CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALLISON
So, this is what happens when intrusive thoughts win.
My life gets hijacked by a wealthy mercenary, and I become his— Pet? Submissive? Mistress? I’m not clear on what he expects in return for his protection—while he installs me in this enormous mansion on the outskirts of Boston.
After introducing three of the other six men who live at Blackchapel Manor—Rafael, Jonah, and Hugo, formidable men wearing varying degrees of confused expressions—Mathias showed me to a beautiful room upstairs in the East Wing. Because, of course, his home is large enough to have freaking wings.
The king-sized bed I’m currently lounging in dominates one wall while the bank of windows to its right offers an aerial view of the sleeping gardens. I’m sure summer sunrises are something to behold as the warm golden light splashes over flowers and shrubs before sweeping up the manor to brighten my room.
It’s unfortunate I won’t be here to see it. Mathias will surely tire of our arrangement by then.
“Then I’ll be on my own again,” I whisper into the empty room.
For hours, I’ve been floating in an odd dream state—from Mathias first appearing on my doorstep to the flight where he fed me while I sat in his lap to now lying awake in bed, staring up at the high ceiling, exhausted yet jittery.
The crash after a tumultuous day.
The perfect time for my mind to spiral and drag my poor body with it.
Where’s that numb cocoon when I need it?
“A is for apple. B is for bank. C is for cash.” I list each letter in the alphabet along with whatever corresponding word pops into my head. It’s supposed to distract my thoughts so they don’t fixate on worrying, but I’ve run through the alphabet three times so far with no change.
An itch continues to tingle along my skin. My heart pounds in my chest. In my ears. Never lessening, only heightening. Nausea roils around in my stomach, and chills threaten to turn me into a quivering mess.
All signs point to an anxiety attack gearing up for a full-scale assault, so I toss the blankets off to search for the emergency prescription that’s meant to curb the symptoms when they become too much.
My feet sink into the thick rug covering most of the room’s hardwood flooring as I stumble through the dark and search for my suitcase.
What was I thinking leaving my home— the fucking state —with a stranger?
A man who intimidated and interrogated me in Paris.
Yes, he caught me in a vulnerable position earlier, but I’m not a reckless person—no matter how often I wish I could be. Have I fantasized about being whisked away from my problems? Of course. Who hasn’t?
But you’re not supposed to actually let a bossy stranger dictate your life. Even if it does monumentally suck.
You’re not supposed to accept his control. Not supposed to willingly give in to it.
I’m not an idiot, but right now, I feel like the world’s dumbest woman. They’ll feature me on that show 1000 Stupid Ways to Die , and I’ll be number one. The pathetic girl who was brave enough to take a bullet for a man but too weak to handle her own life.
“Come on… Where are you?” My hands dig through the hastily packed suitcase by the door, rooting around for my plastic-container lifeline. Tears prick behind my eyelids as my vision blurs.
Where is it?
Did I forget to pack it?
What am I going to do?
There are a few options I can try to calm my nervous system, like a hot shower or playing the town-building game on my phone, but those usually aren’t strong enough to completely mitigate an attack. I know because my therapist asked me to rank the effectiveness of my coping mechanisms once.
Hot shower = 3 points
Mobile game = 2 points
Drawing figure-eights = 1 point
The idea was to see what worked then adding items together to create an even powerful coping method. Technically, my shower and game would equal five points out of ten, but five measly points isn’t going to cut it against a level twenty attack.
“I wish my space heater was here.” That thing is worth ten points because it wards off the anxiety chills. Some might think it’s ridiculous, but I even use it during the summer when it’s ninety degrees outside because my body doesn’t care what the weather is like.
If my fucked-up brain chemistry says it’s freezing, then I’m freezing, and shivering uncontrollably is the answer.
“Oh, thank god.” The tumble of pills is music to my ears as my fingers wrap around the medication. I quickly pop one in my mouth and rush to the bathroom to drink some water from my cupped hands.
Water splashes on the counter from the improvised cup, and small droplets join the puddles as I lean over the sink, tired tears slowly sliding down my cheeks to plop on the marble.
I’m so sick of this.
A gleam of silver catches my eye. There’s a shaving blade resting in a leather placket in the corner of the double vanity.
How considerate of Mathias to provide guests with fancy shaving implements.
Curious, I unroll the leather and remove the straight razor from its restraint.
It flicks open with an easy snick.
The sharp metal mesmerizes me as it reflects my distorted image.
A thundering roar blares in my ears as my gaze focuses on the object in my hand, imagining how painful a slice from its blade would be. Picturing perfectly round beads of blood dripping down the edge.
It soothes something in me. Something wild and dark and melancholic to the extreme.
Inhaling deeply, I hold the breath and gently bring the point of the razor to my inner wrist. Two prominent lines slash below the palm, symmetrical guidelines that my fuzzy brain appreciates.
A is for agony.
B is for blue.
C is for cold.
D is for death.
“What the hell are you doing?”
In a flash, the blade clatters to the floor as Mathias storms into the bathroom. Fire and fear form a molten glare in his diamond-hard eyes, frightening me in their intensity.
I stumble backward and bang into the glass shower wall.
Mathias pauses, glances at the fallen razor, then burns me with another penetrating stare. “What were you doing, Allie? If I hadn’t seen the light under the door…”
“I'd be fine.”
I've never gone too far in the past, and it wasn’t in my plan tonight. But the thought… The thought of hurting myself was a welcome distraction to the actual war going on in my body and mind.
“The damn razor was over your wrist. It was touching your skin.” He snags my limp wrist and raises it between us. His hold is surprisingly gentle considering the fury radiating from his body, but his carefulness doesn’t cause the fear in my veins to stall.
No, it’s gathering momentum, combining with the other fears thrashing my insides.
I swallow hard, willing myself to calm down.
Telling myself to do so has never worked in the past, but I really don’t want to break down in front of Mathias again.
Once today is my limit.
“That’s as far as it was going to go. I promise.”
Mathias runs a free hand through his ruffled hair. Did I wake him? Where did he come from?
“How are you here?” I ask, hoping to distract him.
“We share adjoining rooms. When the manor was originally built, these were the master and mistress suites.” He tugs me toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, flipping off the bathroom lights as we pass into my room’s twin—except for the bed. Somehow his is even larger than mine.
My footsteps stutter over another plush rug, but Mathias keeps pulling until we’re both tucked into his bed, his broad chest to my rigid back.
“Tell me what I walked into,” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath tickling my ear.
The medicine I took has taken some of the edge off my anxiety, but it’s going to be a few hours before I’m calm enough to sleep. Which means there’s no escape from Mathias’s questioning.
“I shouldn't be here. I want to go home.” It's not an answer to his question, but it's the best I can do.
Bailey may not be a good friend, and ours may not be a healthy friendship or living situation, but at least it’s familiar. Safe because I know what to expect.
“This was a mistake. I never should have agreed to whatever this is, and I definitely shouldn’t have gotten on that jet.”
“You’re scared.” His arm tightens around my waist, putting pressure on my belly. “I understand your apprehension. What I don’t get is how that translates to the scene I witnessed in the bathroom.”
“I’m having an anxiety attack.”
There I said it.
It’s not a crime or something to be ashamed of, but I hate having to admit it aloud.
“Everything hit me at once in an overwhelming wave. And I’m sick of dealing with it. Do you know how exhausting it is to manage your mental health? To try to do the right things to get better and still suffer setbacks?” The words are a stuttering, wobbly mess as my crying starts up again. “Sometimes the imagined relief of… not existing… helps dampen the pain.”
Silence meets the end of my explanation. Mathias’s heavy breathing is slow and steady, and I consciously try to match the rhythm.
“How often does this happen?” he quietly asks.
“Anxiety attacks? They used to be more frequent before I started therapy and medication. Now, it’s every once in a while. The thoughts of being gone?” Another euphemism for suicide since saying the word out loud makes it too real. “More often.”
“Fuck, Angel… When I accused you of lacking a preservation instinct, I didn’t realize you had a literal death wish.”
“I don’t,” I deny. “Thoughts help; actions aren't necessary. I don’t actually want to hurt myself. I hate pain and avoid it at all costs, which is why I avoided confrontations with Bailey.” And with my parents and brother. People that I’ve discussed with my therapist about going ‘no contact’ with but have never had the guts to follow through on.
Because of the fallout.
The guilt trips that would await me.
The hurt feelings on both sides.
Any improvement to my mental health from ‘no contact’ would be demolished by the repercussions.
Mathias sighs and buries his lips in my hair, his beard tangling with the curls and causing intermittent pulling sensations. “This conversation isn’t over, but it’s late, and you need sleep. Are you feeling any better?”
“Slightly. I took something about twenty minutes ago, but it’s not always foolproof.”
“What can I do? Aside from flying you back to North Carolina, that is. Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go now that I know how badly you need me.”
A sliver of amusement works its way through me. “You think very highly of yourself. I realize I don’t have the best track record with you, but I’ve been taking care of myself for almost thirty years just fine.”
“Our definitions of ‘just fine’ are vastly different.” His leg covers mine as his arms squeeze tighter, forming a solid nest of heat and muscle. “I read once that deep pressure can regulate the nervous system. Let’s see if it’s true, hmm?”
Nodding in agreement, because that’s why I own a weighted blanket currently crumpled at the end of my bed back home, my attention returns to slowing my breaths, mirroring Mathias’s relaxed inhales and exhales until darkness finally wins the battle for my mind.