubber bands around my ribs and keeps adding more. I can still feel Callan’s hand on my face, the way his fingers pressed into my skin like he was memorising me.
I shake my head and drop my bag onto the counter.
When I walk back out to the desk, Margaret glances up, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “You look different,” she says.
My stomach drops. “Different how?”
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a code she’s trying to decipher. “I don’t know. Less grey, maybe. You’ve got colour in your cheeks.”
I force a smile that feels like plastic. “Just slept better, I guess.”
The lie tastes bitter. I didn’t sleep. I lay in the dark with Callan beside me, hyperaware of every breath, every shift of the mattress. But Margaret doesn’t need to know that. No one needs to know.
“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up,” she says, returning to her computer screen. “You’ve been looking half-dead for months.”
The words hit. Half-dead. That’s what I was. That’s what they saw when they decided I was theirs to save. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“I’ll get started on the returns,” I mutter, moving toward the trolley of books waiting by the circulation desk.
The rhythm of it is mechanical. Scan. Place.
Scan. Place. My hands move, but my brain is elsewhere.
It’s in the car with Callan. It’s in the bedroom with all three of them.
It’s drowning in the suffocating truth that I don’t recognise myself anymore.
I can feel eyes on me even though I know Callan can’t see me from the street.
The sensation crawls over my skin like insects, all the same.
An hour passes slowly. Time moves strangely when I’m trying not to think about the men who have taken over my life.
“I need to take a longer lunch,” Margaret announces. “Hospital appointment,” she adds, even though I didn’t ask. “Do you want to take yours at eleven, and then I’ll be gone from twelve until two?”
It’s a question, but I don’t really have much choice. I can’t turn around and say ‘well, no, actually, Margaret, I’m taking my lunch between twelve and one, and fuck you if you don’t like it.’