Chapter 10
Elowen
I guess yesterday I got a reprieve from my maid duties because of my hand, today I’m being called back to them.
Bruno shifted into human again last night and changed my bandage.
And he’s very good at it, maybe Bruno is a dog by day and a doctor by night.
Everything is possible in this strange world. You never know.
Exactly—everything is possible. Like it could be your captor who’s your secret doctor. The thought echoes in my mind, nudging me a few steps closer to becoming a textbook case of Stockholm syndrome.
I have to stop thinking about this very thing, or it just might happen. My subconscious will take it as a signal that I’m looking forward to experiencing that whole Stockholm crap.
No thinking of pink elephants, Elowen.
I reach the kitchen, and the same woman who gave me that unpleasant experience the day before yesterday points toward the bread basket.
“Take this to the dining room. Try to make it to the table this time.”
I accept her taunt and the basket, then take my leave.
In the dining room, Antonio and the man with gray eyes—the one who definitely hasn’t been bandaging my hands for the past two nights—are seated. The tyrant presides at the head of the table, with Antonio in the chair to his left, facing the entryway.
I only glance at him for a fleeting second, then place the basket between them and look at Antonio with a smile.
“Good morning, Antonio.”
He nods, giving me a small smile. “Good morning, signorina.”
A maid appears behind me with a serving cart, forcing me to step aside.
I purse my lips. If they have someone to bring breakfast on a cart, why send the bread basket with me? Just to make me do pointless things.
From the corner of my eye, I watch the man who must have ordered them to make me do it. I’ll add this to my list of things I’ll make him do in our house after I get rescued from here.
After the maid leaves, Antonio gestures toward the chair within arm’s reach of where I stand.
“Come, signorina. Sit and have breakfast.”
I glance toward the tyrant and ask Antonio, “Are you sure?”
He nods.
My captor serves himself and begins eating, ignoring me completely. Did he sprout a conscience overnight?
I sit in the chair, leaving one empty to his right, and serve myself breakfast.
After eating in silence, I ask Antonio, “Where’s the washing area?”
“Why?” the always-cold voice answers my question with another question.
I cut my eyes to him. “I need to wash my clothes.”
Why else would anyone ask about a washing area?
“Use your hands.” He rises.
I give him a hateful look. He receives it without a flicker of expression, then looks away and walks toward the door.
I turn to Antonio with pleading eyes. “I don’t know how to wash clothes.” I lift my right hand. “And my hand isn’t exactly healed.”
“Antonio.” The cold voice slices through before Antonio can respond.
I press my lips into a tight line, nostrils flaring.
Antonio chuckles as he rises.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and leaves.
Antonio, being the good man he is, sends new dresses for me in the evening. They’re all maid’s dresses, but they look new, unworn—and they actually fit. I don’t know what that tyrant monster hopes to prove by making me wear a maid’s uniform when no one’s even asking me to do the job anymore.
After breakfast, no one called me again until lunch, which went exactly like breakfast. After that, I was left alone with Bruno and my book once more.
After placing the dresses in my room, I walk out. This room is more like a storage space to me now, my living room and bedroom are Bruno’s room.
I pause at the doorway. A sudden discomfort grips my lower belly. I feel a warm rush of blood. It’s my period. Oh shit.
I rush to the bathroom I’ve been using and check my panties. They’re stained with blood. The only pair of underwear I have is now ruined. I can’t take them off, and I can’t keep wearing them. I need new ones. Immediately.
I pull them back on—damp, cold, already uncomfortable—and walk out of the bathroom.
I make my way to the study, where the man who kidnapped me and who should, as a decent human being, provide me with essentials, is likely seated.
I knock. No answer. I try the knob. It doesn’t budge. It’s locked.
My shoulders slump. Now what? I know, with absolute certainty, that no maid in this house will help me. And I have no idea where Antonio is.
An idea strikes, and I act on it instantly. I’ll do what I’ve been doing all along—steal.
I reach the room that has provided me everything so far and push open the unlocked door. The automatic lights flicker on as I enter. No one’s here. I cross to the door that leads to his walk-in closet.
I won’t find tampons here, but I can find underwear.
I step inside. Rows and rows of his clothing line the walls. I start pulling open drawers until I find a box of briefs. Shame floods through me as I rummage through a man’s private things. It’s something no person should ever have to do, but I have no other choice.
I check the size on the box. Large. Does he really have an ass that wide? He must, given how broad he is everywhere else.
“What are you even thinking, Wen?” I scold myself.
I take two from the box and slide the drawer shut.
I slip out of his closet and hurry across his room—but my bad luck finds me just as I open the door.
I almost bump into him. His face registers a brief surprise before his eyes narrow in disapproval.
I quickly hide my hands behind my back and gulp. Audibly. I’m done for. Last time, he said if I entered his room again, he’d lock me in my own.
“I—I have an emergency. I looked for you, but you weren’t in your study.” The words tumble out in a single breath.
“What?”
“I got my period.” The words come out awkward and small.
He lifts a brow. “And what does that have to do with my room?”
I shift my weight, my face burning with embarrassment. I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
“I—I need...” I trail off, then force the word out. “Underwear.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“So?”
“I stole yours.” I squeeze my eyes shut and rush the words out, praying for this moment to end.
An eternity of me dissolving in embarrassment passes before I hear him move. Only then do I open my eyes. He’s already walking toward his study. I let out a long breath of relief, then bolt for the bathroom.
I strip off my clothes and drop my ruined panties into the bin. I twist my hair into a bun, securing it with a toothbrush since I have nothing else, and I’m not about to wash it. Then I step under the hot spray.
After a few minutes, a knock sounds at the door. I turn off the water, cross to the door, and crack it open. A maid stands there holding a bag. She extends it toward me. I take it, close the door, and look inside.
Inside are packets of pads, period panties, tampons, and heating pads.
For a long moment, I just stare at them.
He’s not completely heartless after all. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Salvario
I open the next article. It’s about cramps—what causes them, what worsens them, what helps.
Until now, I had no idea women experienced cramps during their cycles. The article says for some women, the pain can be severe, some also experience nausea and headaches. Those with severe pain need medication; those with milder symptoms can manage with heating pads.
I rise from my chair and leave my study.
I asked the maids to send the necessary supplies, but I don’t know if that includes pain medication.
I enter Bruno’s room. She’s lying on the bed, a book in her hand. She looks up at me and settles the book on her stomach. I study her face for any sign of pain or discomfort.
She pushes herself up slowly against the cushions.
“Thanks for the supplies.” She sounds fine. So she’s not in pain.
“I don’t want you staining Bruno’s new bed,” I say flatly.
I had the bed changed this morning. This one is larger, more comfortable.
She presses her lips together. “Then thanks for the heating pad. I’m sure it was a genuine gesture and has nothing to do with Bruno’s new bed.”
I have nothing to say to that. Nothing I want her to know. So I look away from her, toward Bruno, and call to him. He rises from the bed and comes to me. With him at my side, I turn and leave.
I take Bruno outside onto the snow-covered ground. He bounds and leaps through the snow.
I stare at the white expanse stretching before me as I walk.
My phone rings. I answer through my earpiece.
“Boss.” Robin’s voice comes through. “Avira Bennett was supposed to marry Formula One driver Roxion Marco, but for some reason, it fell through. On further investigation, we learned she went on multiple dates with him. We managed to get a clip and one photo from those meetings.”
“Send me everything.” The edge in my voice doesn’t escape me.
“Yes, boss.”
The call ends. My fists clench inside my jacket pockets.
My phone pings. I take it out and open the video file Robin sent.
It was recorded from a camera outside a restaurant. Through the window, I can see her seated at a table, though only a portion of her face is visible. I zoom in on her face the moment she glances toward the window.
She looks... different.
I call Robin.
“Get me the footage from inside the restaurant.”
“It’s a Bennett-owned restaurant.”
Which means we can’t obtain interior footage.
I end the call and stare at the frozen image on my screen. She must be wearing makeup, something that changes her features, makes her look almost like a stranger. Though there’s no major difference, really.
I resume the video and watch her interact with a curly-haired blond man. The interaction appears friendly.
I swipe to the next file. A photo of her in a car with him, both wearing sunglasses. Also taken from a street camera. Grainy. Indistinct. It’s impossible to tell from this alone what they were to each other.
I call Robin again.
“I need everything on this man. His relationships, his history, his reputation. And find out why the marriage was called off.”
“Yes, boss.”
I stare into the distance, jaw tight.
So. She does have someone.
My chest feels caged.