Chapter 33 SAGE
SAGE
Istirred awake slowly, reluctantly. My body wanted to stay submerged in sleep, weightless, where everything was still so real. I knew the moment I opened my eyes, the truth would be waiting.
And I wasn’t ready to face it. Not yet.
The fear coiled tight in my chest, suffocating.
What if last night hadn’t been real? What if it had only existed inside some fragile dream—one that had splintered the second I woke up?
I wasn’t sure I could survive the answer.
If he was gone—if the weight of his body, the warmth of his skin, had all been some cruel trick of my subconscious—I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to pretend again.
Please, I whispered to no one. Let it be real.
It took everything I had to sit up. My limbs felt heavy, like the air around me was trying to hold me down in the comfort I already knew I couldn’t keep. I inhaled, steadying myself before opening my eyes. Slowly. Cautiously.
Golden light spilled over me, catching on the edge of the blanket tangled at my hips. Soft. Warm. A blanket that wasn’t the one on the bed I had been in.
I wasn’t in my room—not the one I’d been locked in before.
No. This was different.
The bed beneath me was impossibly soft, the sheets smooth against my skin.
The faintest imprint of his body still lingered beside me in the mattress, as though he’d only just left.
My breath hitched at the sight of it—his absence felt like a ghost beside me.
But his presence… his presence was everywhere.
This was his room.
I let that realization sink in. Reich brought me here. He brought me to his bed.
Something warm unfurled in my chest. Not like a spark of relief, but something deeper. Slower. A growing bloom of something dangerously close to hope.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, taking in the space.
The master suite was large, but not in a way that felt cold or impersonal.
Every detail was curated—deliberate. Dark wood beams crossed the ceiling, anchoring the room with quiet strength.
The color palette was muted: deep grays, soft charcoals, brushed steel.
Modern without being sterile. Pristine but not lifeless.
It felt like him—impossibly controlled, perfectly organized.
My gaze slid to the left, where two massive French doors stood cracked open, sunlight pooling across the floor in thick golden streaks. The curtains stirred with a lazy breeze. Beyond them, I could see the deck, framed by towering evergreens, their needles catching glints of gold.
The room was peaceful. Too peaceful.
I pushed to my feet and crossed to the doorway; the hardwood floor cool under my bare feet. Stepping outside, I let the sunlight spill across my skin. I tilted my face toward the warmth, breathing it in. The air smelled of pine and cedar and something faintly sweet. It reminded me of him.
I closed my eyes. Let the moment hold me.
Then I saw them.
Twelve windows, dark and heavy with metal bars. They stood in stark contrast to everything else I was seeing, their presence harsh and deliberate. Like sentinels watching me. Like prison cells I hadn’t noticed before.
One of them was the old room I came from. I knew it without having to think.
How many rooms did this place have? A dozen? More?
I stepped back inside the bedroom, closing the doors softly behind me. The illusion of safety cracked a little. But it didn’t break.
On the nightstand, a black t-shirt was draped over, and beside it, a piece of folded paper sat with my name —his name for me—scrawled across it in sharp, dark ink.
Wildflower.
I picked it up slowly, unfolding it as if it might burn me. His handwriting was precise. Clean. The words simple.
I’ll be home this evening. Actions have consequences, Wildflower. Be a good girl.
A shiver slid down my spine. Not from fear.
But from anticipation.
A flush bloomed under my skin. My pulse quickened.
I pressed the shirt to my face, inhaling his scent—amber and cedar, smoke and something else entirely him. It clung to the fabric like a claim. Slipping it over my head, I let it fall past my hips, the fabric heavy, too big for me but perfect in its weight. Like he was still holding me.
But curiosity gnawed at me.
Who was Reich really? And why did I feel this unbearable pull toward him? What was it about this house? These rooms?
I needed answers.
So, I stepped into the hallway, silence folding around me. Everything about this place was deliberate. Quiet. Heavy with purpose.
The corridor stretched ahead of me, bathed in filtered light through tall windows. Beyond them, the forest stood still and watchful. Shadows danced across the floor like restless spirits.
A door caught my eye.
A sliding barn door, rich with cedar grain.
I pressed my palm to it and slid it open.
Inside, the scent of Reich hit me harder.
Woodsmoke. Leather. A faint trace of eucalyptus.
This was his space.
A library.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the room, stacked with books worn at the spines from use. Vinyl records were organized meticulously on low shelves, and original artwork—some of it dark and unsettling—hung on the walls.
I ran my fingers over the spines of the books as I wandered deeper inside.
Physics. Philosophy. Psychology. Religious conspiracies and ideological warfare.
And then literature. Worn. Thumbed through. Well-loved.
But a specified book caught my eye. Black leather-bound. Worn, Heavy and incredibly thick.
Eiloud Naphal Ascendancy.
My pulse jumped.
Something about the book caused my skin to crawl, a burn of something foreign came rising in my throat as I studied the cover. Something ancient and otherworldly about its exterior that gave it an eeriness that I couldn’t shake.
As I picked the book up, I swore I saw a shadow move into the peripheral part of my vision. I shrugged it off, that feeling of being watched, as I opened up and peered into the contents of this strange book.
Inside, the pages were filled with symbols—some familiar, most not. But one stood out.
The same symbol inked into Reich’s skin. Castor’s too.
What was this? And why had I felt like I had seen it before meeting them?
I explored into the book farther, a mess of symbols and what looked like complex mathematical problems were littered throughout. An uneasiness settled in the more I tried to decipher the foreign book.
An ice like chill crept behind my back, as I caught more shadows within my peripheral. Something about the book felt wrong. Like something I wasn’t supposed to see.
I set the book back, hands trembling, and moved to the record player.
The needle was already set.
I flicked the switch, and the record crackled softly.
Music enveloped the quiet space.
I smiled faintly.
I sank into the leather chair by the window, curling my legs underneath as I let the music wrap around me.
I wanted to understand him.
I wanted to peel back the layers he so carefully controlled.
But how?
A quiet idea slipped into my mind.
I could cook for him.
He had provided for me in that way. He had kept me alive, kept me safe.
Maybe…maybe this was how I could offer him something in return.
A gesture.
A truce.
Some part of me whispered the truth.
This was dangerous.
It wasn’t freedom.
It wasn’t love.
But it was something.
And for now, I would take it.
I stood slowly and made my way toward the kitchen, Reich’s shirt slipping over my thighs like a second skin.
I could still feel his hands. His breath against my throat. His words in my ear.
Actions have consequences, Wildflower. Be a good girl.
I wasn’t sure which I wanted more.
To obey.
Or to make him prove what would happen if I didn’t.
Either way—I was ready.