Chapter 13
13
I ’m being ridiculous.
I know I am, but that doesn’t stop the frustration bubbling inside me—clawing and twisting into something sharp and ugly. The first night they didn’t show, I barely let myself acknowledge it. Just a night off to relax, I told myself. They’re trying to throw me off balance, keep me guessing so they can terrify me tomorrow.
That’s all.
But when they didn’t show the second night, something inside me cracked.
I’d waited.
Like a fool.
I sat in my room at dusk, my heart pounding with anticipation—only to be met with… nothing. No flicker of red, blue, or orange. No cryptic words or hidden passages. No teasing touches or cruel games. Just silence.
I sat there all night.
Waiting.
Which is what I’m still doing now. The sun is starting to rise, and I take a deep breath as a decision solidifies within me. I slowly stand and wrap my comforter around me before approaching the dresser. I stare at my purse for a few moments before grabbing it with shaking hands. I check that all of my things are still inside, then march toward the door.
Fine.
If they don’t want to play their own games, then neither do I. I’m not going to sit around like some obedient little pet waiting for their attention.
No.
I’m leaving.
I find my way to the foyer and descend the curved stairs, pausing at the front door. I take a couple of breaths, wondering if they will appear out of nowhere and force me to stay. When nothing happens, I reach for the knob and turn it.
Or at least, I try to.
The door doesn’t open. I try again—perhaps it’s only stuck. Again, the knob doesn’t turn. It’s sealed shut. I huff in annoyance and decide to try every door and window I come across.
None of them open.
Every possible exit is locked up tight. The only thing I’ve managed to do is waste my time and feed the burning resentment curling inside me. It’s not that I’d truly expected to just walk away.
Not really.
However, a small part of me believed they were giving me a choice. They returned my purse and didn’t show up for two nights, as if giving me space to make my own choice. Now, standing in a house that suddenly feels more like a prison, I realize I misunderstood.
They left me.
Without a thought.
They could have at least written a note.
Now, I prowl through the manor, rage simmering beneath my skin like a fever while the silk of this ridiculous nightgown clings to the tops of my thighs. The cold floor bites at my bare feet as I clutch the comforter tighter around my shoulders. I’ve been wandering this freezing, lifeless manor with nothing to do and nothing to eat for days.
The clock on the wall ticks toward dusk, and I wonder if they’ll bother to show up. If they do, they’ll demand I play their game as if nothing happened. I doubt they’ll even give me an explanation as to why they left me here.
Alone.
I hate that I’m lonely enough to want them to show up—to settle for scraps of attention.
My jaw tightens in anger—at them and myself—as I stomp through the halls, past grand chandeliers, flickering sconces, locked doors, and abandoned rooms filled with sheet-draped furniture. Just because I haven’t seen them in days doesn’t mean they aren’t here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Probably laughing.
I know I won’t find them, but that doesn’t stop me from yelling. “Cowards!” My voice echoes, swallowed by the vast, empty halls.
Nothing.
I move deeper into the house, my anger mounting. “You think you can just disappear? Just—just abandon me after—” My throat tightens, and I swallow the rest of my words with a sharp breath.
This is what infuriates me the most—that I feel abandoned at all.
By my masked kidnappers.
What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t help it, though. They made me care in their strange, twisted way.
I dig my nails into my palms and keep moving. Past the library, the grand hall, and the winding corridors that feel like they shift under my feet. I throw open doors one after another, slamming them shut when I find nothing but dust and emptiness. I press a hand to my chest, hating the erratic beat of my heart, hating the gnawing ache in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger.
“I know you’re watching!” I spin in place, my breath uneven, my pulse hammering against my ribs. “I know you can hear me, so why don’t you stop being cowards and come out?”
Silence.
The only reply is the low creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. I wasn’t truly expecting a response, but it would have been nice to get one, all the same. My eyes burn, and I take several deep breaths through my nose to keep the tears at bay.
I should be relieved they’re gone.
I should be planning—searching for some way out, preparing for what comes next.
Instead, I feel hollow.
I hate them for making me feel like this.
I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth.
“Fine,” I whisper to the nothingness surrounding me. “Play your little game.”
I won’t be the one who loses.
I didn’t escape one prison to be locked in another.
By the time the first sliver of moonlight spills through the windows, I’m fuming. I’ve torn through the manor, yelling at empty rooms—my anger growing hotter with every unanswered shout. It feels like every time I’ve had to bury my rage before is now bubbling to the surface. I won’t be told to control my emotions this time.
My chest heaves as I pace the parlor, my eyes darting to the window and the growing darkness outside. If they don’t show tonight, I’m going to start throwing things.
The faint creak of a floorboard sounds from behind me.
I whirl around to see them standing in the doorway, their masks glowing in the dim light of the hall behind them.
My anger boils over. “Where the hell have you been?” I snap, the words flying out before I can stop them. Father would be horrified by my choice of vocabulary.
They don’t respond, and it drives me absolutely insane. I stomp up to them, reach for Quinn’s mask first, and yank it off his head. He could’ve stopped me if he wanted to. Of course, he wears an insufferable grin on his stupidly handsome face, leaning casually against the doorframe like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
He probably doesn’t.
“Do you think this is some kind of game?”
Quinn raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Isn’t it?”
“That does it.” I spit, ripping the masks off the other two. It would help if they looked horrid, but of course, there’s not a flaw to be found on any of them. Beckett’s gray eyes pierce me, while Whit’s hazel, softer ones study me closely.
My voice shakes, but not with fear. No, it’s full of everything I’ve been holding in for days—years. “It’s not. I’m starving. I’m freezing. I don’t have any clothes, or shoes, or anything! Do you think crackers and peanut butter are enough to live on?” I hear my voice echo down the hall as the silence stretches.
Beckett’s expression doesn’t waver, but I see the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—whatever it is, I don’t care. Just like he doesn’t care about me.
Quinn shrugs, his tone as infuriatingly casual as ever. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
The words hit like a slap to the face, and I snap. “You think that’s good enough? You think that’s okay? You’ve taken everything from me—my clothes, my freedom, my life—and left me to rot here while you go wherever it is you went!”
The silence is worse than any taunt, and it makes my rage burn hotter as traitorous tears roll down my face. “Do you even care?” I shout, my voice cracking. “Do you even realize how miserable you’ve made me?”
Of course, they don’t. Even if they did, it’s not like they would do anything about it.
Finally, Beckett steps forward, his tone calm but firm. “It’s time.”
“What?” I blink at him, my anger momentarily giving way to confusion.
“The game,” he says simply, motioning toward the door. “It’s past dusk.”
I stare at him, my chest heaving, my blood roaring in my ears. Of course—of course, this is all they care about—not me, not what I’m feeling—just their ridiculous game.
The anger flares again, and I tighten the comforter around me, glaring at them as I step toward the door. “Fine,” I snap, feeling my lower lip wobbling. “Let’s play your stupid game. Maybe I’ll be lucky tonight, and one of you will put me out of my misery and kill me already. At least then, I would be free—for once in my life!”
There are a few beats of silence, and then Quinn laughs. He actually laughs at me. My rage finally snaps, like a rubber band stretched too tight. I don’t even realize I’m yelling until my voice echoes off the walls.
“You think this is funny?” I scream, my hands clenched so tightly at my sides that my nails bite into my palms. “Do you think I would ever choose this? That I want to be here, with you, playing your twisted little games?”
Quinn leans casually against the wall—does he ever stand straight?—barely reacting. That stupid smirk—so smug and antagonistic—stays plastered on his face. I have the urge to reach out and brush back the dark hair falling into his eyes with my fingers. “You’re still here, aren’t you?” he says, his voice infuriatingly calm, like I’m not worth taking seriously.
I’m probably not.
“Maybe you like it more than you think.”
The words are a spark to a powder keg. “You—” My voice breaks, and my vision blurs with hot, angry tears. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. None of you do! And you just stand there, grinning like this is all some fun little hobby for you and not my life!”
“Relax,” he says, his tone light, dismissive. “No need to get your panties in a knot—or lack thereof.” He lets his eyes drop slowly down my body. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“Relax,” I repeat, my voice escalating into a shriek. “How dare you tell me to relax!”
Before I even know what I’m doing, my hand flies up, and the crack of my palm against his cheek rings out, loud and sharp in the room. The sting travels up my arm, and I know I’ve made a grave mistake, but I can’t seem to find it in me to care.
Quinn’s head snaps to the side, his smirk finally gone. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of my ragged breathing and the faint hiss of blood rushing in my ears.
And then the weight of their scrutiny sets in. The silence feels like a living thing, pressing down on me, smothering the fire that had fueled me only moments ago. My hand still stings, but it’s nothing compared to the sinking weight in my stomach.
Quinn stands there, his head turning back slowly to look at me. Gone is his grin, replaced by something darker—dangerous—as he clenches his jaw.
Maybe I really will die tonight.
“You’re brave for such a tiny thing. I’ll give you that,” he says finally, his voice low, the edge of amusement making my chest tighten. “But bad girls get punished.”
Punished.
“N—no, please,” I gasp, the words barely audible, and I feel my body trembling. My body goes cold, my blood freezing in my veins as the other two step forward, their expressions hard and unreadable. “Not t-that.”
Memories flash through my mind of the punishments I received at Josiah’s hand.
“You’d better run,” Beckett says, his voice calm and devoid of emotion. I’ve feared them, but this is the first time since the woods that I’ve thought they would truly hurt me. It’s almost worse being able to see their faces. “And you’d better hide, but even that won’t prevent your punishment.”
My heart pounds, and I can barely hear anything over the rushing of blood in my head.
Run.
Hide.
Punishment.
The words echo in my head alongside the memory of the last time Josiah took his belt to me and the dark stone room where he left me bloodied and chained to the wall for days. I stagger back, clutching the comforter around me as if it could protect me.
“Go,” Whit says, his voice low and firm. “Now.”
I don’t wait for them to tell me twice. I turn and run, abandoning the weight of my comforter as I dart down the hallway. My breath comes in sharp, shallow gasps—panic slicing through me. My father’s voice fills my head, loud and condemning: You brought this on yourself, Celestina. Bad behavior must be corrected.
Tears blur my vision as I stumble into a room, slamming the door behind me. I press my back against it, chest heaving, mind racing. They’re going to kill me. I was stupid—so, so stupid—to strike him.
My father would have locked me in the reflecting room for days for something like that—left me alone in the dark until I begged for forgiveness. I don’t want to think about what Josiah would have done. I choke back a sob, shaking my head.
No. No, I won’t let them do this to me. I should have just stayed in Alabama.
I dart across the room, looking for somewhere to hide—but there’s no time. I hear them coming, their footsteps heavy and deliberate. My heart races, my hands shake as I search for something—anything—to barricade the door. My breaths come in gasps, and I fear I might faint.
It happens faster than I expect. The door bursts open, and before I can scream, strong arms wrap around me, pinning mine to my sides. I thrash against the hold, my mind convinced that Josiah is the one who grabbed me.
There are many ways to hurt you, Celestina, without leaving a permanent mark. Let us begin.
“Please, no!” I scream, my voice breaking as they drag me from the room. “Not again! Please!”
My pleas echo through the hallway, but they don’t slow. If anything, it seems to amuse them. Quinn’s laugh cuts through the haze of panic—sharp and mocking.
“Again?” he says, his breath warm against my ear as he leans in. “I promise we’ve never truly punished you before, and I doubt anyone has punished a sweet little thief like you the way we will.”
The others chuckle, their voices low and dark—my fear spikes again. I struggle as hard as I can, tears streaming down my face. “Please!” I sob, my voice cracking. “I—I’ll be g-good! I’ll be good, I p-promise!”
They don’t respond, their laughter fading as we near my room—my sobs the only sound left. The door creaks open, and I’m thrown onto the bed—the impact knocking the breath from my lungs.
My chest aches from the effort of my sobs. I curl into myself, reaching for that place in my mind where nothing can touch me—preparing for the pain I know is coming.
“You really thought we’d hurt you?” Quinn asks, his tone dripping with mockery. The question pulls me out of my mind just enough to look over at him—leaning against the doorframe, holding my comforter. His signature smirk returns, though there’s still a sharpness to his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine.
Beckett steps closer, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. “You shouldn’t throw fits based on assumptions,” he says, his voice calm—yet I see him seething. His thoughts seem far away.
Whit doesn’t say anything—just keeps his steady gaze fixed on me, studying my every reaction. Something he sees makes his jaw clench.
My body trembles, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. I don’t trust them—or the way they’re looking at me.
“You should rest,” Beckett finally says, his tone unreadable. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”
His words leave me confused, and I can’t bring myself to respond. Quinn drops my comforter over me before they turn and leave, the door clicking shut behind them. My mind races, fear refusing to subside as it churns over what kind of torture they might have planned. What could possibly take them an entire day to come up with?
Do I really want to know?