by Lana Sky
The words aren’t directed to me, but that voice…
“Briar?” I whisper, pressing my ear harder to the wall. It must be thin enough that she can hear me, whoever she is. But the voice falls silent.
“Please. Briar, is that you?”
In a room that potentially isn’t locked?
Desperate, I risk raising my voice. “Please answer me. Briar… Please.”
But no matter how many times I call, she never replies.
Chapter 8
When the door to my cell opens again, I’m huddled on the floor, forced to scramble to my feet as Robert enters.
“Good news,” he declares, his lips parted in a glorious smile. “The doctor believes your face can be saved.”
He pauses and I can’t resist habit driven in through years of obedience. Almost without prompting from my brain, my lips pry apart and I croak, “Th-that’s wonderful—”
“With a few minor surgeries, you’ll be your old self in no time,” Robert agrees, still grinning. Then his eyes slide down to observe the rest of my battered limbs and his mouth flattens. “I’ve brought you something to wear, love.”
He’s flanked by a maid who approaches the bed and lays a dress across the foot of it. It’s blue, made of silk, perfectly tailored. One of mine, I suspect, taken from my old wardrobe.
But I know for certain we aren’t at Winthorp Manor.
“Leave us,” Robert snaps at the woman, who scurries away.
She closes the door with a soft thud and my courage dies with it.
“My darling…”
I’m frozen as he advances and smooths his hands down my newly washed shoulders. For what feels like an eternity, his gaze roves from my injured face downward. With every inch traveled, his eyes narrow further.
In disgust.
I hope so. So fiercely that it hurts. He’ll storm away and let me heal, too repulsed to try to reclaim what another monster has already messed over. I barely recognize the battered, bruised limbs revealed beneath the ivory cotton.
But then he fingers a lock of my hair, twisting the gleaming strands.
“You’re still so beautiful.” He sounds surprised by that fact. His flared nostrils inhale the air and his eyes flutter shut as he processes my scent. “I’ve missed you. The thought of you in that place…” He opens his eyes and I’m shocked to find that they’re watering. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head and gently caresses my cheek. “It doesn’t matter. You’re safe now.”
Safe. That word circles my skull as I resist the urge to cringe from his touch. It’s such a vicious taunt. Safe. Safe. Safe.
“I will never let you go again,” he swears.
My spine goes rigid when he leans in, but all he does is press his mouth across my jaw. Cold lips linger over Mischa’s brand, imparting a sting I haven’t felt since the wounds were freshly carved there.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes against the scars. “I don’t know how that little bitch—” Breaking off, he glowers at the wall. “Just know that I never intended for you to be hurt.”
“Briar,” I guess, treating her name with all the care of a live grenade. “Is she alive?”
“For now.” His callous shrug catches me off guard. He and his sister had their own twisted rivalry, but I’ve never heard him refer to her so coldly before. “You don’t have to worry about her. She’s somewhere where she can’t meddle, the little cunt. I don’t know how she knew… It doesn’t matter. She couldn’t gloat for long.”
But I remember her face as she appeared in the woods. My proud sister didn’t look devious or triumphant then. She looked terrified.
“I have something for you.” Robert returns his attention to me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Something I should have returned to you a long time ago… What is this?” He swipes his finger along my throat and I don’t register reaching up to stop him.
The necklace. That was what I was trying to protect. I realize that belatedly as white spots explode over my vision, and I regain awareness on my knees, tasting blood.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Robert hisses as he and the rest of the room fade in and out of focus.
Dazed, I watch him shake out the fingers of his right hand and rub at the knuckles.
“I’m sorry. But why did you make me—do you realize what I’ve gone through without you? And this?” He brandishes a delicate chain between his fingers. My necklace. He must have torn it off, the source of his ire. “What the fuck is this?”
“Robert…” A sharp pain makes me swipe my hand across my mouth. In shock, I gape as my fingers come away red—an accessory as familiar to me as the dress on the bed is. Both compose my costume: a battered, caged bird.
“What?” he snarls, rounding on my position.
“It’s my mother’s,” I murmur awkwardly while more liquid drips down my chin. “The necklace. I think it was my mother’s—”
“She’s dead,” he snaps. Then he blinks and shakes his head, tucking the chain into his pocket. “I’ll get you a new one, love. Would you like that? Something prettier.”
A beautiful collar.
“But this? The fucking woman should have taken it. I’ll have her beaten for this.” He starts to pace, still muttering. “I don’t want anything to remind you of that degenerate. He’s fucked you, hasn’t he?” His sharp bark of laughter chills my blood. “Of course he has. It’s okay. I forgive you. You survived and you’re back now. You’re safe. No one else will ever have you.”
As his eyes glow a poisonous brown, all doubt is stripped away. This is the man I know.
Dread solidifies in my stomach, and nothing is clearer: If I stay in this cage, I’ll never leave it again.
There is only one way out. It’s the same dilemma I faced when assaulted by Nicolai, and the tactic I used then is my weapon now.
Rebellion.
“Let me go.”
He stiffens, frowning in confusion. “What did you say?”
I swallow, sensing the danger building in his narrow frame. His fingers flex, already reddening from his previous strike. “Just let me go,” I whisper, cradling my throbbing jaw. “I can’t live like this. Just let me go…”
“Go?” Uncertainty disrupts his rage. He almost resembles the boy he was what seems like a lifetime ago, mulling over the best way to get his point across to my ignorant brain. “Back to him?”
“Anywhere,” I rasp. “I can’t live like this anymore—”
“He’s brainwashed you.” He shakes his head, his expression crestfallen. “My sweet Elle—”
“No!” I meet his gaze, imploring him to listen. “I’m not brainwashed. I’m not broken. And he may be a degenerate, but at least… He knows what he is. And his name is Mischa—”
Bam! A monstrous crash resonates through the wall. From the other room.
“Fuck.” Robert flushes red and I’m instantly forgotten. “That dumb bitch.”
Whirling on his heel, he throws the door open and storms into the hall. I hear the click of another door opening nearby. The room beside mine?
“I’m sorry,” a woman pleads a second later, but her voice is higher than Briar’s could ever be. Plaintive. “It just fell. I’ll clean it up—”
A sharp thwack muffles her cry.
“Can you not serve one goddamn purpose?” Robert hisses. I can picture him towering above a cowering figure as he wipes his stinging hand on the front of his suit. “You’ve ruined everything. Maybe I should sell you now? What else are you good for?”
The woman mumbles something unintelligible and another slap cuts her off.
“Enough,” Robert bellows. “We’ll return to the manor tonight and I will hire your replacement—”
“Please,” the woman begs. “Not…not in front of him.”
Him. Another man?
No. Those cries weren’t hers I realize. They were too soft. Too high-pitched.
“He will learn,” Robert snarls. “You see this woman? She is replaceable.”
A
s he rages, I finally notice that the door to my room is open.
I could run. I am, staggering to my feet, lunging toward the doorway.
But I’m too late.
Robert appears before me, his expression flickering as he takes in my breathless stance paces from freedom.
Beyond him, a lush, carpeted hallway extends out of my view.
“You need more rest,” Robert says while reaching for the doorknob. “Once we’re home… Everything will be as it was. I promise.” He smooths his hand over my cheek.
Then he leaves.
And I break.
I’m too hollow for tears. All I can do is breathe raggedly, my face pressed against the floor. Faint cries still emanate from the other room, echoing mine and cementing the chilling reality.
I’ll never leave.
And even if Mischa comes after me, with Robert’s resources, he would never make it through the front door.
“Shhh,” the woman in the other room soothes. “Shhh. Please hush, my darling.”
“Ama,” the softer voice wails in response.
Who are they? Mafiya captives? New additions to his supposed sex trade?
Crawling to the wall, I rap my knuckles against it. “Ama?” I call tentatively. “Is that your name?”
Both figures fall silent.
“Please.” Biting my lip, I try again, knocking even louder. “Answer me, please. I won’t hurt you—”
“He’ll hear you,” the woman whispers frantically. “His spies are always listening.”
My fingers tremble, leaving streaks of sweat over the wallpaper. Despite everything, one fact strikes me more than any other. I’ve dealt with plenty of Robert’s favorite maids and whores—but she sounds like…me.
Her fear. The hitch in her voice. Those subtle clues prove to me that she isn’t some recent captive. No, she’s been under his thumb for much longer.
“We need to leave,” I risk whispering. “I can’t stay here. I won’t.”
I shut my eyes against a telltale burn, keeping any tears at bay.
“Do you know where we are?” I ask.
Silence.
Gritting my teeth in frustration, I turn from the wall and brace my back against it. “I can’t stay here,” I repeat, though more to myself than anyone else. “I’d rather die than stay here. I’ll die…”
There are a multitude of ways I could usher along that inevitable ending. The bathtub would be the easiest option. I’d only need to find something sharp. It’s Marnie’s method, but maybe I finally understand how she must have felt. This oppressive, suffocating need to run.
I can’t stay here.
“Hotel.”
“What?” I turn to the wall again, pressing my ear against it so tightly that it hurts. “What did you say?”
“We’re in a hotel,” the woman replies hoarsely. “I think so… But an old one. One he owns. It’s in the middle of nowhere. The windows are locked. There are guards in front of every door. There is no escape.”
No… I squeeze my eyes shut and dig my nails into my palms so viciously that I break the skin. No escape.
Is that so? Mischa would taunt were he here. You’re just taking the easy fucking way out. You want to stay with him. Admit it.
“Never,” I snarl out loud. I sound insane—but it’s all I have. Arguing with a phantom.
Helpless, I eye the ceiling and another grim plan forms: a makeshift rope with the bedsheets tied to a sturdy post. Hanging. Could I do it? In my morbid search, my eyes keep returning to a unique square-shaped cut-out closed off with metal slats.
A vent.
Cautiously, I lurch to my feet. Without something to climb on, it’s too far out of my reach, and the wardrobe towers too high to stand on. Frantic, I race toward the bed, but the frame is solid wood, impossible to budge.
“Hello,” I call to the other woman. “Is there a vent in your ceiling?”
“Yes,” she whispers back. “But I can’t reach it.”
“Damn it.” I fight against the panic building in my skull, warning me that it’s futile. Just give in. “Is there anything heavy in your room? A table? Anything you can move or stand on?”
I hear a scraping sound like someone rising to their feet. Then soft, hesitant footsteps. Finally, I sense her return to the wall.
“Yes,” she says. “There is a table.”
“Good.” It takes everything I have to keep my building hope from my voice. “If you stand on it, do you think you can reach the vent?”
More silence.
“Yes,” she says nearly a minute later. “I…I think so.”
“Thank God.” I swallow hard, knowing that what I’m asking is more than anyone ever should of a stranger. But this isn’t the time for pleasantries. “I need you to climb into the vent, Ama. If you come to my room, you can open mine. If you can bring me a sheet, anything like a rope, then I can climb. We can leave.”
It’s far-fetched. I know that even as the plan leaves my mouth. Far-fetched. Stupid. Futile.
But it’s all I have.
“If we can make it out—no. I know we can make it. I know we can.”
I hear nothing from the other end, but for good, I suspect. Ama’s stopped listening.
But I can’t stop talking.
“He’ll kill you,” I tell her. “He’ll kill me too.”
One day, eventually. I know as much with a certainty even Mischa’s madness couldn’t inspire.
“But I can’t stay here. Not anymore. And you have a child with you?”
I hear a sharp intake of air.
“Yes,” she admits.
“Then please…”
Silence falls again and I’m too tired to make another attempt. Instead, I curl onto my side and will my conscious mind far away.
It turns to Mischa, a fitting tool to compound on Robert’s prison; before he can do it, I’ll drive myself insane.
I can feel him inside me, my own devious, maddening parasite. Is this how it ends, Little Rose? he taunts. With you on your knees, too pathetic to run? No. Get the fuck up. Try again. Run!
Gasping, I pull myself upright, clinging to the wall for balance. My first few steps carry me in a pathetic circle. Then farther. Faster. Feeling along the walls, I test for any breaks. When that fails, I try moving the bed again. Then I retest the windows, running my fingers along the impenetrable wood. Still, I keep moving. Thinking. Trying—anything.
Everything.
I’ll give in by the end. Robert will come for me before dawn. I know it.
But still, I resist the inevitable for as long as I can, even if it hurts.
Even if it leaves me too tired to fight back when my captor returns. Even if it leaves me exhausted and panting, I keep trying.
Eventually, I sink onto the bed, my face in my hands. Winthorp Manor looms, my virtual gallows. Once I enter beyond those gleaming walls, I know I’ll never come back out. At least not as the woman I am now—Mischa’s spiteful Little Rose.
Something tickles my nose and I jolt to awareness. There’s no one around. My door is still closed, but cool air ruffles my hair…
Coming from above.
“Please hurry,” a soft voice calls.
Looking up, I see the vent hanging open and a pale hand reaching from beyond like the madness only possible in a dream.
“All I have is a sheet,” my rescuer says weakly. “It’s secured to my waist, but you need to climb quickly.”
As I gape, a tightly curled strip of ivory descends from the darkness.
I don’t hesitate to grab it. But within seconds, I realize the full daunting nature of what my reckless planning requires.
I’m still physically weak, healing from multiple fractures and a severed finger. Climbing at all is hard—but without Mischa’s ruthless strength to spur me on, it’s damn near impossible. My feet dangle helplessly, inches off the ground.
It’s hopeless…
Enough! I shake my head to clear it and reach higher. Then higher. Sweat
beads on my forehead and pours down my shoulders, slicking my nightgown to my flesh. I’m moving too slowly. Any minute, Robert will return and this will all be in vain.
Fear of that outcome spurs me faster even as my muscles scream in protest. Closing my eyes, I focus on inching higher despite the searing pain. Higher. Finally, I lift my hand and my fingers strike a firm surface.
“I’ll help you,” Ama whispers and her hands grab mine. It’s a struggle to pull myself the final distance, but finally, I’m fully inside the vent, panting on the frigid metal.
“We need to move,” I say as Ama wrestles the vent closed after me.
She’s pale up close, with long, dark hair shrouding her lithe frame. Behind her, an even smaller figure huddles out of sight.
“I don’t think these extend far,” she whispers. “They might be able to hear us through them.”
My blood runs cold at the thought. This is insane, a part of me insists. I should climb down. Wait for Robert. If he finds us now, it will be so much worse.
“I think we can go this way.” Ama tugs my hand and shuffles forward.
I follow, suppressing a cough as dust and grime catch beneath my fingers. I don’t know how far we go before she reaches back.
“It’s a dead end.” Her voice shakes, racked with terror. “We have to go down.”
Down leads into darkness glimpsed only through the slats of another vent.
“I’ll go first.” I lift the grate and reach for the coiled sheet still trailing from Ama’s waist.
“I’m okay,” she whispers as I hesitate. “Just…hurry.”
I climb down, suppressing a groan as my muscles strain, pushed to their limit. Feet from the floor, my arms give way and I drop down, landing hard.
Bang! The solid thud echoes as my heart stops. Any moment, Robert or one of his men will come rushing. Seconds pass as the air sticks in my lungs.
But no one comes. Yet.
Scrambling upright, I race to get my bearings. Smooth tile flooring betrays that this isn’t one of Robert’s suites. Faint light enters from a single window, providing just enough context to the shadows to make out where we are: a room filled with towering metal squares stacked one on top of the other.
A laundry room?