Chapter 5
Salvario
Laughter echoes through walls that have never known anything but silence.
I walk quietly toward where it’s coming from.
She’s on Bruno’s bed, him all over her, giggling whenever he licks her face or neck. I never knew Bruno was such an attention-seeking bastard. I thought he was well-trained—I trained him myself—but here he is, acting like a stupid puppy around a woman he only met yesterday.
And not just any woman, the very one I intend to shatter. I planned for her to experience everything my mother endured. But things aren’t going as planned. Because I feel this annoying reluctance.
I don’t give a damn if I see someone burn alive.
I don’t care how many women, children, or other weak creatures die in front of me.
I could gladly slice any so-called innocent if the mood strikes me.
Yet I can’t carry out the fate I wrote for her two years ago, when I learned Alexander Bennett has a daughter he treasures more than his own life.
“I can’t believe you live with such a monster. It must be so sad.” She strokes Bruno’s head, and the bastard leans into her, begging for more.
“Aww, it’s okay, little Bruno. I’ll take you with me. Promise. I won’t leave you here alone with that tyrant,” she coos, kissing him.
I set my jaw and turn away. I can’t listen to her nonsense or watch my dog act like a pathetic puppy another second.
I walk into my study and settle into my chair.
I need to do something about this woman. And letting her cuddle my dog is not that something. Making her suffer is.
I lean back and close my eyes. My mother’s lifeless eyes rise from memory to haunt me. I’ve lived all these years to see that same look in the eyes of the person Alexander loves most.
I picture it in those large honey-colored eyes, and the image forces mine open. I grit my teeth, fists clenching. There’s no reason for me to dislike that thought.
I felt nothing when I killed Justin’s son in front of him. Nothing when I had animals take turns on him while he begged me to stop. He deserved that, but his son and wife were innocent. I killed them anyway. No guilt then. No guilt now.
I eliminated every family member of the men who made my mother cry. Even the deaths of infants did not move me. So why does this woman?
She is nothing special. She is beautiful, yes—but there are countless beautiful women. And on top of that, she is a weak leech surviving only because her father has wealth. Throw her into a life where she has to struggle for bread, and she’d die within two weeks.
Yet I hesitate to make her cry.
What is so special about her tears?
Nothing.
There’s nothing special about her. Or her tears.
I push up from the chair and stride out.
I won’t let anything ruin my plan.
I walk into Bruno’s room. My steps stop the moment I see her. She’s asleep, huddled around Bruno, hand on his stomach. Both their faces turned toward me.
Bruno opens his eyes and stares.
I take two steps closer. He bares his teeth.
My jaw tightens. Has this useless piece of shit forgotten who feeds him?
I take another step. He growls.
I clench my jaw. I should throw him out in the snow. One night out there would fix his loyalty.
This is her fault. I glare at her sleeping face. She looks like she’s in her father’s house—a spoiled princess, undisturbed even by the storm. There isn’t a single survival instinct in her. She is useless through and through.
I waste another minute watching her sleep, then turn and leave—more frustrated than when I arrived.
Elowen
My eyes fly open as water splashes over my face. I gasp and sit up. Curse words rush to my tongue, but I swallow them.
A maid stands in front of me, hands on her hips, a bucket at her feet.
“Who gave you permission to sleep?” she demands, her voice dripping with hatred.
I get up from Bruno’s bed.
“You wet the mattress,” I point out, gesturing to the damp patch.
“First replace it with another one, then clean this room,” she orders.
“Where is another mattress?”
She gives me a once-over, then turns. “Follow me.”
I follow her down the stairs into a room filled with utility supplies.
She points to a box. “Open it.”
I rip the tape off and lift the flaps. Inside is a collapsible mattress.
“Take it out,” she commands.
I haul the heavy thing out and drop it at my feet.
“Why did you drop it?” she snaps.
I purse my lips. “Don’t you people have any speaking etiquette?”
She narrows her eyes, teeth grinding. “Don’t you dare talk back to me.”
I lift my chin. “Or what?” I challenge her—which is stupid.
We’re in a closed room. She could beat me senseless and no one would hear a thing. But she doesn’t.
She just barks another order. “Take it upstairs to the dog’s room. Find the pump in the cupboard and fill it.”
“He has a name,” I mutter before hauling the damn thing up again.
At the door, I glance back. “Open it.”
She snarls and ignores me.
“Bitch,” I hiss under my breath.
I set it down, open the door myself, drag it out, then haul it up again and walk the short distance to the stairs—which feels like miles. I drop it at the bottom and gasp for air.
I look up at the stairs. My head spins. This isn’t hard. It’s impossible.
I sit on the bottom step until my breathing steadies, then hoist the mattress again and start climbing. Five steps up, I’m ready to black out. I force myself five more before my legs and arms give out completely.
I drop it on the step in front of me and collapse over it. For a moment, I don’t have the strength to pull my hands out from under it.
Heaving, groaning, I wrench my arms free and slump onto the step beside the folded mattress. My back hits the step behind me.
If only I hadn’t made excuses to avoid Pa’s training sessions, I would be in much better shape right now.
I hear footsteps approaching. I crane my neck, looking up the stairs upside down. He’s staring straight at me, that permanent scowl carved into his face.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in his icy voice.
Lounging. The word almost slips out, but I swallow it. I’m not reckless enough to forget that he would cut my tongue out.
I straighten my neck, easing the strain, then turn to face him.
“I’m carrying this mattress to Bruno’s room, but it’s heavy.”
“Get up and lift it,” he orders.
Of course he has to use the opportunity to torture me. Asshole.
Slowly, I push myself up. Taking my time delaying what I’ve fully accepted is beyond me. Then, just as slowly, I slide my hands under the mattress and lift—with every ounce of strength I have. My breath catches under the weight. My core screams as I struggle with what must be fifty pounds.
He steps aside, a silent command to keep climbing.
I raise one shaky leg onto the next step, then drag the other up. I lift my foot to climb higher, and my balance gives.
I scream as I fall backward. The mattress hits the stairs with a thud—but I don’t.
A strong arm catches me, holding me suspended.
Cedarwood hits me first. Then the icy coldness of his gray eyes. I shudder.
He shoves me forward. I yelp and land hard on my hands, on the step in front of me.
I grit my teeth and turn. Curse words burn on my tongue again, but don’t escape.
He gives me a long look—steady, filled with disgust and hatred—then walks down the stairs. I sit back on the step, rubbing my hands—they took the brunt of the fall—watching the asshole speak to the maid who gave me this job.
After he disappears, the maid throws me one last ugly look and leaves. I’m almost flabbergasted by the affection I’m receiving in this place. I can’t believe these people hate me so sincerely for doing absolutely nothing.
A few minutes later, a man approaches. He looks like a guard, and the smile on his face makes the word creepy feel inadequate.
“Hey, princess,” he says as he reaches me.
His eyes travel down my face, linger on my chest, then slide back up.
He hoists the mattress like it’s nothing, flashing me a grin as if I should be impressed.
“Lead the way, princess.”
The way he says princess turns my stomach.
I stand and climb, and he follows. I lead him into Bruno’s room, where King Bruno lies on the floor, having abandoned his wet bed.
The man places the mattress on the floor but doesn’t leave.
I turn to face him.
“You can leave now.” I keep my voice as polite as I can.
He smirks. “Don’t you want some company?”
“No, thanks. I have work. So please leave.”
“I’ll help you with your work.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you leaving or not?”
His smirk twists into something ugly. He steps toward me. I move back, closer to Bruno, hoping he’ll protect me.
“You may not know it yet, so let me tell you.” His smirk widens. “Every man who works for the boss will have their turn on you.”
He steps closer. I stumble back. Bruno rises and moves to my side, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
The man looks me over with open disgust.
“You’re a below-average whore. I’ll give you one chance. If I fuck you, I’ll keep the others away. Otherwise, you take every dick in your cunt, ass and mouth.”
The blood drains from my face. My body trembles, but I force my voice steady.
“Leave.”
He snarls. Bruno barks and steps forward. That finally makes the bastard turn and walk away.
The moment he leaves, my legs weaken, and I drop to the floor. His words echo in my skull, and the fear of them becoming real engulfs me. Bruno nudges my chin with his snout.
I wrap my arms around him.
“Please protect me,” I whisper into his fur. “My dad will find me soon. Just keep me safe until then.”
After inflating Bruno’s new mattress, deflating the old one, and cleaning his room, I finally collapse onto the comfortable couch in front of his bed. At least I got a vacuum this time, but even with it, I feel like I took forever.
I glance around the tidy room, floor shining. Not bad—for someone who’s never done this before.
My stomach growls. I glance at the clock above the couch. It’s already six p.m.
I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.
A maid comes in and places three bowls of Bruno’s dinner on his small dining table, then looks at me.
“Master is calling you to the dining room,” she states icily before leaving.
I walk downstairs into the dining room.
The moment I see my captor’s face, the guard’s words echo in my head.
Has he really planned something like that?
What makes you think he’s decent enough not to? The smart part of my brain questions the dumb part that doubted for a second.
I reach the dining table. He looks up and points to a bowl on the floor.
“Eat.”
I swallow the bitterness in my throat and sit on the floor beside his chair. Think of it as being treated like a dog. Which, honestly, isn’t the worst thing in the world.
The bowl is filled with cacio e pepe, with no fork or spoon in sight. I guess I’m using my hands. Another first. I’ve heard food tastes better with your hands. Let’s find out. Maybe it’ll taste even better from the floor, extra grounding, you know?
I lift the spaghetti, put some in my mouth, and suck the rest in.
It tastes amazing. For the next bite, I try something different.
I lift the spaghetti, tilt my head back, open my mouth, and drop it in.
That smears sauce all over my mouth—up to my cheek.
Next bite, I roll the spaghetti on the plate, gather it into a ball, and pop it in.
Umm… This is definitely the best way. It doesn’t paint much of my face with sauce.
Salvario
If I hadn’t kidnapped her myself, I would never believe she was Alexander Bennett’s daughter—the girl who’s known nothing but luxury her entire life.
I expected tears over the humiliation of eating on the floor. Outrage over having no spoon. A thousand other reactions. But not this.
Eating like a fucking toddler—sauce smeared across her face, mouth stuffed beyond capacity. I’ve never seen anyone this classless.
If she hadn’t cried yesterday, I’d assume she was mentally unstable—incapable of feeling humiliation. Now I don’t know what to make of her.
I look away and focus on the food on my own plate, which I haven’t touched yet.
After ten minutes, she mumbles, “I need more food.”
I glance down. Sauce on her face, on her hands. She licks her lips clean, those big round eyes glinting under the light.
I force my gaze away, pick up a plate of white truffle risotto, and empty it into her bowl.
Even that fails to humiliate her the way I intended.
Something flickers across her face, but doesn’t stay.
Instead, it irritates me further. I’m not enjoying this, and her lack of reaction only makes it worse.
Is she doing this on purpose—to irritate me?
I look down at her again. It’s hard to tell. I don’t know her well enough to judge.
I need to learn her weaknesses. Her fears. Only then can I plan her torture effectively.
A small part of me recoils at the thought. I glance at her once more. Emotions long buried shift in their graves, turning against me. For this woman—who looks so infuriatingly innocent—that unfamiliar venom of guilt seeps into my veins.
I push back my chair, leaving my dinner unfinished, and walk out of the dining room.
I cannot feel guilt.
Not for treating Alexander Bennett's daughter the way she deserves.
I go up to the terrace, into the rose garden. It’s the only place that brings me peace. I take the dusting cloth from its hook and walk to the piano at the center. An artificial moon glows above it, bathing everything in pale silver light.
I wipe the already spotless piano, careful not to apply even the slightest pressure. Then the bench. After that, I vacuum the floor and water the roses.
I leave feeling steadier.
But the calm doesn’t last.
The moment I step into my room, I hear singing. From my bathroom.
The correct response would be to bang on the door, drag her out, and throw her from my room with a warning never to come back.
Instead, I sit on the bed. Elbows on my knees. Eyes fixed on the bathroom door. Ears straining to catch every word she sings.
She’s singing in low notes. The words aren’t clear, but the tone sounds happy—which is a very wrong thing to feel when you’re being held captive and treated like a servant. The volume increases, and the words become clearer.
She has a beautiful voice.
My brows knot the moment the thought forms. I rise from the bed and leave the room, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
This woman is getting inside my head—and it hasn’t even been two days. I need to fix this, or she’ll unravel me completely in the next nine days.