by Skye Warren
A pause.
“I’m not proud of this, but most days I pretend I grew up with two loving parents.” A small laugh. “I even invented a husband. He was strong enough to protect me, but always gentle.”
I put my hand on hers and squeeze.
Her small eyes meet mine, wide open, shimmering with tears. “And then I met Richard, the security guard you heard me talking to, when he came for the first installation here. It was shocking enough to me that he wanted me—me.”
She looks down at her body, with her generous curves and thick arms. Her cheeks turn pink. “Especially with how he looks.”
The man with the silver hair. They’re together.
“That’s what we were talking about. It was one thing to steal an hour away with him. Another to leave the safety of Gabriel’s home and marry Richard. I was worried that Gabriel would see it as a betrayal. Didn’t he deserve my loyalty?”
That’s what they were whispering about. A thread of gladness winds through me, that she found someone to appreciate her. That she found someone to appreciate in turn.
“But Gabriel wouldn’t have been angry with me,” she says softly. “I think that was an excuse, because I was afraid. Afraid that I wouldn’t survive outside these walls. Afraid that Richard would hate me once he knew the truth.”
As quickly the feeling is doused by that persistent blackness, because there’s no way to be happy without acknowledging the sadness. Better to float here in this place, where nothing hurts me. Nothing horrifies me.
“Of course I kept my past a secret, but they’re very thorough with the background checks. Turns out Richard knew all along. He finally told me. Told me it didn’t matter, either.”
She looks away, at the bowl of soup that no longer steams. “I don’t know everything that happened to you. But I know that Gabriel won’t hold it against you. He has his own past. And like Richard says to me, the things that happened to us, they only make us stronger.”
With her flyaway graying hair and twinkling eyes, Mrs. B may come across as soft. Maybe even weak, if you don’t know about the inner strength in a woman with her history. She lived through hell and came out the other side as a woman who can laugh and love.
And I have faith in Penny’s ability to do the same.
I’m not made of marble or anything hardy like that. I’m built from crystal flutes and rare silk. From the brushstrokes of my mother’s portrait. I’m a shadow of a human being, only a cautionary tale whispered from mother to daughter. A collection of dangerous words. I’m a myth. And as long as I don’t speak, I can bury myself.
Chapter Thirty
I don’t feel anything while I’m nestled in Gabriel’s large bed. Not hunger. Not pain. Definitely not horror at what my biological father did to me. And that’s how I want to stay.
There’s a flicker of relief when Anders comes in. Alive.
He has the black bag with him, which he sets down on the bed. “You must be surprised to see me?” he says, a glint in his ice-blue eyes. “Disappointed I didn’t bleed out on the stairs.”
I’m not sure how much more death I can handle. None, really.
“Gabriel says you aren’t talking. I don’t suppose you’ll whisper something to me. He would be incredibly jealous. Imagine how fun that would be?”
His words have to travel the cottony padding of my mind before reaching me. Disappointment flashes on his face before he flips open the bag. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to poke and prod to figure out the answers myself.”
What he doesn’t realize is that I’m completely numb.
His hands. The cold flat of the stethoscope on my breastbone.
Pricks of needles drawing blood.
All of them pass like seconds ticking by, separate from me. My entire body, separate. It’s still a relief when he leaves, closing the door behind him. All I want to do is sleep.
“She has to want to get better.” Anders’s voice crashes through the closed door, despite his attempt to keep it low. “If she won’t eat, won’t fight for it, there’s nothing I can do—medically speaking.”
“What is there to do not medically speaking?” That’s Gabriel.
“There’s a reason they revoked my license.”
“She’s wasting away in there. I can see her bones. Every day I go in, I’m afraid she won’t open her eyes. Every breath she takes, I’m afraid it will be her last.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Anders says dispassionately. “Heart failure, probably.”
A loud crash. Probably a fist against a jaw, my mind calculates without emotion. Followed by ceramic breaking and wood splintering. The oriental vase and antique hallway table. Priceless. And now it’s broken into a million pieces.
“Fuck.” Anders’s voice sounds muffled.
“That’s not good enough. Tell me how to help her.”
When the other man speaks again, there’s a slight lisp as if his lip has puffed. “Sometimes with patients who have a significant trauma, they’ll induce a coma. To protect the brain.”
“You’re saying you want to induce a coma?”
“I’m saying she’s in one. The brain patterns. The metabolism. Her body has done it.”
“But she can still hear me. Sometimes she looks at me.”
“Yes, and if it were done by drugs, she wouldn’t do that. But the body doesn’t exactly measure things in vials before injecting her. The goal is to protect her, and her physiology is doing that.”
“So then I should leave her this way?”
“Well, she’ll definitely die. Fevers are also mechanisms to protect the body, raising the heat level to kill off infections. But too high a fever can kill the brain cells, too. They can kill the very person they’re designed to protect.”
“I swear to God—”
“Jesus, stop. Don’t fucking hit me. I’m telling you the truth. Repressed memories, they’re buried for a reason. Because the mind can’t process the trauma. The fire probably triggered her PTSD from what happened as a child. Then caring for Penny, that probably helped uncover the memories. Or maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe being kept in this place reminded her of being trapped at home as a child.”
“You’re saying I did this to her.”
“I’m saying the brain is complex. What I do know is this—Jonathan Scott is a sick fuck who caused a deep psychological trauma when she was young. And her body suspended the effects of that trauma until now.”
“So you need to snap her out of this.”
“No,” Anders says, sounding farther away. “You do.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“This wasn’t induced by drugs. We can’t use them to snap her out, either.”
“It was induced by her father being a sick fuck who violated her,” Gabriel snaps.
I can practically hear the shrug in Anders’s voice. “Maybe fuck her, then.”
“Out.”
“I’m just saying. It can’t hurt at this point.”
“Get the fuck out or you’ll be flat on the ground. I can’t promise I won’t break your jaw this time.”
Loud swearing fades away, because Anders may be crude, but he isn’t stupid. Anyone could tell that Gabriel is serious about that threat. The violence vibrates through his voice—through the air, even in the silence that follows. I can feel it crackle over my skin like electricity, an unwelcome reminder that I can still feel. Despite everything, I can still feel.
I suppose that’s why the word violated feels like the tip of an iron poker, tinged red with heat, imprinting right on my heart, smoke rising above me. It smells like burned skin, like burned hope.
When Gabriel walks into the room, I’m lying on the bed where I always am. My eyes are closed like they always are. My body is still like it always is. But already it feels a little different. I’m more aware of him, of his intent. His determination.
“Hello, little virgin.”
The words are c
asual, but the undercurrent is far from benign.
“I’ve been reading your books. I hope you don’t mind. It didn’t look like you were using them.”
Ah, sarcasm. However drily delivered, it’s a sure sign that he’s reached the end of his patience.
“Of course everyone’s heard of the Oedipus complex. Every man’s inherent desire to kill his father. Kind of morbid. In my case, stunningly accurate.”
A strange ache beats beneath the darkness.
“It’s the entire point of chess, according to Freud’s protégé. The unconscious motive. Killing your father, in the form of the king. Did you know that?”
More than that, disciples of Freudian psychology even gave sexual connotation to the death—to castrate the father. Checkmate as the ultimate sexual revenge.
“Of course you know,” he says, still mild. “You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met. The strongest. The most beautiful. Does that shock you, little virgin?”
I don’t believe him. The words ring false, a definite lie. Except that Gabriel never lies to me.
“The awkward part of the Oedipal complex turns out not to be murder, but the idea that you have to marry your mother. Is that required, do you think? Is it a complex if you never knew your mother?”
My heart clenches.
“A prostitute, for sure. She died during childbirth. Or he killed her.”
I open my eyes, meeting his burning gaze.
“I don’t know if she was smart or strong. Probably beautiful, for my father to bother with her.”
Stop. The word hovers on my tongue. I don’t say it.
Stop blaming yourself.
He unbuttons his shirt, and my eyes widen. “I understand you’d like to stay silent and small. To hide in a place where Jonathan Scott can’t touch you. And that’s hard to do, isn’t it? When he found you in your bedroom. In your mind, even. All you did was speak, and you were his.”
His movements are brisk as he undresses—his belt, his shoes. His pants.
Oh God, he’s really doing this. Maybe fuck her, then.
It can’t hurt at this point.
I’m a little horrified at the idea that he’s going to do this. A little curious, too.
He pulls his undershirt over his head, revealing a taut stomach and broad chest. He’s a muscled bronze, so much darker than my pale skin that hasn’t seen the sun in days.
The only thing he’s wearing are briefs that cling to his manhood. He’s hard, I realize. All I’ve done is lie here, and he’s hard. My breath holds as I wait for him to shed the remainder of his clothes. As I wait for him to fuck me. Part of me wants him to, just to prove that I won’t feel it.
Nothing can touch me like this.
Instead he disappears into the bathroom. Protection, maybe.
The water turns on, a thunder that I haven’t heard in the weeks since I’ve been here. Mrs. B comes with a pail of warm water and a washcloth each morning. Gabriel returns, walking toward me with the ferocity of an ancient warrior. My heart lurches as he lifts me from the bed, still wearing a white tank top and sleep shorts.
He carries me into the large tub, dunking us both into the warm water. It laps at my skin, a blast of intensity across every nerve ending. A gasp escapes me, echoing off the ceramic. The tender scent of strawberries rises from the water—the soap I ordered from the Amish farmer, I realize. My lips turn up in a smile. I try to force it down, but there’s too much at once—Gabriel’s body surrounding me, the immersion of water. Every sense bombarded. Every defense destroyed. Almost. Somehow I hold on.
“Stubborn,” Gabriel murmurs. “That’s another thing about you. Headstrong.”
He rubs shampoo into my scalp, and the pleasure is enough to close my eyelids, to force a deep breath from my body. I curl against him, letting him pet me.
“And sensual,” he murmurs. “You think I don’t know you, that you’re just a warm body to me, but I know enough to use against you. I know how to break you if I need to.”
His hands roam lower, down my neck and across my shoulders. Sensation blooms throughout my body, not only the places he touches me. Down my spine and between my legs. All the way to my toes. As if I’m discovering my body again.
As if he’s uncovering it after so long buried.
“Maybe that’s the wrong thing to do,” he says, his hands tight on my hips. “Maybe I should let you stay there, hidden, if that’s what you want to do. Shouldn’t it be your choice?”
I don’t answer, because we both know my choice doesn’t matter. Not in this bathtub, not on Gabriel’s estate. Not while I belong to him. My choice didn’t matter from the moment Damon Scott said, “Sold.”
“I’m selfish enough to make you come back,” he says, almost tender. “Selfish enough to insist you go on living, even knowing it’s going to hurt you. God, you’re going to be in agony. You’ve been protecting yourself from it.”
I shiver, aware of the pain that awaits me. There’s no way to avoid it, not with the full force of Gabriel’s will upon me. Selfish, that’s what he called himself. Though maybe I’m selfish for wanting to stay like this, safe and blanketed.
“I know you’re afraid. You should be, after what happened to you. Your father betrayed you. He sold you. He definitely didn’t deserve you for a daughter.”
The realization sinks in as warm and welcome as this water—that he didn’t deserve me. And the corollary: that I didn’t deserve what he did to me.”
“And then what Jonathan Scott did…” Gabriel swears. “You’re worried you’re crazy, but what that motherfucker did is certifiable. This? This is a sane reaction to that kind of abuse. This is normal.”
Can that be true? I was sure that I was insane—whether I was born that way or was driven to the brink by the voices in the walls. Either way the result was the same. Except Gabriel doesn’t seem to think I’m insane. Neither did Anders. It’s like a sickness. Temporary. Like the beating my father took after his downfall, but this one bruised my soul. And Gabriel’s nursing me back to health with emotional chicken soup.
I blink at him, drops of water heavy on my lashes.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
My lips move but no sound comes out.
“That’s right. You won, little virgin.” He laughs, rough and dark. “I’m not humble, so I can admit it hasn’t happened often. But I can’t deny it anymore. I can’t eat, can’t sleep. Even the thought of you being hurt is enough to paralyze me.”
I know what it feels like for a body to brace for pain. It’s what I’ve been doing ever since Jonathan Scott confessed what he did. So I recognize the tension that enters Gabriel’s body.
“You own the board now.”
Checkmate.
Part of me wonders what he means by that. The other part of me is distracted by the way his hands slide down my stomach. Down, down, to the thatch of hair grown wild in the time I’ve been bedridden. A daily wash doesn’t include a daily shave, and I’m suddenly very aware of the natural state of my body. He doesn’t seem put off. If anything, his cock hardens beneath my ass as he runs his fingers through the curls.
He strokes me without urgency, almost petting me, as if he could do this for hours, for days. Every touch of his fingers, gentle, with water swirling against my sex, sends me deeper into the dream space.
It isn’t the nightmare with fire and voices. This is cleansing. Purifying, as if he took me apart only to put me back together. When his fingers nudge my clit, it feels both inevitable and yet entirely new. He draws gentle strokes, writing letters across my sensitive skin, leaving his mark, indelible. I sigh, pressing my face to his neck, breathing deeply of his musk.
When I come, it isn’t with explosions or rainbows. There’s only the glint of gold, the slightest spark of life, as I murmur, “Gabriel.”
His expression turns tender. “There you are.”
Have I returned from somewhere? It feels like I’ve been asleep a thousand years instead of a week. Like I’ve dreamed my en
tire life, only to come awake this moment. “Please.”
“Tell me what you need,” he says, grave and sure.
There’s only one answer I can give, only one thing a pawn truly wants. And that’s all I’ve ever been. To my father. To Gabriel. The whole world sees me as a piece to be played. And I can never really be safe as long as I’m being moved around the board against my will.
“Set me free,” I whisper.
His eyes blaze with emotion. “Say it again, little virgin.”
“Freedom.”
And whatever happens next, I know that I am changed. I can no longer defend a king who doesn’t value me, the pawn who faces the enemy front lines. I can no longer fight for my own virtue, a knight who wields her sword in service. And I can no longer hide behind the walls of Gabriel’s castle. I’m a queen in my own right, whether I fall or fight another day, whatever my next move, wherever I land. I have the whole board to consider, every direction available. My fate may not decide the game, but I can go anywhere I want.
The queen has freedom the king does not. She decides her own fate.
Chapter Thirty-One
I wake up alone in the bed, blinking into the darkness. Shadows tell me it’s early morning, before I would normally expect breakfast. My body hums pleasantly from the bath the night before. The bed smells like Gabriel, but he’s not here. The sheets on either side of me are cool beneath my fingertips.
For a moment I wonder in silence—and then I remember.
My mouth works. I swallow. “Gabriel?”
The sound is scratchy and halting, so I try again, stronger this time.
No one answers. Maybe he went to a different bedroom. Or to his office. There are a hundred places he could be in this house, a thousand valid reasons for him to be absent from his bed. Why did I wake up? Did I hear something? Did the house shift?
A sense of urgency propels me to sit up. I need to find him.
I push the heavy blankets aside, suddenly finding them suffocating.
My feet touch the carpet for the first time in a week. My toes curl in pleasure at the softness, trapping the fibers beneath them.