Chapter 7
Elowen
After two hours, a maid comes to call me down for lunch. My shaking has stopped, but there’s a lingering shock vibrating through my spine. I’m feeling a little lightheaded, which could be from the lack of food in my stomach.
I enter the dining room. Antonio and my captor are there.
“Sit.” He points to a cushion on the floor, placed on a small carpet.
I think he’s being generous, showing some aftercare after this morning.
I sit on the soft cushion. A maid comes and places two plates on the floor in front of me. One has sushi, the other lobster rolls. She then sets down a glass of juice as well. Now this is hospitality at its peak.
I pick up the plate of sushi. There are even chopsticks here. Why this sudden good treatment? I glance at my captor; he’s eating his own food. Is it really because he’s compensating for this morning, or is it something else… like my last meal?
“Are there nuts in this?” I ask him.
He looks down at me. “No.”
“How are you so sure?”
He raises a brow. “Didn’t you want to die just a few hours ago? Why care now?”
“That was different.” I purse my lips. “I don’t want to die now. Not from suffocating.”
He looks away from me to the maid standing in the corner. I follow his eyes and find none other than Nivi there.
“Send the chefs,” he orders her.
She glances at me before leaving. After a couple of minutes, the chefs appear.
“Are there any nuts in the food?”
They both shake their heads.
The male one speaks. “You ordered us not to use any.”
The tyrant glances in my direction and waves for the chefs to go. I don’t look at him further and keep my eyes on my plate.
The men finish their lunch and leave before I even finish mine.
After ten minutes, I finish and leave.
Since no one has ordered me to do anything, I make my way upstairs to Bruno’s room.
I sit on the floor beside him and tease his nose. “What are you doing, Master Bruno?”
He licks my finger, then takes it in his mouth without applying any pressure from his teeth.
I look toward his toy basket.
“How about we play for a while?”
He gets to his feet, walks to the basket, and comes back with a tug toy in his mouth.
I take it from him, moving it from one hand to the other.
“So Master Bruno wants to have a tug war with me?”
He becomes alert. I roll the cylinder on the floor. Bruno runs after it, catches it, grabs it in his mouth like he’s strangling it, and races back to me.
I grab the dangling side and tug. He doesn’t let go. I tug harder, and he tugs back from the other end.
I laugh, shift to my knees, and pull with all my strength. When Bruno applies his strength in return, my chest collides with the floor. My breasts take the solid hit. I yelp, then burst out laughing.
I let go of the toy, turn to my back, and rub my breasts.
“You monster, Bruno.”
He drops the toy too and brings his nose to my chest, like he’s inspecting the damage. I laugh, rolling my head against the floor.
“Don’t worry. There isn’t much to damage.”
Salvario
She’s definitely mentally unstable. There’s no way a person can go from crying to the point of collapse to laughing hard enough to fill three corridors with the sound.
I thought she might stay in a depressed state for at least two days before even smiling.
I ignore the sound—and the flutter it causes—and enter my study.
I sit in my chair and call Robin.
“I need everything you can find on Avira Bennett.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Any other updates?”
“They’ve almost finished their search in the American underworld.”
“How serious are they about it?”
“Very serious. All major cities were under curfew, and it’s only getting worse. They’re determined to find her at any cost.”
I hum. That’s the effect I wanted.
“Alright. Get me that information as soon as possible.”
“Yes, boss.”
I end the call.
Elowen
After a long afternoon nap, I wake feeling wonderful. Happy, in fact—and all because of Bruno. He didn’t leave my side while I slept, which isn’t strange considering I’m sleeping in his bed. We start snuggling as soon as I’m awake. At least I have someone here who doesn’t hate me.
But our snuggling doesn’t last long.
A maid shatters it with a cold order: “Come to the kitchen.”
I get up, stretching. Bruno’s bed is so comfortable.
I grin, bend down, and kiss above his nose.
“Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed.”
After ruffling the thick fur around his neck, I rise and walk toward the stairs. Bruno follows me.
We descend the stairs and make our way toward the kitchen. Bruno doesn’t enter; he sits just outside the door.
The kitchen staff welcomes me in the sweetest way. A woman in her late thirties gestures at me with her knife.
“Hey you, come here.”
Her accent is thicker than the others.
I walk toward her as she speaks to someone in another language. The other woman gives me a once-over, scoffs, and says something to the older woman. I don’t think all of them know English—only a few seem to.
The woman directs her attention to me when I reach her.
She gestures with her knife toward a large sink.
“Wash them.”
Large cookware pieces are stacked inside. Do they cook for an entire district? I assume all these servants are in-house staff. I haven’t seen their quarters yet, but I’m fairly certain this entire workforce resides in the mansion.
At home, we never kept house help on the premises; they worked nine to five unless something important was going on.
I reach the sink and inspect the pots. Almost every single one has a burnt bottom.
I’ve seen this kind of work done before, so I’m not entirely clueless.
I turn on the tap, place the first pot under it, and rinse away the oil and residue. The pot fills with water. Now the challenge: emptying it. I tip it upside down, and it clangs against the others, making a loud, metallic sound.
“What are you doing?” The older woman snaps behind me.
“Relax, Virana. She’s a princess, probably never been near a sink in her life.” The male chef taunts, chuckling. The others join in.
I roll my eyes at their stupid joke, grab a scrub brush, squeeze dish soap onto it, and start scrubbing.
The pot is so massive that to reach the bottom, I have to lean my upper body inside it.
I attack the burnt bottom with all my strength for minutes, until my arms give out.
The bottom is still black. I go back in.
After what feels like half an hour of this, it’s finally clean.
I repeat the process with the other pots and pans. By the time everything is finished, my shoulders are numb. The skin on my hands is raw, scrubbed to the point of blistering, but the pain hasn’t fully set in yet.
I look down at my dress. The front is soaked, covered in stains and soap suds.
“Don’t just stand there idling. Come here and take his soup to the dining room.” Virana orders.
I walk to her. She points at the soup. I lift the silver tureen by its handles, and the moment my hands make contact, the pain hits.
I clench my jaw, lift it, and walk out of the kitchen.
Bruno isn’t here. He must have left after waiting a few minutes. I’ve been scrubbing pots for two or three hours now.
I walk carefully into the dining room and find my monster of a captor and Antonio sitting there. Both of them look at me the moment I enter.
Another maid approaches quickly from behind.
She nearly collides with me at the turn but manages to dodge, yet the near miss throws me off balance, and my jerky forward movement sends soup sloshing out of the tureen.
There’s supposed to be a lid, but I must have left it in the kitchen.
The next moment, hot soup covers my hand.
I wince at the sudden pain. The tureen slips from my hand, crashes to the floor, and hot soup splashes my bare feet.
Before the clatter even fades, a furious voice echoes through the dining room.
“Get out.”
I look up through teary eyes and find my kidnapper seething from his seat. I catch Antonio’s sympathetic gaze for a brief second before turning and fleeing.
Another day ending with me in the same state.
Dirty dress, tears streaming down my face.
I reach the same bathroom and force myself to stand under warm water, but it only intensifies the burning on my hand and feet.
I switch it to cold. I choke on a sob when the water hits my head. I step away from the shower, shivering.
I remove my clothes, stop crying, and nudge the water knob toward warm again. Then I stand under it, shutting down my brain.
It was a bad experience, but it’s not something you keep crying over for hours. Treat it like an accident that happened to you. I coax myself into calming down.
After my shower, I repeat the same ritual: wrap myself in a towel, pull on his bathrobe, bundle my underwear in another towel, and with a third towel wrapped around my head, I leave his room.
Both my hands are in agony—one raw, the other burned. Even holding cloths feels impossibly difficult.
After dropping my clothes in my room, I don’t linger. I head to Bruno’s wing. He’s here eating his dinner, and he’s not alone. Antonio is with him.
He turns at the sound of my footsteps. I walk slowly toward him.
“How’s your hand?” he asks, gaze dropping to it.
“It’s fine.” As fine as a burned hand can be. At least it’s not blistering—the soup wasn’t that hot.
“Where’s the bathroom you mentioned?” I ask him the important question.
He walks past me, and I follow. In the corner, around the wall, there’s a door. He points to it.
“This one. It’s Bruno’s bathroom, but you can use it.”
I’d happily share a bathroom with Bruno than with that monster of a man.
I nod. He turns back to me.
“I’ll send someone with food.”
“I don’t think that’s allowed. I don’t get food unless I beg.”
“He won’t say anything,” Antonio says quietly, then leaves.
Salvario
After finishing my work in the testing lab around midnight, I head upstairs toward my room. Low murmuring drifts from the other side.
I stop in my tracks and, instead of entering my wing, take a few more steps toward Bruno’s room—glowing with warm yellow light. I don’t use yellow light. It forces the brain to calm, and I despise that.
She’s sitting on his small bed, her back propped against cushions stacked against the wall. This bed isn’t big enough to hold both an adult human and a dog, yet they manage perfectly.
This pathetic dog has given her so much space, I’m sure he would never give me that. This is the same dog who won’t let any maid near him. Look at him now.
She’s reading a book to Bruno. Where did she get that? Must have stolen it from somewhere, like the bathrobe she’s wearing. My bathrobe. And like every time, seeing her in it stirs something I don’t appreciate.
She yawns, then shuts the book.
“We’ll read the next chapter tomorrow. Time to sleep,” she says to the dog like he can understand.
Stupid woman.
She slides down, lies back, and hugs him, tracing circles on his belly. My jaw locks, tightening with every second I watch. Gradually, her movements slow, then cease altogether. Within ten minutes, she’s asleep.
How easily she sleeps in a place that isn’t safe for her.
Anyone could kill her, and they’d do it gladly.
No one working in this house needs much reason to kill or torture.
If I say I hate someone, they’ll all hate them.
If I give the order, they’ll tear her apart without a second thought.
After today’s incident, I’d say even without my orders.
And still, she sleeps here in this open room—so peacefully.
I step further inside. Bruno glares at me, his body going rigid. When I don’t move toward the bed, he relaxes. I sit on the couch against the wall, opposite the mattress.
I have no reason to sit here instead of going to my bed. There’s not a single thing in this room I like—in fact, everything here I despise. The warm ambient light. The woman. Even the dog.
I’ll deal with him once I’m finished with her. He’s switched loyalty faster than the people who work for me. It’ll be a miracle if she doesn’t make me kill more people by the end of these eleven days.
I rest my elbow on the armrest and prop my head on my hand, temple against knuckle.
When was the last time I slept like she’s sleeping?
Twenty-four years, eight months, twelve days ago. The day Alexander Bennett killed my father.
I had no love for my father—his death didn’t affect me—but the consequences of it destroyed my life.
The daughter of that man sleeps in front of me, and I’m watching her.
I shouldn’t hope for much. Let revenge wait. By the time this ends, there may not be enough of me left to recognize. I can see it happening, and I don’t like it one bit.
She turns onto her back, resting her hand on her stomach, a frown tugging at her brow. This is the same hand she spilled soup on.
I rise from the couch, go to my kitchen, and grab a first aid kit before returning to Bruno’s room. I walk silently toward her. Bruno comes to me as I settle onto the floor beside her. I open the ointment; he sniffs the tube. I squeeze cream onto a cotton pad and set the tube aside.
I dab the cream onto the reddened skin on the back of her hand with the cotton, then lift her hand gently and tend to the front. I check her other hand for burns as well. None on the back. I turn her palm over, and my brows draw together.
No burns, but her skin is ravaged. Small cuts and blisters cover her entire palm. How did this happen? From washing dishes?
This woman is the weakest thing I have ever seen. She can’t even do the simplest things.
I squeeze more ointment onto the cotton and start tending to her wounds. It would be better to do this with my fingers, but I can’t bring myself to. Touching her through the gloves is fine; my body doesn’t recoil. Without them, though? I’m not sure.
She winces, “Avi, don’t.”
Why is she calling her own name?
She slurs, wincing as I continue. “No, Avi.”
I release her hand. She settles it back on her stomach, and the cream smears onto the robe. I press my lips together and take her hand again. The burn isn’t serious, but these cuts are. They need proper treatment.
My thoughts frustrate me again. Why do I care if she has cuts on her hands or burns? I shouldn’t care even if her whole body burned.
I clench my jaw. Another image I don’t like, and for absolutely no reason.