The Breaking (The Curse of the Regina Book 1)

by A. P. Marie

  I start to relax as I see the car in the same spot I left it in. Making my way directly to the car, I unlock the door, and slide into the driver's seat. I make a quick check of my bag and everything is in order, so I pull out the keys to start the engine. As soon as my key slides into the slot I notice a quick movement in the backseat. Before I can scream, turn around, or fight back a hand wraps around my face, covered in a damp cloth. I grab for the cloth and try to rip it out of the anonymous hand but it's no good. My fingernails dig into the back of the hand looking for purchase to move it away from me. Almost immediately I feel a heaviness creep into my brain. I struggle hard but soon the need to struggle disappears. My body relaxes into the hand and the world becomes black.

  ∞∞∞

  When I awaken, I'm lying in a large, comfortable bed. The comforter, sheets, pillowcases, walls, actually everything I can see, are white. It creates a soothing atmosphere that helps mask my immediate confusion. Where in the hell did I fall asleep? Nothing about this room is familiar. The bed is crazy soft and absolutely smothered in pillows. The room itself is extremely large and airy. There are French doors, leading out to a garden patio, with bright sunlight streaming in. That gives me a serious pause. This sunlight doesn't seem right. It's too bright, like the sun is too high in the sky. This doesn't feel right. I haven't gotten out of bed and I'm lying on my side so I can only see one side of the room, but it's enough for me to know that I have never been in the room before in my life. Nothing about this is familiar but I have traveled enough to recognize that scent in the air. It's salty, slightly briny. I have to be near an ocean.

  Alright, let's work backwards. Thinking about my day yesterday I move step by step through my day. I woke up in my apartment. I went on a job for a suburbanite family. I stopped at the grocery store. Oh, the van. The running. Caiden. The airport. The hand.

  Suddenly, the airy room feels stifling. My apartment wasn't anywhere near an ocean so somehow, I have been moved and put in this room hundreds of miles from where I was. I attempt to lay as still as possible hoping that I can feign sleep a little longer until I can figure this out. The last encounter I had with them does not lend itself to the idea that I would be in a nice room, in a comfortable bed, by the ocean. They did not do subtle, and as far as I can tell they would have no motivation to make me comfortable for any amount of time.

  What motivation could any of my pursuers have for this? There are 3 distinct groups I have been running from. 1. Police. The police would have me in handcuffs on my way to jail. I also don't really think drugging people is their MO. 2. Drug dealers. They feel threatened by my business but if they found me and decided I needed eliminated I would have been swimming with the fishies, or whatever it is they do to their enemies. 3. "Them." I don't really know who they are or what they want, but they certainly weren't trying to be gentle the last time they found me. They definitely didn’t provide comfortable beds in big sunny rooms. Nothing about this makes sense to me.

  In an attempt to solve the puzzle that my life has become I roll onto my other side to get a better view of the room. This side of the room has 3 doors. At least one has to lead to the rest of the house. The other two may be a bathroom and/ or closet? There is a fireplace in the wall clothed with a white marble hearth and a large TV positioned on the wall above it. In front of the fireplace is a comfortable seating area with white chairs, a white coffee table, and a white couch. There is a thick white area rug in the center covering the dark stained, hard wood floors. All-in-all it's a very nice room. Something I could never afford to own or rent. Just looking at the lavish room makes me wonder what price I'll have to pay to be here. Surely, it won't be cheap.

  Anxiety over my present situation is eating away at my insides like some crazed animal trying to escape my body. For years, I have had to practice schooling my emotions for a hundred different reasons. I practice the same technique now. Whatever is going on will only be worse if I allow my anxiety and fear to overwhelm me. Staying calm is essential to my survival.

  I step out of bed and stretch as casually as I can muster. If someone went to all of this trouble to bring me here, I have no doubt that they are watching me now. This seems like as good a time as any to figure out which/ if any of these doors leads to a bathroom.

  As I stretch my arms above my head, when a silky smooth feeling flutters against my upper thighs. Jesus Fuck. What I failed to notice while lying in bed was that they fucking dressed me. Last I remember, I was wearing blue jean shorts and a tank top. Currently, I am standing in a burgundy, short, silk nightgown. Emotions whirl threw me so quickly that I struggle to get a grip on them. Fear. Disgust. Vulnerability. None of which I want my kidnappers to see. Anger. That's an emotion I can display without harming my survival rates. Looking at the nightgown I roll my eyes and scoff loudly.

  Choosing a door at random I walk over and open it. It's not the bathroom, instead it is a closet full to bursting with clothes. On a whim, I check the tag of the nearest top and find that it is a very expensive brand. The type of clothing I couldn't even afford to look at in stores. Oddly enough it also seems to be my size. Handy. Hope whoever it belongs to doesn’t mind sharing.

  I walk out of the room and try door number 2. Jackpot. It’s the kind of bathroom I’ve only ever seen on TV. Some of my foster parents seemed to do pretty well but nothing compared to the luxury of this room. Deep soaker tub? Check. Shower big enough to fit a party? Check. Marble everything? Check. Again the room is all white everything except for the floor which is a dark grey tile designed to look like hardwood floors. The design has a nice effect, soothing and sterile. It does feel a little bit unimaginative though. Whoever decorated this room must have some serious OCD. I contemplate taking a shower in my effort to seem unaffected but after the realization that someone undressed me while I was unconscious my vulnerability is still at an all-time high, so I just use the toilet and head back into the bedroom.

  Everything in the room is the exact same as when I left, except for 1 glaring difference. One of the chairs in front of the fireplace is now occupied, proving my suspicions that I was being monitored. The man sitting in the chair may be the hottest human being I have ever seen. My body immediately itches to be nearer to him. He has light brown hair, brilliant blue eyes, and even through his clothes I can tell that he has the body of a Greek god. His clean-shaven jaw and the clearly expensive, perfectly tailored black suit give him an air of dignified sophistication. It says a lot about his eyes that they are intriguing enough to keep my focus off his body.

  I realize that I’m standing in the doorway gawking like an idiot at the man who is very likely my kidnapper, about the same time I realize how intensely he is watching me. His eyes haven’t left my face. Now, I’m not a supermodel by any means, but I have certain attributes that seem to keep men’s eyes occupied. They seem to like my boobs for one and they really seem to like my ass for two and I've seen men squirm when I wear short skirts or shorts, so I know they like my legs too. Well, at least two of those are on full display for this god, in my short and low-cut nightgown, but he is still staring at my face. It’s a fact that I am more than appreciative of.

  Shrugging at myself and my internal monologue I walk over to the sitting area and sit in the chair opposite him. No fear. The worst thing I can do is let him see how afraid I am.

  “Good morning.” I chirp brightly.

  The fact is, I am terrified. I have no idea where I am, or who he is. I have no idea why I'm here, or what he could possibly want from me. But, so far -besides the kidnapping- I haven’t been harmed in any way. In fact, this is a really nice room and I seem to have had plenty of time to sleep off whatever the aftereffects of the drugs were.

  A look of surprised amusement crosses the god’s face before he smothers it back into the mask he had been presenting. “Good morning, Emily.” He says as he leans casually back into the chair.

  Something tells me this is not an easy man to surprise which causes a smirk to cross my face. “So, wh
ere exactly am I?” I ask, as I pluck a blueberry off the tray in front of me.

  “You don’t have to play tough with me. I know how scared you are.” The god has a voice to match his inhuman physique and somehow, he has managed to actually sound sympathetic. But it’s not his voice that startles me. It’s the fact that what he says is the truth. Or he thinks it is.

  “Did you purposefully avoid my question?” I try for obvious confusion and hope that he will take me for a complete ditz.

  “You’re home, Emily. If any part of your room is not to your liking, we can have it fixed. All you need to do is tell me.” Truth. His words seem even crazier considering they are delivered with a serene smile and what appears to be sincerity.

  “Umm, yeah. That seems like a ton of fun. But, you know I'm kind of thinking it’s time for me to get off the crazy train. So, maybe you can point me to the way out?”

  I cringe at the hopefulness that has crept into my voice. I intended it as a joke, but I would give almost anything to get an easy out of this situation and that desire seeped into my voice. Unfortunately, for girls like me, the Universe doesn’t work that way. If I want this, I'll have to work for it. Just like I’ve worked for everything in my life.

  “This is where you belong. Here with me. There is no way out.” Truth.

  See, the problem with this ‘ability’ that I have to sense the truth or a lie is that if people can delude themselves into believing that what they are saying is true then it comes across to me as true. I cannot discern fact, only truth, and he believes this to be the truth.

  “Ahh, and here I was worried you were going to say something crazy. So, tell me, fella, how exactly did this place that I have never been before become my home?” By purposefully using a vague nickname I'm hoping that this Greek god might give me his name. For some reason asking what his name is feels like losing a battle and I refuse to lose.

  “You have always belonged here. That has not changed. It just took me a while to retrieve you.” For the first time I see some anger simmering behind his eyes. Hmm, my absence seems to have bothered him. Although, absence is the wrong word. Absence implies that I was there at one point which, clearly, is not the case. But this nutcase doesn’t seem to know that.

  Sitting back farther in my chair I decide it’s time to get real with him.

  “Okay, I'll bite. Why was it so important to you to retrieve me?” After all, that really is the most important part of this. If I can figure out what he wants I may be able to figure out a way to get out.

  Besides, this man has never met me in my life. How could he have possibly decided to make me the object of whatever obsession or mental health impairment he seems to have?

  “You belong to me. You were given to me shortly after your birth.” There is an immense amount of pride evident on his face as he makes his ridiculous declaration. “Your parents smuggled you away shortly after your third birthday, but it wasn’t enough to keep me from finding you. You belong to me and I will have you.” Truth.

  For the first time I realize that I am way out of me league. What he’s saying doesn’t make sense, and yet… there are some consistencies. My parents dropped me off at a hospital when I was three. Or the people who dropped me off said they were my parents. I have no recollection of anything from that time, so I can only go by what was written in my file for the foster care system.

  I lifted the file when I was 11 from my caseworker’s desk. Under family it had only a few short sentences, “Willingly signed over parental rights. Asked to have no contact with child or from child. Stated during drop off, “It’s the only way to keep her safe.” To be placed with Foster family as soon as possible.”

  That’s the only information I've ever known about my family and it might be entirely made up. My gift doesn’t work with written word, only spoken, so I have no way to know if any of this is true or not. Theoretically, if what this god is telling me is true (and he at least believes it is) then he could be what my parents meant about keeping me safe. If they were trying to hide me from him.

  He may be the reason I was in foster care in the first place. If my parents gave me up to protect me from him then he is to blame for everything that happened to me in the foster system.

  “Why did my parents feel the need to protect me from you?” Playing along seems like the best chance to get more information. I figure there is still a reasonable chance he is delusional or just plain crazy but either way the more he talks to me the better chance I have to figure this stuff out.

  "That is a nonissue right now. I just came by to see that you were settled in. I was worried you wouldn't like the room I made for you, but then I saw the hovel you had been living in." He leans forward as his words become animated. "You should have never been living like that. I could have protected you. It's not fitting for your position to have been running around living like you have. You need protection. You need allies. You need me."

  "Well, I can see that you really mean what you are saying. But, look, you have the wrong girl. This stuff doesn't make sense. I have a family. They love me and will be looking for me soon. If you let me go now, I won't tell anyone about any of this. I'm telling you; you have the wrong person." Pleading is low on my list, but if it'll get me out of here I'll try anything.

  "Come now, Emily. Lying is beneath you." The god leans forward in his chair to study my face. Since he came into the room his eyes haven't left my face for more than a handful of seconds. Clearly, whoever he is looking for is very important to him. There is just no chance I am that girl. "You live in a run down one-bedroom apartment on Main Street. You drive a used Toyota Corolla, but store a brand new Chevy Camaro at the local airport. You deal prescription drugs to middle class families. My guess is you sell to people you think need the drugs. Not abusers. Your only companion is a man named Caiden Bishop. You went to his apartment before my man picked you up at the airport. I suppose that's where you got the black bag they found on your passenger seat. Before Iowa you were in Nebraska. Before that it was Pennsylvania. Before that Washington. You move around often. Normally only about 2 months after relocating. This time you stayed longer. You have had several groups of people trailing you over the last several years. Starting with CPS, then the police, the Lights, and my men. You certainly do not have any family that will be storming my door to avenge you. Except maybe Caiden, but even he knows better."

  For the first time in our conversation I feel at risk of losing the composure that I mustered. There is no mistake. This god wants me, and it appears he has been watching me for a long time. I can't convince him that I am not the person he is looking for, because he knows more about me than I do. Even with the threat he poses to my person, one detail stands out to me.

  "How do you know Caiden?" Knowing of his existence would be understandable. His comment though about Caiden knowing better. That one bugs me. Judging by the dark look that crosses the god’s face I can tell this was the wrong question to ask.

  "Caiden and I have known each other our entire lives. My relationship with Caiden is not the problem. It's your relationship with Caiden that concerns me."

  A dark look flickers across his face momentarily, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was jealousy. He doesn’t know me; I don’t know him. If I start believing he is jealous of my relationship with my best friend, then they can reserve me a padded room right next to his. The shock on my face must be comical because god man smirks.

  “You mean to tell me, my dear friend Caiden never even mentioned me?” He’s openly smirking now, and I want to wipe that smug look of his face, but more than that, I want to be alone. This whole thing is too much too quick, and yet, not enough. I still don’t know who he is, or what he wants from me. He’s revealed enough though that I’m confused and upset and…

  “Please, can I just have a few minutes alone to process this? I just need some time.” Already, I hate this man and asking him for something feels like submission, but I need time alone so badly, it’s one of ma
ny side effects from living alone so long. When my emotions start going crazy the only thing that helps is being alone. Right now, I’m terrified for myself and Caiden. I’m confused about this man and his ability to have a calm, seemingly civil conversation with me after kidnapping me. I’m angry about being kidnapped. Enough emotions are flowing through my body that it feels like I will be crushed by them any second, and I refuse to break in his presence.

  His disappointment is clear on his face as he answers me, “Sure. I can give you time. I’ll be back around lunch time. Maybe I can show you the house then?”

  He seems hopeful and disappointed that I want him to leave. Which again, seems crazy. Dude that I barely know is upset that I want to be by myself? What universe is this? Whatever disappointment he may feel, he stands up anyway.

  It’s the first time I have seen him standing and I’m shocked by his height. It’s hard to tell since I’m still sitting, but he must be about 6’5” and even through his clothes it’s obvious that he must live in the gym. Physically he is impressive. Extremely impressive. I’m not tiny, in fact I’m rather tall at 5’10” but I can tell he’d dwarf me. He walks to the door without another word or any response from me and quietly shuts it behind him.

  Despite my insistence that I need time alone I have the strangest desire to follow him. It’s like there is a string connecting us and every step he takes away from me pulls on something inside of me. I remind myself again that this is my kidnapper. Or the man who orchestrated my kidnapping. I do not have any desire to follow him. None. Right?

  As soon as the door clicks closed, I know I have to leave. Somehow, I have to find my way out of this place. I feel suffocated by all the information in this room and yet none of it is what I need to know. What I need above all else is what happens next.