A Bedtime Story

by L. C. Moon

  “Yes… sir.” The word just slipped past her lips. She wasn’t sure why she called him that, but calling him by his name felt even weirder. Master Kayne wasn’t even an option.

  He lifted his brow, his expression slightly surprised, however pleased. He stared at her pensively then nodded. “Good night, Laura.”

  Day-4

  Laura lay awake for a long time in her bed, tossing and turning, his face imprinted on her mind. She had the weirdest nightmare. She was running desperately in a labyrinth made of stone, and the Secret Service-looking men were hunting her down. She was carrying a torch, running randomly down unknown paths until she turned into a dead end. He was already there, as if expecting her, dressed in black and looking strikingly devilish. He smiled seductively at her and crooked his finger, beckoning her to come to him. She wanted to turn back; she stumbled backward before noticing the security men had caught on and blocked the way behind her. Her eyes rounded, realizing too late she was already walking to meet him, slowly but surely, as if hypnotized. He pulled an arm out to her and brought her to him, enveloping her with his whole body. She leaned into him, into the warmth of his embrace, a sense of safety washing over her.

  Everything vanished around them, and it made her giggle. They were the only two people left in the world. The idea was strangely comforting. She looked up and smiled at him. He smiled back, lowered his face to hers, and huskily whispered in her ear, “Everything is going to be all right.” Her voice throaty, she obediently replied, “Yes, Master.”

  She closed her eyes as he pulled her even closer, holding her so tightly in his arms she couldn’t move. He started kissing down her neck, his hands caressing her arms, then lightly trailing down her back. She wanted to tell him something, tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. She couldn’t move a muscle, could only feel his hands all over her body, everywhere at the same time, as if he had a thousand of them, just like the mythical Greek giants. Panic took hold of her, and yet every sensation was heightened, every caress echoed throughout her body, and she didn’t know if she wanted it to end.

  She woke up panting, sweaty, and distraught. And much to her dismay, wet, in places she shouldn’t be. She tried not to analyze what it meant, just blocked it out completely. She couldn’t catch any shut-eye for the rest of the night, staring out the window until the sun crept up.

  When Olga came in to serve her breakfast, she seemed pleasantly surprised to see her sitting up in bed. “Good morning, Miss Spencer, you’re up early this morning. I hope you feel better. You gave us quite a scare last night.”

  She wondered why Olga would bring her breakfast if she thought she was asleep. Laura thought back to the previous night, to why she was up so early and blushed. She questioned Olga’s choice of the word “us”. Was she expected to believe he worried for her well-being?

  “Well, if you’re up to it, I can come back after you’ve finished your breakfast and give you the tour of the house?”

  “Yes, thank you, Olga,” Laura answered, attempting a feeble smile.

  Olga smiled back at her, visibly pleased.

  She returned about half an hour later. Laura was dressed and ready and actually quite anxious to leave her bedroom, eyeing the traitorous bed resentfully. In fact, for the first time since her arrival, she thought of escape. She knew it would be near impossible and shivered at the consequences she would face in the event of a failed attempt. Even if she succeeded, where would she go? They surely wouldn’t have trouble tracking her down. She didn’t have Peter’s skill, knowledge, or paranoia to survive so long on the run. Still, she needed to maintain the hope that she would one day leave this house, but first she had to know her enemy.

  The house looked different in the midday light. She noticed the security men roaming outside the house; she tensed, glad not to run into any of them inside. She followed Olga around quietly in and out of every room. There was a cozy small room in the eastern wing with a fluffy red couch, a small table, a desk, and a big TV. There were plants by the wall near the window. She immediately decided to claim it. The rest of the tour was uneventful, many rooms, bedrooms, more media/living rooms, although they looked more modern than hers. There was even a ballroom. Did people even throw balls nowadays? As they didn’t run into anyone else, Laura wondered if Olga did everything alone. Olga pointed out that a cleaning crew came by weekly and advised Laura it was best to ignore them, and they would do the same. In any case, they were Russian and didn’t speak English or French.

  In the western wing, Olga opened French double doors to a grandiose library. Endless books from ground to the ceiling filled every wall. Crafted within the high ceiling was a big glass dome made of churchlike stained glass, making the sunlight shine in vibrant hues. The bookshelves were made of intricately carved wood. Inner marble stairs circled around to the higher level with a finely sculpted ramp. It truly was breathtaking. Laura loved books, more than anything else in the world. She loved the escape they offered, the teachings they generously imparted, and most of all, she loved the promise each book held of a unique journey. She breathed “wow” as she rushed into the room, looking around excitedly. For a moment, she forgot where she was. She practically ran to the nearest row of books and started reading the titles, moving excitedly from one end of a shelf to the other. The books were classified by language. Most were in English, but there was an imposing section in Russian, Italian, and a good few in French. She recognized a few French classics, as she was fluent in French herself, being a Quebec native.

  She felt exhilarated and, for the first time in a long time, safe, amid old friends and wondrous suitors. She smiled as she languidly caressed the covers of beloved novels, elated with each title she recognized, past lovers she still cherished, Salinger, Steinbeck, Hugo, Sartre… There was even her first love, Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Between the Brontë sisters, she was definitely Team Emily. This was not a man’s library, she noted. A woman surely contributed to the inventory. She was suddenly flooded with the image of her, Kayne’s girlfriend, tall, breathtakingly beautiful, elegant, cultivated, graceful… A girl he might have loved, who had lived here, in her room, and whose unworn clothes Laura had now inherited. The idea bothered her. She wasn’t sure why, and she quickly dismissed it. She wouldn’t let anything taint this magical moment. Who knew when would be the next, if ever.

  The moment the thought entered her mind, Laura went on a mission to find it, her book, her greatest love, her one true love. The book that had saved her life many years ago when she was just a teenager, after Peter had left, and she was all alone in the world. She had to know if she’d find it there, Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf. She didn’t think she would find it. It wasn’t one of those famous cliché books you mentioned in the middle of a conversation to look smart. It was more of a cult-following kind of book. It had actually been the black sheep of the author, who had known glory through his other novels, but met heavy backlash over this one due to widespread misinterpretation.

  Steppenwolf was originally written in German, and seeing there was no such section, she looked for the English translation she had read herself. It was there. Her heart thumping, she retrieved the worn-out edition and held it close to her chest. Somehow this discovery had a huge impact on her. Someone, at some point, who lived in this very same house, bought it, read it, and liked it enough to leave wear-and-tear scars. That sole discovery gave humanity to this place. If someone like this could live in this house, maybe, just maybe, she could survive it.

  Slowly, she landed back on earth and found that Olga hadn’t moved from the doorframe, letting her have her moment, though sharing in her joy. Slightly embarrassed, she pointed to the book. “I’m so sorry… May I?”

  “Of course, Miss Spencer, please go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” For the first time, she said it out of gratitude.

  After the tour of the house was complete, Olga advised Laura that supper would be ready at seven, as always, and asked if she would like to be fetched or meet Ma
ster Kayne directly in the dining area. “Now that you know how to go about the house,” she added with a conspiring smile. As hard as she fought it, Laura’s resistance to this kind woman chipped away, little by little.

  Laura was a nervous wreck as dinnertime approached. She dreaded the thought of spending an entire evening alone with him. One part, intrigued by her recent discoveries, wanted to know more about her captor, and yet another part, all too aware of her nighttime disgrace, recoiled in horror at the prospect of his stares, the blushing that would incur, and the possibility that he could read her mind. But above all else, it was the cage, or the threat of it, that had her show up at seven on the dot to meet him. She chose to wear jeans with the loose-fitting purple hoodie, hoping to hide her femininity. Closets full of clothes were wasted on Laura.

  He checked her out, restraining a smile. “Good evening, Laura.” “Good evening,” she responded, her voice guarded.

  “Take a seat.” He pointed to the chair facing him. She obeyed. “Olga tells me you finally ventured out of your room.”

  “Yes…”

  When he realized she would say no more, he leaned back in his chair, considering her. “No more ‘sir’ today?” he taunted her, a cunning smile on his face.

  She turned bright red, cursing herself and her stupid nightmare. “Do you want me to call you that?” Her voice quivered, as she kept her eyes on the floor.

  His smile widened at witnessing her discomfort, his eyes glowing with wickedness. He ignored her question. “Shall we eat?”

  He served them generous portions of salmon and fresh garden salad. It was very simple and yet delicious. They ate quietly, her nerves thankful for the temporary respite. Every now and then, he looked at her, a sly smile on his face, causing her to look down every time. They kept up the dance the entire meal. When they finished eating, he reinitiated the conversation.

  “So, tell me about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.” He put emphasis on the word in a mock threat.

  “I don’t know… I don’t know what to tell you.” She felt put on the spot, she hated that feeling. It made her nervous, even more so now. It was too broad, she had no idea how to answer him. She always did badly with too many options, did even worse under pressure. She had no fight-or-flight response, only freeze.

  He sighed, throwing her an impatient stare.

  “Okay… hmm… I was born here in Montreal. I graduated from Concordia, hmm… I don’t know… I like soft music and long walks on the beach…” She threw him a sarcastic look.

  He looked taken aback for an instant, then frowned with understanding.

  Damn, he was upset. She often fell back on humor when uncomfortable or nervous and got in trouble for it. She didn’t want to this time. “Sorry… it was just a joke…” she added sheepishly.

  “I don’t care about school and jobs. What do you like?… Besides soft music and long walks on the beach,” he answered, the corner of his lips curling up.

  A sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh of relief, escaped her lips. “Well, reading. I love reading… and movies.”

  “What kind?”

  “Books or movies?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t know… very different types… Books, mostly fiction. I like mystery novels, fantasy, and coming-of-age stories, I guess. It’s hard to say… Do you like reading?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Your library is amazing…” she said in wonder. “Do you speak all those languages?”

  He hesitated before answering, as if realizing the conversation was turning on him, but deeming it harmless, he allowed it.

  “My Italian is very basic. But I speak Russian and French fluently.” He could sense the questions burning at the tip of her tongue and smiled indulgently, amused. “Go ahead, ask me what you want to ask.”

  Her brows furrowed. Of all the questions she was dying to ask, she was not sure which one to pick. She feared bringing up her brother would deteriorate into an interrogation, and her bleak vision of what lay in store for her warned against confirming her worst fears. She opted for safe, harmless chitchat.

  “Are you Russian?”

  “My father was. I was born here.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Any other question?” he added, an impish smile plastered on his face.

  “Yes… many…” she said softly, more for her own benefit.

  He smirked. “Well… you get one more.”

  “Okay… Did you… have it built? The library I mean.”

  “No. It was my mother’s,” he answered harshly, his eyes darkening. She thought it was a safe topic, but she had thought wrong. She squirmed in her seat a little at his sudden change in mood. She couldn’t help acknowledge, however, the smallest yet undeniably present relief she felt at the destruction of the pseudo-perfect girlfriend she had conjured earlier.

  He was staring at her with an unreadable expression by the time she looked back at him.

  “What about boyfriends? Do you have one?”

  The question caught her off guard, and she just shook her head in response.

  He smiled at her, pleased with her answer. “But you’ve had boyfriends before…”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How many?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation was taking. “Two.”

  “Just two?”

  “Well… yes… they were long-term kinda relationships…”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Okay…” Her discomfort was palpable. “I met Jarred in school when I was sixteen. We were high school sweethearts. We were together for two years, then he went off to college, and we broke it off.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Who broke it off?”

  “It was mutual.”

  “It’s never mutual. Who made the decision?”

  She took a deep breath. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, we were growing apart… He was a really nice guy. I just… we just grew apart.”

  “And the other?”

  “Eric?” Her jaw tensed.

  He nodded.

  “Eric too was a nice guy,” she responded mechanically, her eyes darting about the room.

  “So you like nice guys,” he remarked unconvinced, barely restraining a smirk.

  “Well… yes… that’s pretty normal,” she replied defensively.

  “You’d be surprised…” he purred, his eyes dark, his voice silky, then added in a commanding tone, “Go on, and what happened with Eric?”

  “I met him in college. We were together for three years. It didn’t work out.” She stuck to the facts, steering clear of the painful emotions associated with his memory.

  “Why didn’t it work out?” he asked, intrigued by the distress in her eyes, and strangely, aggravated that another was the cause.

  She took a long breath, closing her eyes, as if prepping herself. “He proposed.”

  His brows shut up in surprise. “And so you broke up with him? Maybe she doesn’t like the nice guys so much after all…” he teased.

  “No. It wasn’t like that… I didn’t want to break up,” she confessed, fiddling nervously with her fingers.

  His silent stare made it clear further information was required.

  “He wanted children.” Her voice cracked.

  “And you didn’t?”

  “No… I couldn’t… I can’t… have children.” She finally looked up at him, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

  She expected him to badger her further, to laugh, to be cruel, but he remained silent, staring at her intently.

  No one ever knew, not even Eric. She had wanted to tell him, but a voice inside of her warned her against it. He would have stayed. And she would have hated herself for making him give up his dream, and he would have resented her just as much for it. So she remained quiet when he called her cold and heart
less, held back her tears as he threw the ring to the floor, and stormed off, slamming the door on his way out. She watched him leave, crying by herself in the one-bedroom studio. She picked up the gold band containing the tiniest diamond possible and wept. It had taken him months to save up for it. It had taken her one word to break its magic.

  Only Peter ever knew. Always, Peter. It was him who made the appointment and sat by her side at the doctor’s office. She was only fifteen, and her periods had failed to start. Blurry memories of that day, long tucked away in the recesses of her mind, resurfaced by pieces. A faceless white coat, white hair, white walls. Words like primary amenorrhea, congenital defect, failure of the ovary to receive or maintain eggs… They didn’t mean anything to her then. If anything, she remembered feeling relieved at never having to go through painful menstrual cramps as so many of the girls her age did.

  She recalled Peter’s shattered face. His voice wanting to be comforting barely masked the pain. “Oh, Laura, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” he kept repeating, as if he was the cause of it.

  She couldn’t understand his sorrow. It would be years later, clutching at an engagement ring from the man who had just walked out of her life, that she understood the magnitude of it.

  Kayne was looking at her. She seemed far away, as if she had forgotten about him. Usually, it would have aggravated him, and yet he felt like a privileged insider, looking in through the hourglass.

  “You never told anyone?” he asked, a softness creeping in his voice.

  She slowly shook her head in response.

  For an instant, he felt for her, wanted to comfort her. Watching her head bent sideways, the errand strand of hair covering her face, he almost reached over.

  “Have you been with anyone else since?” he inquired, seemingly unaffected.

  She looked up, peeking through heavy lids. “What do you mean?” “Casual dates, one-night stands… a fuck friend maybe?” he asked, playful wickedness back in his eyes.

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently.

  “Such a good girl.”

  She blushed. “Do you… have a girlfriend?” she asked tentatively, trying to divert the attention away from herself.