Chapter 8
It had been twelve days since they brought me to this house.
I stayed mostly in my room. In recent days, Quinnlyn had been more agitated, grumbling under his breath more often, and walking with heavier feet.
While the little room didn't feel so bad—having a decent bed, pillows, a slightly better TV, and actual light—it was still small and isolating.
Every time I came out to eat, I'd position myself wherever the sun came through, depending on the time of day.
Quinnlyn had stepped out a couple of times for visits.
Otherwise, every morning, lunch, and supper, someone knocked on the door; Quinnlyn would unlock the door and grab both of our food.
We often ate in silence. I tried to ask him questions, but he avoided them or answered them with questions, usually leading me to be the frustrated one.
The clock Quinnlyn had brought in rested on the floor, ticking steadily.
A knock at the main door startled me. I looked at the clock—three thirty-two.
Weird. I walked to my door, cracked it open, and peeked out.
Quinnlyn stood at the other cracked door.
He was talking, but too low for me to make out the words.
He looked over at me and pulled the door open.
A tall female walked in. He walked out. What the hell?
Then I remembered what was said the day I arrived.
The moon had been growing brighter and brighter the last few days.
A full moon. The female was taller than me, but less than Quinnlyn.
She tilted her head to the side at me, then narrowed her eyes.
I wasn’t sure what to do or say, so I shut the door and went back to watching Pretty Woman. I barely wanted to talk to Quinnlyn. I sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to her. Every person I had talked to was loyal to or afraid of Ravik. None of them could help me. It was pointless to try.
Someone knocked on the door at five thirty, as they had every evening, to deliver food.
Normally, I’d come out by habit, but this time, I leaned against the pillows on the bed.
Pretty Woman was over, and I was now reading one of the books that were in the room.
A moment later, she knocked on my smaller door.
I got up and opened it. Lasagna. She was standing there with a plate of my favorite food.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
I nodded and reached out to take the plate, but she pulled back.
“Why don’t you come sit out here?”
“Because… I don’t want to,” I said.
“I don’t bite,” she said, flashing me a smile.
“I’m literally being held here against my will, so unless you’re going to aid me in getting out of here, I’ll take my food and stay in here for the night.”
“Hmm… Well, I guess you won't eat unless you come have a chat with me,” she said, then turned around and went to the loveseat to sit down.
A second plate sat on the end table. She started eating and then looked back up at me and nodded toward the seat next to her. I stood in shock, staring at her. I had been hungrier than usual in the previous week, something I figured had to do with the second trimester.
I hung my head and walked to the loveseat. Fine. She could talk. I'd sit, eat, and go back to my bed. I sat down and grabbed the plate. My mouth watered. Lasagna never got old.
“How have you been feeling?” she asked, in between bites.
“Okay.”
“Have you felt the baby move?”
I turned and looked at her, raising an eyebrow.
She pursed her lips at me.
“I’m not even fifteen weeks…” I finally said.
“Do you not feel the baby then?”
“Some people do, but generally not first-time moms…”
“Oh, I see.”
I continued eating, enjoying every bite. Sometimes food was simpler, but other times I felt like it was a special occasion—without the occasion. The salad was simple—romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, and ranch—but it was the perfect side with the lasagna.
“Have things been going good with uh… Quinn?” she asked, after several minutes.
“There is nothing good about what is happening here,” I said, pressing my lips together.
“But does he treat you right?” she pressed, then lifted the cup to take a drink.
“He dragged me back to my cell by my hair—”
Water sprayed out of her mouth, and she started coughing. I stared at her with narrowed eyes.
“Not what you wanted to hear?” I asked.
“Umm… just unexpected,” she said, finally coughing less.
“Why do you want to know about him?”
“Just wondering,” she said, eyes dropped to her lap.
“Hmm, I’m sure there is more to that. I didn’t get your name earlier?” I asked.
“Annabelle.”
We both finished our food in silence. A big yawn escaped my mouth, eyes feeling heavy. “I’m suddenly feeling really tired. I think it’s time for me to lie down.”
“Yeah, the lasagna has that effect,” she said, and then chuckled under her breath.
I raised my eyebrow at her, unsure what she was trying to imply.
I stood, and a wave of exhaustion hit me; my eyes felt heavy, like I'd fall asleep before I made it to my room. My vision felt fuzzy, my balance uneasy as I walked to my bed. I made it there, barely. I’d been tired days before, but nothing like this.
Of course, growing a baby was only going to get more intense, but if I was this drained this early on, what would the third trimester look like?
As soon as my head hit the pillow, everything went dark.
The door opening startled me awake. I sat up quickly and looked around, then my head started pounding. I closed my eyes, trying to make the flashing in my eyes stop.
“Zalayuh?” Quinnlyn asked.
I turned toward his voice. I tried to open my eyes, but they burned. My stomach was turning. It felt as though I was hungover, but I hadn’t drunk anything. My eyes watered.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
My eyes tightened, trying to will away the pounding in my head.
Fire churned in my stomach and was creeping up my throat.
I was seconds away from puking. I forced my eyes open and moved off the bed, pushing past him.
I was unsteady, but I stumbled into the bathroom, and lasagna came out and into the toilet.
I made it. I sank to my knees, hugging the toilet.
My stomach burned less, but still burned.
“Is this the pregnancy—”
I puked again, cutting him off.
“I feel like I’m… hungover,” I rasped out.
“Obviously you're not,” he said.
“Food poisoning?” I grumbled.
My stomach settled enough that I pushed myself up off the floor and went back to my bed, pushing past him again. I laid on my side, curling my legs all the way, and pulling the blanket tight around me.
“What did you eat last night?” he asked.
“Lasagna,” I said.
“Hmm, I had that too, but I’m fine.”
“Right after I ate it, I felt really tired—” I gasped.
“What?” he asked.
“The girl—your girlfriend—she said that lasagna had that effect when I told her I was tired,” I said.
“Stupid girl,” he muttered.
Then he turned and walked away. The door opened, shut again, and then the lock clicked into place. He had just left me here. Something he wasn’t supposed to do. My entire body felt tired and weak. My eyes were heavy. I tried to keep them open, but they closed, and I drifted back into sleep again.
My eyes flashed open; the sound of the door slamming had startled me. It took my eyes a few seconds to clear and focus. The door in my room was still open, and he stood in the far doorway, staring at me. He looked at the ground, shook his head, and then walked out of view.
My stomach felt better than it had earlier when I was awake.
I turned my head toward the little clock on the floor.
Eleven twenty-nine. Holy crap. Yet, I still felt exhausted; my stomach may not have been burning, but exhaustion was heavy.
I didn’t care, though. I wanted to know why he left so abruptly earlier.
I swung my legs to the side and stood up.
My legs felt so heavy. I walked through the doorway and stopped.
He sat on the small couch, feet up on the table. He lifted his eyes from his book.
“What’s going on?” I asked, barely above a whisper, my head still had a slight ache.
“Nothing,” he said, then looked back down at his book.
“Nothing?” I repeated.
“Nope, guess you just got sick,” he said.
“Who was the girl?” I asked.
“A nobody.”
The bright sun seeping through the windows was blinding, making the pain throb behind my eyes.
I turned around, walked back into my room, and shut the door behind me.
I popped The Lion King into the VHS player and turned on the TV.
I crawled back into the bed and pulled the blanket up and around me.
I didn’t have the energy to pry anything from him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Quinnlyn’s angry voice woke me up.
Even with the door closed, I heard him. I walked to the door and cracked it open.
Quinnlyn was standing at the door, which was slightly cracked.
I couldn’t see who he was talking to. He shifted his eyes, looking at me for a brief second before looking at whoever he was talking to again.
“Had too… howling… heard… Ravik… orders…” the voice said.
I couldn’t make out all of what the male on the other side was saying. What I heard made no sense.
“I should be let in on these decisions, and not blindsided,” Quinnlyn said, his voice low but not low enough.
“You’re not… Ravik… Novo.”
Novo? Howling? My mind was spinning. What the hell were they talking about?
“Talk later,” Quinnlyn said, before shutting and locking the door.
He then went back to the couch, sat down, grabbed his book, and continued reading.
I stared at him, my head tilted to the side a little bit, but he never looked up.
I stepped back into the room, leaving the door cracked this time.
I grabbed the werewolf book from the stack of books they had brought from the cell.
I hadn’t read more of it since it gave me nightmares.
I’d gotten several chapters in before the door pushed open.
Quinnlyn stood in the doorway with a paper bowl of soup.
I put the book down, pushed myself off the bed, and walked to the doorway.
I reached for it and wrapped both hands around the bowl.
I turned around and headed back to my bed, without saying a word.
He remained in the doorway, staring at me.
I stared back, widened my eyes, then raised one eyebrow.
He didn’t say anything, just watched me.
The classic staring contest. He didn’t know that I was excellent at this game.
I cocked my head to the other side. A couple of minutes must have passed before he slowly took a couple of steps backward and then turned, leaving my view.
“I win!” I shouted, then started spooning the soup into my mouth. It tasted perfect after feeling so crummy.