20. Belle
Belle
Hate to admit it, but I’ve never slept better. In fact, I let myself fall back into slumber after the sun woke me three times now. Thank God for last night's orgasm, curing my body of its insistent jitters, or I’d actually have to face what I did. Yuck, no thank you.
I’m ready to let my dreams take me again for the fourth time when fast-paced footsteps echo toward me.
“Alright, Miss Barnes, it’s time for you to get up.
” Rosalia works on pulling the heavy drapery fully open.
Now, instead of a trickle of light, I’m assaulted by the brightness.
I roll onto my front in an attempt to save my eyeballs. “What the fuck?”
“You can’t just sleep the day away.”
“Why not? I’m a prisoner, remember? I don’t have any obligations.
” Last night didn’t feel like the fate of someone enslaved.
Well, at least with Rourke. Sure, I resisted at first, but when he lapped me up like I was the source of the most sacred nectar, I felt like the Queen of Neverhaven if there ever was one.
Damn, it was so good, I almost forgot about being stripped and threatened with gang rape.
Of course, after my euphoria passed and reality settled, right after Rourke denied me my freedom yet again, I remembered the truth.
I’m no Queen. I’m still in my stupid Darling, stuck on Neverhaven, and a minute away from being forced into pregnancy.
“Are you hoping to stay a prisoner?” Rosalia barks as she pulls down my comforter.
“Why? Do you have some brilliant escape plan?”
When no response comes, I sit up, studying her red-faced expression. Rosalia shakes her head and busies herself folding my sheets at the edge of the bed. “I thought you were looking for answers in the library. What happened to that plan?”
“I gave up. The books are too confusing. I’ll try seduction instead.”
“Really?” Her voice rises an octave, as if hopeful.
I roll my eyes and cover my face with my hands.
“No.” Maybe before last night it would have seemed like a better plan, but now I know the truth.
Neither brother is any closer to letting me go.
Rourke still seems to have a strange devotion to his father despite his growing cognition, combined with his obsession with me, and I’m surprised he even lets me out of his sight.
I shiver at the thought, fearful that if I let this carry on, that might be my inevitable fate.
Peter has his own fucked up reasons for keeping me, none of which are known to me.
Despite the way he made me feel last night for those brief moments he was tending my wounds, his lips pressing against mine, his strong arms pulling me close, he’s still the son of Lord Pan, and a drunkard with hate running through his veins.
Rosalia is right. I can’t hide under my covers for the rest of my days and hope for my Prince Charming or fairy godmother. I have to figure out a way to get out of here on my own, even if all my previous attempts were failures.
I sit up and throw my legs over the edge. “I don’t even know where to start looking. I’ve read medicinal books, alchemical books, books on elf blood, some random book about blood curses, even the History of Dinglelogs, and they were all full of nothing!”
“Blood curse.”
“What?”
“You should try the blood curse one again.”
“Why?”
Her eyes dart nervously. “It just seems like the most relevant out of the ones you listed. Can I get you dressed?” She stomps toward my wardrobe and flings open the doors.
I contemplate her for a moment, but am distracted by a knock on the door. “Breakfast?”
“Come in,” I call, and a mousy servant enters with a tray full of flaky biscuits, plump fruit, and sizzling pieces of meat that look an awful lot like bacon. She curtsies and places the tray on the table in the corner. I stumble toward the scent, my rumbling stomach leading me forward.
Rosalia drapes another green garment over the bed.
I’ve never worn this one before. I might have a panic attack if I ever wear the same thing twice.
My closet overflows with fabric; if I’ve gone through all of them, it means I’ve been here too long.
I started recording days on a scrap of paper I keep by the side of my bed.
There are no calendars anywhere. I’m reminded I haven’t made my check mark for the day.
I stuff my mouth with the smoky meat and rush to pull out the parchment, marking a line and counting my groups of five. “Shit.”
“What?” Rosalia says from my vanity, collecting my lotions and perfumes.
“I think I’ve been here for over three weeks.” Rosalia’s right. I can’t let the Pans' confusing actions deter me from my mission. They will never be my saviors, and I don’t need any more close calls.
She gives me a raised eyebrow look, as if she wants to say, "I told you so,” but doesn’t.
“Come on, let’s get you dressed.” She holds out the dress for me.
It’s silly. I never had anyone help me get dressed back on Earth.
In fact, I think I started getting myself ready at the ripe age of two.
I used to fight the Neverhaven handmaids helping me, but now I see the need.
These gowns are elaborate, and I don’t think I’d be able to get them on by myself.
“Ouch!” I cry as Rosalia roughly tugs the sewn-in corset, squeezing my ribs.
“You’ve already wasted the day. We must hurry.”
“Calm down. There’s plenty of time to give myself a migraine from staring at pointless books.”
“You don’t know that. Lord Pan could be home any day.”
I blanch. She’s right. I’d been too worried about dealing with the juniors that I haven’t thought much about Daddy dearest. How will he react once he sees his sons haven’t followed his orders? What will the boys do in the face of their father's looming presence?
Rosalia continues to make quick work of stuffing me like a sausage into a silk casing.
I don’t know why she cares so much about gaining my freedom.
Maybe she’s annoyed by me, or perhaps she simply doesn’t want to see her friend imprisoned.
Then it dawns on me. “Are you hoping I can free you of your Darling as well?” I whisper as she pulls the fabric over my shoulders.
“No, I love cleaning the shit out of the Pan’s commodes.”
“Okay, fair. Maybe I’m a self-absorbed bitch.”
She chuckles. “Survival has that effect on people.”
“But why can’t you discover how to break the Darlings on your own?”
She tugs at the ties of my corset again. “Not all our Darlings are the same.”
“What does that mean?” I turn toward her, catching the nervous shake of her eyes.
She bites her lips, as if she’s hiding a mouse inside her mouth and it’s fighting to break free. She leans down to my ear. “Shadows are everywhere.”
She turns me toward the body-length mirror at the corner of the room and pats my arms. “Now there you are, looking like a young woman instead of a human pile of rubbish.”
“Whoa, harsh.”
“No more wasting time. You’ve got a brain to exercise." She bustles her simple mauve skirt and hurries away from me, shooting me an unnamable glance before disappearing through the doorway.
All this time I’ve been thinking of myself, but there is a whole manor full of people—hell, a whole realm—that need saving. I’m not sure I’m the person who could do it, but if I can save myself, I can save Rosalia. No more fucking around—literally.
“Weasel! Off we go!” I shout, marching toward the door.
It’s a new thing I’ve been trying, calling for him and exiting as if he will follow.
It only works ten percent of the time, but right now is one of my lucky moments, and he scampers after me as I trek down the halls, his fluffy, bandit-striped tail waving behind him.
An odd feeling settles into my pores the further I get from my room—almost like the opposite of being watched—utter silence, besides my echoing steps and Weasel's scratchy ones. Could this be loneliness? No, of course not. But where the fuck is Rourke? The fact that he’s not stalking me like a slinky black cat unnerves me, as if he’s planning my demise.
It must be my nerves—Rosalia’s caution of Lord Pan rattling me.
He wouldn’t hurt me, despite his refusal to grant me my freedom.
I make my way to the library with shaky hands, hiding in the shadows of the shelves to catch my breath.
It’s true that staff don’t enter this place, even with the doors now open.
My unshelved books from previous excavations litter the floors, just as they were when I left them.
I wonder if Rosalia wanted to hint that even the Shadows weren’t welcome here.
They seem loyal to the Pans, but perhaps they have their own Darlings, covered by their high-necked black coats, who operate under different rules.
Regardless, Rosalia seems adamant about continuing my search, so I must carry on until one of those creepy bastards drags me out of here and ties me to a bed or some shit.
Finding a way to remove the Darling is only one small piece in the larger escape-themed puzzle, but I’m still holding out hope that once free, I’ll be able to barter one of the many jewels the maids drip me in every morning and find passage on a ship back to Earth.
It’s not a foolproof plan, but I can’t think that far ahead.
Right now, I need to focus on finding a book that will give me some answers.
The thought of opening the ancient texts exhausts me, even after all my slumber, so instead of diving into a more practical search, I trek the long aisle, poring over the diverse spines for something that looks interesting.
A tall book on the bottom shelf catches my eye.
I sit down on the floor and pull it out, intrigued by the almost handmade-looking binding.
“The Adventures of Peter Pan.” I laugh, reaching over to scratch Weasel, who’s curled up by my side.
I flip to the first page, discovering a stick figure of a boy with a red feather in his green cap.
“Peter Pan is the bravest boy in all of Neverhaven,” it reads in uneven text.
This must be a book he wrote in his youth.
Or recently, and he has shit handwriting, but I’m leaning toward the first option, since the illustrations seem less depraved and more full of hope.
“Peter Pan defeets the nasti pirates and saves the mermaids.” The text is coupled with an image of a young boy flying above a ship full of other bearded stick figures, lying around the boat.
Peter Pan is king of the bunniz. Long-eared blobs smile in a circle around a green-eyed boy.
I guess bunnies have horns in Neverhaven as well.
What I assume are orange carrots dangle out of all mouths, Peters included.
I laugh, surprised by the sound echoing through the large room.
It’s so sweet and innocent. I half forget it belongs to the man who holds me as a prisoner.
I flip to the next page. The boy wraps his slender arms around a spindly figure with blonde locks flowing from her head.
I’m nvr growing up! I’ll stay with mother forever.
” My smile fades, and a part of me wishes I could reach through time and hug the small child whose mother was taken from him.
I never had a mother, at least one I knew, but I imagine loving and losing one would hurt worse than never knowing the love.
Perhaps if he had a mother to rear him, he might be different, less wounded and angry.
I flip the page again. A face is drawn at the center.
A straight line takes the place of the mouth, two black holes for eyes.
It’s a simple image, a melancholy expression.
It could have been drawn at any time, but something about it tells me more, as if it’s the moment Peter’s spirit broke—when he lost his mother.
“What are you doing?”
I startle, holding my heart and flashing my eyes toward Peter mere inches from me. Weasel scampers away. “Damned pest.” I curse after him once I find my voice. I stand, the book still in hand. “I’m so sorry…”
“Where did you get that?” He grabs it from me, scanning the cover in wide-eyed horror.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I just saw it here and…”
He looks around. “How did you even get in here anyway?”
“Rourke opened the doors for me.”
He scoffs. “Rourke?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve seen the two of you around the manor. He follows you like a wounded pup, and you let him drink your blood.”
“We have an arrangement.”
“An arrangement?” His eyes widen, and his mouth hardens into a straight line.
He shakes his head, shrugs, and looks at his heels as he kicks up imaginary dirt.
“Doesn’t seem like a fair trade to whore yourself out to a bloodthirsty monster just for some dusty books.
” He smiles, without humor, without humanity. Rage simmers behind his eyes.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not whoring myself out.”
“You’re right, whores actually receive compensation. ”
“You don’t know what’s going on between us.”
“Oh, so there is something going on between you two?”
I smile. “Are you jealous?”
“Jealous? Of what? I don’t want the throne. I don’t need my father to arrange my fuckings. I thought you wanted your freedom, but it seems like you wouldn’t mind spreading your legs for a violent creature like him.”
I’m in disbelief. Could this be the same man who saved me only last night? That pressed his lips against mine and seemed pained by the sight of my wounds? He denied me freedom, but his words are much more jagged than the simple no from the night before.
I need to get out of here. I push past him, shouting over my shoulder. “Of course, you don’t want the throne. You never want to grow up after all.”
“Ah, I didn’t realize growing up meant raping the women their father enslaved.” He has a point, but I obviously don’t want to admit it.
“Tell yourself whatever you want. At least your brother doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not.
” Before I exit into the hallway, the blood curse book I read previously and discarded as senseless poetry catches my eye.
I snatch it up, remembering Rosalia’s words.
Perhaps there’s something I missed in here, something she can only hint at.
With my hand clasping the library doorframe, I turn back toward Peter, standing alone in the darkened aisle.
He stares down, his eyes swimming and his lips curved into a frown.
The book in his hands was only another stumbling block to distract me from my escape.
Thankfully, Peter caught me before my heart softened any further.
For a moment, I catch a glimpse of his childhood self, the one I yearned to reach out and hug.
Except it’s only a mirage. Peter is no child, but a man damaged beyond repair.