Chapter 4
Elowen
A knock on my door wakes me. I sit up with a groan. Every muscle in my body aches from sleeping on the floor.
I get up and force myself to move to the door. When I open it, a maid stands there, clothes in hand. It’s the same maid’s uniform—not new, but neatly folded. I take them from her.
“Change and come down,” she says, then leaves.
Did she just treat me like a person, or am I imagining kindness because I just woke up?
I close the door, set the clothes down, and stretch my aching stiff body. At least my mind feels better after a full night’s sleep.
I pick up one dress and inspect it. No cuts. I can wear this. Since last night, I’ve been wearing the stolen bathrobe. I guess my kidnapper doesn’t mind me stealing clothes, or he’d have had me on my knees begging for these too.
I check my bra and panties. They’ve dried. I gather them along with the towel I’d laid them on. The other two towels I used as bedding, and I plan to keep using them that way.
Clothes draped over my arm, I step out and cross to the room opposite mine. I hope it’s empty like it was yesterday.
I try the knob. It turns easily, and with a gentle push, the door opens. I peek inside and find the room empty.
I step in, close the door, and head straight for the bathroom. My eyes linger on the bed. I never imagined there would be a day when I’d look at a bed with longing.
Wait. The bed has been slept in. Which means this isn’t an unused room. Which means I’m inside someone’s bedroom.
A door opens. I freeze.
A sick feeling settles in my stomach—this bedroom belongs to him. The man holding me captive.
The next second confirms it.
He steps out of the other door, not the bathroom, adjusting his gloves. Then he snaps his head up. His calm face turns terrifying in an instant, pure, cold anger. He opens his mouth to say something—something horrible, because nothing good ever comes from that man.
But I don’t wait for him to speak. I turn and sprint, out of his room, across the hall, into mine, and lock the door behind me. Only then do I allow my lungs to start working again.
Hand pressed to my chest, I lean my ear to the door. His door opens, closes. Footsteps fade. Once the sound dies, I tiptoe out and rush back into his room.
There’s unbearable pressure on my bladder, I need to empty it. I have to break into someone’s room to use a bathroom, so I’d rather use the one I know. Who knows who the other room belongs to.
After using the toilet and showering, I search for a toothbrush. I find a new one in a drawer and use it. Then I find his moisturizer and use that too. After getting dressed, I gather his moisturizer, shower gel, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, and the bathrobe I was wearing, then leave.
I’ve become far too comfortable with stealing in just one day.
I’ve decided not to use his bathroom again. I’ll ask Antonio where the bathroom he mentioned is and use that instead. But with the kind of facilities they’re providing, I’m sure there won’t be anything in it besides toilet paper. So this stealing will come in handy.
I hide my stolen goods under the dresses Nivi gave me, in a corner, and head downstairs.
The maid from this morning spots me and calls me over. I follow her into the dining room, where my captor sits at the long table.
She points to a basket. “There’s a mop. Clean this room.”
“Don’t you have robots for this?” I ask, surprised.
She glances at my captor. I follow her gaze. He nods once, and she leaves.
“Do as you’re told,” he says coldly.
I walk to the basket. A cloth floats in clean water. I lift it—water streams from it. I place it on the floor, lower myself to my knees, and start wiping the way I’ve seen in movies.
We have robots for this. I’ve never seen a human do it, but I’m pretty sure the floor isn’t supposed to flood. It even soaks my knees.
Maybe I should squeeze the cloth into the bucket. But I’ve never seen that in movies. I decide to trust my instincts anyway. I slide back to the basket on my knees, position the cloth over it, and squeeze.
“Twist it.”
I snap my head toward the tyrant. He’s watching me with that serious frozen expression, as if he hadn’t just spoken.
“Did you just say twist it?” I ask, needing confirmation.
He gives a small nod, like he’s doing me a favor.
“How helpful,” I snark, and do as I’m told.
More water drains out. Now it isn’t dripping.
I wipe the wet area. The cloth absorbs the water.
I twist it again over the bucket, then continue with the damp cloth.
Now that I’m doing it properly, it seems like such a basic thing.
It’s embarrassing that I didn’t even know how to do this.
I can’t wait to share this life lesson with Avi, Lyn, and Autumn.
I’m sure they have no idea how to do it either.
After wiping about twenty-five square meters, I can confidently say I hate this “basic thing.” The skin on my knees burns from sliding across the floor, and I can already tell my shoulders will be in agony by the time I finish mopping this room. My palms feel raw.
I drop down to sit on the floor. My sympathy for Cinderella just skyrocketed.
“Keep going.”
I grit my teeth and shoot him a look full of hatred, but I resume working anyway.
Once my dad finds me, I’ll make this man do the same work in our mansion. Ten times over.
I scrub the floor with hatred-fueled force.
No, one hundred times. He’s bigger and stronger than me. He deserves at least that much.
By the time I finish, I’m on the verge of breaking down again. I’m not even in a state to stand up. My knees are scraped. My palms are scraped too. My skin is aching, inflamed and red.
And this monster has watched me the entire time without a single flicker of change on that stone face of his.
What am I even expecting? Him suddenly growing a brain? Him realizing out of nowhere that it’s wrong to punish someone for their father’s actions? And that, too—a girl.
Doesn’t he have some bottom line, like not being cruel to women and children? Doesn’t he have a mother, a sister, a daughter? He looks old enough to have a daughter.
That’s right. Does he even have a family?
I haven’t seen anyone here but him. And twice now, sneaking into his room, I haven’t found a trace of a wife or girlfriend. Not even in his bathroom.
Is he single? I’m not surprised. He’s the perfect example of a man who deserves to be.
“You’ve been sitting there for five minutes.”
Fuck you. And fuck every relative you have. I curse him silently, then breathe deep and turn my head.
“It’s done.”
“Do it again,” he says without missing a beat.
I force myself up. My legs shake a little.
“Don’t you have a policy about feeding your slaves?”
I’m fucking hungry, you asshole.
He nods. “Come here.”
He’s been sitting at that table for the past hour, watching me. I haven’t seen him eat once, which means he already had his breakfast and is now just sitting here watching me do this pointless job.
Does he have nothing better to do with his life?
I scoff at my own question. People with better things to do don’t kidnap girls and turn them into slaves.
I step closer, stopping a few feet away. His gaze drops to my red knees, moves to my hands, then lifts back to my face.
He takes a plate from the table and holds it out to me.
“Kneel.”
I grit my teeth. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you a thousand times for a thousand lives.
I kneel, wincing as my knees hit the floor. The pain is so sharp I almost lose my appetite. My eyes water.
It’s his day. Let him have it, Wen. Once Dad comes, I’ll have him on his knees for a whole day.
He places the plate on the floor and slides it toward me. It stops when it touches my knees.
“Eat.”
I shift, folding my legs to one side. I pick up the plate and inspect the sandwiches. It’s hard to tell just by looking whether they contain nuts.
I glance at him. “Does it have nuts?”
He raises a brow. He does that whenever he has a question. I guess moving facial muscles is easier for him than using his tongue. He seems to find speaking particularly difficult.
“I’m allergic to nuts,” I tell him, hoping this doesn’t make him question my identity as Avira Bennett.
The chances he knows Avi has a cousin with a nut allergy—one who also looks like her—are slim. If he knew that much, he wouldn’t have been fooled by me.
“There are none,” he replies coldly.
I don’t waste another second. I grab a sandwich and take a massive bite. It’s an avocado salmon sandwich. Delicious. For a moment, my problems cease to exist, leaving just me, my sandwich, and my empty stomach.
After two nights, my stomach finally has something solid in it.
I’m in a state of pure bliss. But even in this moment of relief, I’m not alone.
My sadistic captor’s gray eyes are also here, fixed on me.
No matter how hard you try, you can’t ignore someone watching you from less than three feet away like you’re an animal in a circus—which isn’t very far from my current condition.
I silently pray for God to send this monster away. I need to rest. He can torture me again in a few hours.
Miraculously, God listens.
After watching me until I finish my food, he gets up from his chair and leaves the room. I stay there for another minute, then walk out as well.
There’s no one near the dining room, so I decide to explore. Maybe I’ll find a way out. When my aunt was kidnapped, she found a back door and escaped. She only made it farther because Uncle arrived and blew up the boundary wall. Otherwise, they would have caught her.
A few corridors from the dining room, I spot windows and a massive door—the main entrance, I think, to this maze of a mansion.
I glance around, then sprint for it. There’s a solid chance I won’t be able to escape, but trying won’t hurt. Maybe I’ll succeed like Aunt. Maybe I’ll step outside and Dad will be there, waiting for me.
I pull open the massive doors and stagger back as freezing air slams into me. Snow blankets everything outside. The wind is so sharp I can barely keep my eyes open. Even if I tried to run, I’d get hypothermia within minutes.
I close the door again—like a good girl—and move toward the windows to look outside instead.
I’m ninety percent sure I’m in Antarctica. The other ten percent says somewhere near it.
There’s only a faint blue-gray glow outside. Doesn’t look anything like eleven a.m., which is what I saw on the clock.
All I can see are birch trees, stripped bare like skeletons, snow piled on their branches. If there are plants beneath, they’re buried. Snow covers everything.
In the distance—maybe a kilometer out—walls rise faintly through the fog.
Escaping from here is impossible.
I watch the wind carry sheets of snow for a while, then turn to go back in.
I jump the moment I turn.
He’s standing right there.
I steady myself and jerk my thumb over my shoulder.
“I was just looking around. Not trying to escape.” I force a small chuckle. “This place is so warm and wonderful, I can’t imagine leaving.”
His expression doesn’t change. So I shut my mouth.
After another awkward minute standing there like a caught thief, I slowly slide sideways.
“I have mopping business to attend to,” I mumble, brushing past him and hurrying inside.
After a few corridors, I stop to breathe. So escape is officially off the table. I’ll focus on staying out of trouble instead.
I wander a bit before heading up.
I haven’t seen Bruno since this morning. Or Antonio. Or Nivi. Those are the only three names I know in this mini palace.
Once upstairs, I call for Bruno. On the fifth call, I hear paws hitting the floor. I turn the corner and there he is, running toward me, tongue hanging out.
He’s such a cutie.
I pat his head as his tail wags. I follow him toward the corridor he came from.
I glance around. This corridor and my area—my captor’s wing—are separated by a wall. I walk farther in. This must be Bruno’s wing. His toys are here, his bed, his feeding area.
I go deeper into the big hall-like room and sit on Bruno’s low mattress, covered in cushions, scratching around his neck.
“So this is Master Bruno’s territory.”
As if he understands me, he rubs his snout under my chin. I giggle and hug him.
“You’re such a lovely boy, Bruno,” I murmur, kissing near his eye.
“You know, when I was five, I had a dog just like you? His name was Toro.”
Bruno listens, blue eyes fixed on me, head tilting side to side.
“But then he died, and I cried for days.” I sigh. “My dad hates when I cry, so he never let me bring another dog home. Isn’t that bizarre?”
He licks my face. I laugh.
“I’ll take that as a yes. And you know what’s even weirder? My grandpa. He won’t let me or my sister bring home so much as a cat. Says he’s done with animals—my mom traumatized him with too many pets.” I chuckle.
I tickle his belly, and he rolls over, paws in the air. I giggle, rubbing his stomach.