Chapter 6
TIFFANY
Iam no longer cold. The house has an even temperature and the large white space is strangely calming.
It appears that the beast likes pristine perfection. No mess, no clutter, and merely bold abstract art acting as a statement rather than pictures.
It reveals nothing about the owner of this palatial home, whose soul appears as empty as he is cold and indifferent.
I respect that side of him, admire it even, even though I can’t stand the human inside him.
He is cold, indifferent, callous even; qualities I am used to, at home with in fact.
Mrs. Harrington, though, is another thing entirely, and I am drawn to her warm smile and comforting presence.
I follow her up two flights of stairs, and as we near the top of the house, she says almost apologetically, “Mr. Ravera has allocated you the uppermost guest room.”
“As long as it’s the furthest room from his, I’ll be good with that.”
I lower my voice and whisper, “You do know that I’m here against my will, don’t you?”
The resignation in her sad smile doesn’t offer me much hope.
“I’m sorry, my dear. If you need anything at all, I am at your disposal.”
“A cab, perhaps?”
I’m half joking. I say it because it’s my intention to leave as soon as I have my bearings in this strange country.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, but I can arrange food, drink, and supplies.”
“What’s he like?”
I decide to use my time more wisely because, of course, this woman works for the beast and is probably as much a victim as I am, despite the fact that I noticed the small, almost human smile he directed her way when we arrived.
“Mr. Ravera?”
She smiles and I detect a genuine fondness for him, which surprises me.
“He is a good man wearing a villain’s cloak.”
I say nothing, and she sighs heavily. “I am speaking out of turn. You must form your own judgment of him, Miss Zaferelli. But don’t judge him too harshly. He is lost and I’m unsure if he will ever be found.”
That makes two of us then.
I smile to edge away the unease her words offer me, and she shrugs before turning the door handle to the room that I guess I’ll call home for one year.
Her guilty smile is well-deserved because my room at the convent was better than this one.
I stare in dismay at the cold space; the single iron bed wrapped in a sheet and blanket with one pillow.
The wooden floor is old, missing in places, and the simple wooden nightstand beside the bed holds one lamp and a Bible.
The small window is unfit for anything other than allowing a crack of fresh air inside, and the white walls are undecorated and sparse.
“Wow, is this a prison?”
“As I said before, I’m sorry, my dear, but Mr. Ravera must have a very good reason for placing you here.”
“Do you like him, Mrs. Harrington?”
I’m interested because something is telling me that she does, which gives me hope.
“I do.” A small smile lights up her eyes, and as I perch on the edge of the bed, I pry a little deeper.
“Tell me what to expect.”
“I can tell you nothing, ma’am. I am his employee and will never divulge any information about my boss.”
She glances around the room, a sad expression in her eye, and then says almost to herself, “He is not a bad man; he just lost a little of his soul on the journey.”
A deep breath is her last say on the matter, and she forces a bright smile onto her face.
“I will arrange some food. I’ll come and fetch you when it’s ready. I expect you will dine with Mr. Ravera; if not, perhaps you would prefer to eat in the kitchen instead.”
“I’ll take the kitchen if I may, Mrs. Harrison.”
She says nothing and merely turns and walks away, leaving me gazing around with a sinking feeling. Great. So much for my wild year of freedom. I am more of a prisoner here than in the Order of the Holy Mother of God, and that’s a fact.
There is absolutely nothing left to see in here, so I decide to explore the rest of the floor, hoping like hell it offers a little more comfort than the sparse room I have been allocated.
Being at the top of the house, the ceilings are a little lower and there isn’t much light. It’s dark and rather gloomy and not very welcoming. On further exploration, I discovered a functional bathroom with only a small basin, toilet, and small shower with two black towels on a shelf by the door.
There is a box room that appears full of, well, boxes actually and a further two bedrooms minus the beds. It’s uncared for, forgotten even, and definitely not considered part of the luxurious mansion below, and I wonder if that was the reason I was placed here.
Perhaps that is how Mr. Ravera sees me. I am unwelcome, unwanted, and surplus to requirements. He doesn’t want me here; it’s obvious and only adds to the trauma of abandonment issues that sit heavy on my heart.
My mom left. She never once looked back, and my father said she was deranged. Morgan used the same words, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as I attempt to pour water on the fire.
She is not deranged. I won’t believe it, and yet there is a prickle of apprehension that lives inside me because of the madness in me too.
I feel it. It wraps around my soul and squeezes it hard.
It’s why Morgan took me under her wing and attempted to mold me into a similar version of her even though I resisted every attempt.
A door slams somewhere in the house, jolting me out of my trip down the rabbit hole, and I inch my way out of the room, creeping along the corridor toward the staircase.
Mrs. Harrington told me to wait here, but she never told me I had no choice. I am perfectly at liberty to explore if I wish because I haven’t been told otherwise.
My heart is beating fast as I tread carefully down the stairs. Voices reaching me, urgent whispers, the tread of stilettos on marble.
Carefully, I creep toward the sound, a slight movement below me causing me to still, and as I peer through the bannisters, I notice the beast walking slightly behind a woman.
My heart leaps as I stare at perfection. Her long, black, silky hair hanging like an oil slick down her back.
Her red dress is molded to her body and barely covers her ass and her six-inch heels are black, the red soles revealing she has designer taste in shoes.
They are silent, and she appears to know where she is going as she turns the handle of another room and steps inside. For a second, Mr. Ravera hesitates, and my breath stills as he glances around him. Then the woman’s voice cracks the silence as she snaps, “Enter.”
He does as she says, and as the door closes, my heart thumps as I make a decision I will probably regret and tiptoe down the stairs toward the room, pressing my eye to the keyhole that reveals absolutely nothing but a black wall.
I press my ear to the lock and hear nothing at all, and my curiosity is weeping tears of frustration.
My heart pounds as I kneel at the door, hoping I’m not discovered, my curiosity fully in charge now.
It must be ten minutes later, just when I believe my knees will give out on me, that a low, agonized moan wafts toward me.
The beast.
I recognize the dark tone and the agony reflected in the sound causes chills to ripple through my body.
It sounds as if she is torturing him. Despair mixes with desolation, and I have never witnessed such a haunting sound in my life.
My knees shake and my blood runs cold as he howls like an animal in pain, making me wonder if I should storm in there and save him.
It’s like nothing I have ever heard before, and I back away from the door, hating the effect it has on me, hating myself for not helping him.
Another deep moan, like a banshee in torment, has me sprinting back up the stairs, away from him and whatever happens in the black room where the spirits play.
What is she doing to him?
Tears blind my vision as I reach the sanctuary of my room, and as I huddle against the iron bed frame, realization bites. Something evil lurks inside this house, and nothing will change my mind on that.
My first impression of the beast was correct. Trapped inside the most exquisite package is a soul in torment, and like it or not, he is the one in charge of my destiny until he says otherwise.