Chapter 15
Grace
The room is no longer immersed in complete darkness when I open my eyes. Thin rays of sunlight are peeking through the shutters, providing just enough light for me to see that it must be morning.
Yawning, I stretch under the covers and roll over, lying with my back to the door as I face the shielded windows. It appears that I slept through the night, not waking once. After he made me eat last night, he once again told me to “get some rest” and quickly left the room, as if he was in a hurry to get away from me. The lock clicked into place with a loud sound as soon as he closed the door behind himself. But that audible certainty of my imprisonment didn’t stop me from running after him, stupidly trying to turn the knob and rattling the door on its hinges, before I could accept my fate as his captive.
Surprisingly, I felt no relief after he left. I wanted him to stay. It makes no sense, not even to me. This man is a criminal, a kidnapper and a sadist in his own, strange way—and yet, his presence is weirdly soothing.
He is such an enigma, full of contradictions with his compelling looks and tender words, dissenting his commanding demeanor and the ruthless ways in which he makes me suffer. I so desperately want to understand him. I want to talk to him, despite his unwillingness to answer any of my questions. I want to figure out what’s behind that mysterious smile on his face when he looks at me. And—more than anything—I want to know why he is doing this to me, not only for my own sake, but to shed light on his obscure nature, too.
Left with nothing else to do, I meandered through the room, confirming that the leash was long enough for me to reach the bathroom and every other corner of my luxury confinement. Despite everything, I’m not blind to the beauty of this home. The exquisite stucco finish along the high ceilings suggests that I’m trapped inside a modernized Georgian style mansion—an impression that is fortified by the look of the paneled doors and the creaking wooden floor.
Funnily, this is exactly the kind of home I would love to live in. I always had a strong preference for old houses and their lavish architectural design, which no longer prevails in modern times. I guess my High School art teacher wasn’t wrong when he said I have “the heart of an old soul” when it comes to the art of building. He encouraged me to pursue a career in architectural conservation, but I had other plans.
No. Have. I still have plans—because I’m not dead and won’t be any time soon.
I have to remind myself of that every time my mind is lured back into the darkness, following the pull of lost hope and unfulfilled dreams as I try to make sense of my gilded cage.
I circled through the room a couple of times, touching every piece of furniture and realizing that all the drawers of the sturdy dresser are locked. It’s pushed against the wall opposite to the windows, leaving me with more unanswered questions as I’m left to wonder what could be hidden inside its locked drawers.
My inspection of the room was cut short when I was robbed of the only source of light—the chandelier above the bed. It seems that the light can only be controlled from somewhere outside of this room, because it was turned off in his absence, and nothing happened when I tried the switch right next to door. Yet another thing that I have no control of.
At least, I’m no longer naked and tied to a much less comfortable bed than this one. I’m still wearing the robe, my only armor against his intrusions, and I managed not to choke myself with the damn collar and leash while I was sleeping.
I sit up, my back resting against a ridiculous amount of pillows as I survey the room, searching for clues to see whether he’s been in here while I was sleeping. But as far as I can tell, the room looks exactly the same as it did last night. It’s still just as pretty, and just as empty and unlived-in.
The windows must be insulated pretty good, because I can’t hear a single noise, not even the slightest sound of wind coming in from the outside, even when I close my eyes and focus to listen.
Or we’re just in a very remote area. A place where no one could hear me scream. It would only make sense.
My attention is drawn to the ceiling when the light above my head comes back to life, confirming my fear that the window shutters won’t be opened any time soon. He obviously wants me to be up without allowing the daylight to kiss me awake.
My heart still jumps with anticipation, because this most likely means that he will come back to me soon. The thrill of being close to him doesn’t come without concern, but it’s still palpable, misplaced as it may be. He may be intimating, dangerous even, but I know that I can be as strong as he says I am. I can withstand this, and I will prove my father and my brothers wrong. They’ve probably started looking for me by now, furious with worry and dangerously relentless as they search for their helpless little nestling. But I won’t rely on them and wait for my rescue like a petrified damsel in distress.
Pain doesn’t scare me enough to kill the fire burning deep within my soul. On the contrary, it can act as tinder, feeding a flame that is weakened by ennui and numbness rather than fear.
Still, I stiffen when I hear the faint sound of approaching steps, coming down. The corridor outside my room. Pulling the blanket up to my chin, I stare at the door, lock, clicking and knob turning, before the door is pushed open by an invisible hand. I hear a rattling sound, announcing the tea wagon that’s rolled inside a moment later. The room is filled with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, soaring up from a large French press that’s placed on the cart, surrounded by other breakfast items and silver ware that continues to rattle as he pushes the cart toward the table.
He regards me with a welcoming smile, looking deceivingly handsome in a black, short-sleeved polo shirt and dark denim jeans. His hair is gelled into place with not a single strand astray, complementing his perfectly clean-shaved jaw. Tanned skin stretches over his bulging arm muscles when he parks the cart next to the table, reaching for the French press as he begins to unload it.
He's so out of this world beautiful, so elegant and strong. I hate myself for the heat that rushes to my cheeks – and other parts of my body.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your head down when I enter the room?” he asks, without looking at me.
His words send a tantalizing chill down my spine, and I’m too stunned to come up with a response, my hands clenching around the cover as I hold it up in front of me like a shield.
“I’ll let it slide this time, but you better remember from now on,” he goes on, throwing me a short look, one eyebrow raised as warning. “Are you coming, or do I have to eat this by myself?”
“You’re eating with me?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes. Now come, before I whip you out of bed.”
His threat evokes nothing but a condescending huff from my lips, but I do as I’m told and I peel myself out from under the cover to climb out of bed.
“You’re still wearing that?” he asks, surveying the robe when I join him at the table. “Take that off, I want to see you.”
My hands fly up to my chest, tightening the robe around myself instead of getting rid of it. “No.”
He sighs, standing with his hands on his hips as he asks: “Do you want to start your day with a delicious breakfast or with me using my belt to whip your ass until you pass out?”
My gaze lands on the unobtrusive buckle at his core, holding the black leather belt in place that’s wrapped around his waist. I know that his threat is only seconds away from becoming a painful reality, but do I really want to make it this easy for him?
“Grace? I’m waiting,” he pushes, and I can’t stop myself from retreating when he intimidates me by taking a step forward.
Disappointed in myself, I take a deep breath, vowing to see this through. This robe is all I have, and if I must fight for my right to keep it on, I will.
Because I can.