5. Belle
Belle
I’m supposed to hate it. I’m supposed to glance at my reflection in the tall gold-framed mirror and fidget with my corset that makes my breasts nearly spill from the top, complain that the heavy green fabric itches, and trip on my ass from the weight of my full green skirt.
I should detest how glossy my blonde hair looks after being combed and lathered with rose-scented oils, braided into a crown, and adorned with white flowers, but damn do I look good.
It’s vain—idiotic. I’m a prisoner, and these women dressed me up like a Christmas pig prepared for a roast, but if tonight’s the last night with my blood in my veins, I appreciate going out dressed in finery and with rouged lips and cheeks.
Of course, I don’t plan on dying tonight or in the near future.
I only need to figure out a way to buy time, and perhaps my smoking hot ensemble might help—at least that’s what my ladies in waiting suggest.
“You look lovely, Ms. Barnes,” Julie, my blonde maid, exclaims as she smooths a wrinkle out of my skirt. I tried to question her about her origins, why she also wore a collar, and what to expect from the Pans, but the only question she would answer was her name.
“Just one last touch,” Clarette, the brunette—similarly unhelpful in the way of information—says before spritzing me with a perfume.
A bit old-ladyish for my liking, but I appreciate the vanilla notes.
I’d always been a baked goods whore when the big-name local soap and lotion store had its semi-annual sales.
My middle school locker was stocked with cheap body sprays and butter.
I can tell whatever fragrance I’m wearing now is a lot fancier than what I’m used to, but that's not saying much, especially in a place like Hollowbrook.
You don’t live a life surviving as a thief without examining every room you enter on habit.
I shouldn’t be thinking about how to sneak out the gold candelabras resting on the dresser between the wide window panes.
I’m not even sure what I’ll do once I break out of Hollowbrook.
How does one escape an island floating in the sky?
Perhaps if I can snag enough jewels and silks, I could find another pirate ship and barter for my return to Earth.
It’s a shoddy plan, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
“Perfect,” Rosalia says as she brings an emerald teardrop necklace to my throat—smaller diamonds making the chain. It hangs lower than my Darling, but not by much.
“Shit, this looks expensive,” I say, running my freshly groomed fingertips over the gems. If they’re willing to bedazzle strangers in their royal jewels, they either have enough that they won’t miss a few, or they’re just that confident I won’t be escaping.
“No expenses are spared for the Pans' most honored guest.”
“Most honored guest?”
None of the women budged about my purpose at the estate, even when I tried to pry it out of them through sly questioning.
“Yes, Lord Pan has spent many years looking for you, tracking down your mother’s long-lost trail to discover your identity and whereabouts.”
“But why?” My shoulders sag under the weight of my over-asked question.
“I don’t question Lord Pan,” Rosalia answers, the truth hidden behind her eyes.
I glance at the two women beside her, hoping they’ll reveal more, but where Rosalia holds her secrets with strength, they tremble.
They are as trapped as I am. Maybe in time we can help each other, but first, I must figure out what the hell is going on.
“Okay, let’s get this ominous dinner over with then.
” I take one last look at the reflection before the women nod and lead me out of my rooms. No locks are set free upon our exit, making it seem that I can come and go as I please.
It’s comforting, but only for a moment, as my Darling clanks against my necklace and reminds me of the truth.
The opulence of the hallways steals my attention.
Rosalia leads the way and Julie and Clarette follow behind, their hands folded in front of their brown smocks, and their eyes hung low.
Everything from the wallpaper to the speckles in the marble floor seems to contain a touch of green, overcompensated mainly by gold, but the pigment always remains present.
My footsteps in my low, velvet-lined heels echo throughout the space, a domed window ceiling caging us in from high above.
It’s just how I imagined it would sound, yet it doesn’t feel as satisfying as I’d like.
The grumble in my stomach heightens as the upcoming dinner wafts around me, growing stronger with each step.
Rosalia opens a curved gilded door and steps to the side, bowing as I pass her.
I turn back to my entourage, disappointed to see all three women standing outside, not indicating that they’ll be following me into the large room.
Two emotionless men in all black stand on the other side of the entrance, swords at their waists.
Somehow the guards' presence comforts me—like maybe my Darling isn’t as powerful as I think, and they must require extra precaution.
A comically large table occupies the middle of the green velvet room.
Lord Pan stands at the head of the table.
A tapestry of something like a heron but with green wings extending in flight hangs on the glittering wall behind him.
“Lady Barnes, welcome. Please have a seat.” He makes it so easy to follow orders.
His kind smile, his polite way of speaking—how am I to refuse him?
It’s not until I walk closer that I notice the man sitting next to him.
How could I miss him? The large chair, hidden from the view of the door, barely meets the top of his head, whereas if Lord Pan sat down, it would cast a long shadow over him.
My heart beat quickens as I grow closer, making the man out more.
Nope, he’s not a man at all, or at least, not a normal man.
His dark hair pulls tightly against his scalp, tied into a loose bun at the base of his wide neck.
His eyes flick over me, one human, brown, and swallowing.
The other shines gold, slit through the middle like an alligator’s.
That’s not the only piece of him that resembles the dangerous beast. He wears a long-sleeved puffy white shirt under a crimson leather vest, but green and mahogany scales crawl out from the top of his collar and onto his hands.
I take my seat parallel to him, still ogling his massive form.
No, he doesn’t have hands, but hand, singular.
His left arm is topped with a curved, silver hook.
I’m in a trance, lost in the peculiarity of him, but also something else.
There’s no denying he’s handsome, if not horrifying.
Every inch of him is lined with muscles, but instead of attraction, all I can feel is terror.
His claws dig into the wooden table as he stares at me, and without trying to be subtle, he licks his lips.
Fucking licks his lips. Not with a smile as if he’s flirting, but truly as if he means to gobble me whole. I gulp, true fear finally taking hold.
“Now, Rourke, that’s no way to treat our honored guest. Greet our dear Belle like the nobleman you are.”
Rourke nods with a grunt before turning his attention away from me and to his plate, already heaped with some sort of undercooked meat, jewels of red splattered across the spread.
My plate is empty, and my stomach rumbles violently upon looking at it.
Not that I want what Rourke’s having, that looks fucking disgusting, but I am starving.
The only thing I’ve eaten since stuffing my face with fast food before Greg and I went out and I was kidnapped by pirates, was tiny tea sandwiches that the ladies gave me whilst wrapping my tits into a corset and dusting my face with powder.
“Please, excuse my son. He’s not used to such fair company,” Lord Pan says while taking his seat.
His son? The two look nothing alike. Both handsome in an otherworldly sense but for completely different reasons. Perhaps Rourke’s mother was a dark-haired, giant crocodile? I don’t know how genetics work in a place like this.
“Please sit,” Lord Pan says, motioning to the chair at his left. I yelp when another black-coated man I didn’t notice pulls out the chair next to me. I oblige, my knees barely able to hold myself up for much longer.
Rourke sits directly in front of me and hasn’t taken his eyes off me as he cuts through his meat, his hand swallowing the dainty fork as he brings bites to his mouth.
“Apologies for Rourke eating before us. He has an insatiable appetite and would be very unpleasant if he went even the least bit hungry.”
Silence follows, and I almost say something—anything to cut the suffocating energy bouncing around the walls of this room, but I bite my lip, staring down at my empty plate.
“Oh, yes. You must be starving. I can’t imagine those pirates fed you anything worth eating.
They’re not known for their civility.” He snaps his fingers, and footsteps clatter behind me.
Hands scurry over the white tablecloth, placing a bountiful plate before me, filling my crystal glass with a red liquid, and arranging small canisters of creams and condiments.
I’m too lost in the smells and sights of the food to glance at my servers.
Caramelized sugars, fresh breads, rubbed and roasted meat—I nearly pass out from the aromas.
Rourke continues to devour his meal in front of me, still looking like he wishes the flesh were mine instead. Lord Pan watches me intently as two white-hooded women place his meal before him. “Please, eat. You must be starved,” he says, waving his hand.