Chapter 3
Salvario
I hear her crying as I stand at the door of my bathroom. She’s under the shower, crying loud enough to drown out the sound of the water falling. That’s exactly how my mother used to cry for hours.
The memory pulls me into its suffocating gloom. I was sitting outside the bathroom while she cried inside.
“What happened, Mama?” I ask her in a small voice.
Her crying stops for a moment, then she speaks in a choked voice.
“Nothing, baby. Why aren’t you sleeping?”
I press my cheek to the door.
“Mama, are you sad?”
I want to break the door down and run inside to hug her.
“Open the door, Mama.”
“Mama’s sorry.” She starts crying again. “Mama’s not strong enough. She couldn’t protect you.”
I press my palm flat against the door.
“It doesn’t hurt, Mama. Please don’t cry.” I hate when she cries, so I lie.
It was painful. How could having your skin peeled off not hurt?
She cried the whole night. She was in pain too—they hadn’t stopped at my skin. They did worse to her. And all of it happened because of one man. Alexander Bennett. Whose daughter’s sobs now fill my bathroom, tugging at something I thought long frozen.
I step back from the door and leave my room.
She entered without knocking, walked straight to the bathroom without glancing around. But I watched her the whole time from the couch in the corner.
I enter my study and, after settling into my chair, send an announcement through the servants’ system.
“Send Nivi to my study.”
Elowen
After crying myself raw, I feel better. My fighting spirit returns. I won’t run next time. I’ll beat the shit out of those bitches. With that resolution steel-forged, I rise from under the shower, and a new problem hits me. I’ve soaked my only pair of undergarments.
I look around. I hadn’t noticed before, rushing in blindly, but now I see clearly—this is a man’s bathroom. Men’s products line the shelves—shampoos, soaps, a razor. Towels are placed on a glass shelf, and a bathrobe hangs on the hook.
I remove my bra and panties, wash them in the sink, then roll them in a towel. I reach for another towel and bring it to my nose. Cedarwood. After making sure it’s clean, I wrap it around myself. I drape the last towel over my head, then shrug into the bathrobe.
I hope whoever owns this room won’t complain about his missing towels and bathrobe.
I open the door slowly and peek outside.
The room is dimly lit in white light. The air isn’t cold, but the room itself feels cold, maybe because of the dark walls and the charcoal curtains.
The bed is low and simple, plain gray headboard, black sheets.
In the far dark corner, something hunches—a couch, maybe.
I don’t know what kind of person would find sleeping in this room restful. Even ghosts would feel uneasy in a space this dark and heavy.
I slip out of the room and hurry across the hall. It’s directly opposite mine, which is good. No one will see me scurrying around wrapped in stolen towels and a bathrobe.
I enter my room and lock the door behind me. I spread the towel with my undergarments on the floor, then lay my bra and panties flat on top. I stare at them for a moment. The floor is warm but I doubt it will do much to dry them. Maybe by morning they’ll be dry.
I turn to the dresses still heaped on the floor. I pick one up and find cuts in it, just like the one I was wearing.
Shit. I left that dress in his bathroom. What now? Should I go back and bring it here, or let it stay there? I don’t know the consequences of either, so I choose the second.
I lift the next dress. It’s no better. Then another. And the last one. I toss them back onto the floor. This is absurd. Every single one has cuts in places that without panties would expose me, front or back—which is a hard no. Nothing will make me wear these dresses like that.
I pull the towel from my hair and run my fingers through the wet strands. They’ll be a mess without a comb.
I sit on the floor, on the heap of rags they expect me to wear. I cup my dry face that desperately needs moisturizer.
I won’t cry again. At least not for moisturizer and a comb and clothes and food and a bed.
My attempt at optimism cracks on a sob. Stupid tears start falling again.
It’s night outside, which means I was kidnapped yesterday, and my family still hasn’t found me. Another reason to feel pessimistic and cry more.
No, Wen, don’t do this. Don’t spiral thinking the worst. No one finds a kidnapped person in a day. They’ll find me soon.
My stomach growls. I’m hungry. And thirsty.
I take a deep breath and get up, wiping the tears harshly from my cheeks. I stride to the door, open it, and step outside.
There is no way I’m going to stay hungry when I’m not locked in.
I look around and find the wing empty. I step into the small kitchen and open the fridge. It’s packed with ingredients I don’t know how to use. I close it, open another fridge, and find fruits inside. I can eat those. I take out a box of berries.
“Who allowed you to be here?”
I jump at the cold voice, and the box nearly falls from my hand. I turn sharply, hiding it behind me, and find him standing there. My kidnapper.
He stands on the other side of the kitchen counter, watching me from head to toe with narrowed eyes.
“I’m hungry,” I manage to say.
He points a gloved finger at the counter.
“Put whatever you stole here.”
I bring the box from behind me, take reluctant steps forward, and place it on the counter.
“Get on your knees,” he orders.
I stare at him in horror. I’ve read enough books to know what that means.
I step back, shaking my head.
His face hardens. “Get. On. Your. Knees.”
I shake my head, firm. “I won’t do that, even if you kill me.”
I won’t let him sexually assault me.
He nods. “Then die of hunger. You won’t get a single drop of water until you beg for it.”
“You want me on my knees begging for food?” I rasp—and instantly regret it.
When will my tongue stop slipping?
He raises a brow. The question in his eyes is clear: What were you thinking?
“And if I refuse to beg?” I ask, changing the subject.
“You’ll only get food when you beg. But don’t worry, you won’t die. I’ll keep you alive with drugs.”
Begging is much sweeter than drugs. It will do temporary damage to my pride, but drugs will do permanent damage to my body.
I look away and lower myself to my knees.
“I beg you for food.” I force the words out, my tone flat, unaffected.
When he doesn’t respond, I look up to find him watching me with that never-changing hatred.
“I didn’t expect Alexander Bennett’s daughter to be so weak.”
I don’t respond. He can think whatever he wants.
It’s not like his image of me will affect my life.
I have no intention of getting the approval of a man who is torturing an innocent woman for something her father did.
It makes no sense. Every law in the world says punishing children for their parents’ crimes is wrong.
He fixes me with that disgusted look for a full minute before finally leaving.
I get up and retrieve the box of berries I begged for. I open it and put a strawberry in my mouth. The sweetness dulls the bitterness of my humiliation.
I can do that. If he wants to feed his ego by making me beg for food, water, and other things, I can do it. I’ll do it mechanically, without feeling it. I have a lot of fighting ahead, and choosing which battles to fight will decide whether I survive.
I take a raspberry, a blueberry, another strawberry, and put them in my mouth together. I love the combination. I close my eyes and chew slowly, savouring the sour and sweet tastes of berries fusing inside my mouth.
Footsteps make me open my eyes.
He’s back. My mouth stops moving. He doesn’t stop in front of me; he keeps walking and sits on the couch facing the kitchen, watching me.
I resume chewing, stealing glances at him.
Is he going to sit there and watch me eat?
I pick up the box and step around the counter. I’ll go back to my lovely room instead of standing here under his gaze.
“Leave the box,” he commands from the couch.
I step back to the same spot. Without glancing at him again, I continue eating, closing my eyes and sending myself into a warm memory.
I’m at Pa’s house, sitting in the garden with Grandpa, Grandma, and Avi. Avi and I are eating berries grown on our farm. Ma is telling us a story about my mom and Uncle Alex.
I keep eating, eyes closed, my mind buried in the memory that was my reality just two days ago, and will be again once my family finds me. And they will. Very soon.
A loud bark yanks me out of my happy headspace. A silver-gray Siberian husky stares at me with pale blue eyes. He pads closer, sniffing, circling. I let him do his job.
“Bruno.” The man’s voice comes from the couch—no softness in it, even for the dog.
Bruno starts walking toward him, glancing back at me.
I drop to my knees and pat my thighs.
“Hey, Bruno,” I call out softly.
He changes direction instantly and bounds toward me. He licks my hands, sniffs at my neck. I run my fingers through the soft fur, massaging gently. He licks my cheek. I giggle.
“Bruno.”
The cold command comes again, harsher this time, and Bruno walks away from me.
Such a tyrant.