C8 Chapter Eight

Keeping an eye on the door, I sit up and wrap the sheet around me, then hurry to the bathroom. When I’m finished and on the way out, I stop and look in the mirror. My face is pale, and my mascara in streaks on my cheeks from last night. My hair is a mess, the dark strands twisted and tangled. With quick fingers I feel along the updo and pull out the pins holding it in place. It falls around my face, and I sweep it back as best I can and drape it over one shoulder. Then I wash my face, scrubbing off the makeup until I look more like myself. My mother had instructed the makeup artist to make me look like a doll, a perfect one with red lips and smoky eyes. The artist had done a great job, but it wasn’t me. The woman in the dress marrying Henrico-before he was murdered-it wasn’t me. This woman--she isn’t me, either. I’m only going through the motions, trying to feel some sense of control. But I know I have none. Not in this place. Not with that man.

I turn and leave the bathroom, then stop in front of my tattered dress. It still lies in a pile on the floor. There’s no salvaging it. Maybe that’s a good thing, or maybe that simply reflects my own state. I’m torn, too, ripped in more ways than I can count. Being sold to Massimo-because that’s what happened, my father sold me-only added to the ribbons of torn and raw flesh inside me.

“Lorenzo, I wish you were here,” I whisper, though my brother can no longer hear me. He’s gone, his body buried deep and part of me interred with him.

I go to the windows and look outside. Other than a guard patrolling three stories below, the grounds are quiet in the morning light. The grass is well manicured, and there’s a rose garden beneath this side of the house. Beyond are the trees that ring the estate, blocking access to the rest of the world. I may as well be on the surface of Mars.

I return to the bed and sit down heavily, then adjust my makeshift toga so that it covers more of my shoulders. My eyes drift to the door again, fear tiptoeing up my spine at the thought of Massimo standing just outside the way he did last night.

My fingers clutch the sheet a little more tightly, my anxiety rising as I stare at the door handle, waiting for it to turn and my next torture to begin.

It doesn’t.

I wait for what must be an hour. Random sounds filter up to me, none of them particularly distinct-male voices, doors closing, and other noises of a house waking up.

My mind drifts and seizes on last night. On the terror. On the … pleasure. I clench my eyes shut. Because that’s the wrong word for what he pulled from me. I may have orgasmed as the devil stared down at me with spiteful blue eyes, but it wasn’t pleasure. It was stolen. Yet another piece of me bitten off and chewed up.

When I work up the nerve to go to the door, I raise a shaking hand to the knob. It turns like it did last night. But this time when I swing it open, a monster isn’t waiting for me outside.

My heart seems to understand the reprieve, because it pumps a little faster as I enter the hallway. I keep one hand at my chest, clutching the sheet to ensure it stays put. When I reach the staircase I’d climbed the night before, I hesitate. What am I going to do? Just pop down the stairs and ask where my breakfast is?

I press the back of my palm to my mouth to stifle a brief, hysterical giggle. Maybe I’m finally cracking under all the pressure, losing my mind right along with my freedom. I take a deep, shaking breath and try to get myself under control.

I could just go back to the bedroom or pick another hiding spot, but I’m not foolish enough to try that again. He found me easily and toyed with me until I fell for his trick. And then he … I grip the railing hard as the memory surges through me again. Shame warms my cheeks, and I add that to the list of things I have to push down and bury. I can’t dwell on it right now, not if I want to survive. He hasn’t hurt me. Not yet. What he did was psychological torture more than anything else, but the way he handled that belt-I have no doubt he’ll use it on me if I don’t play his game to his liking. So that’s what I’ll do; I’ll play his game until I see a chance to run. It’s not what I want, and I certainly don’t want him to think I’m going to sit quietly and take his abuse, but what choice do I have? I have zero leverage. I have to get my bearings and stay out of Massimo’s crosshairs. Maybe then I can find a way out.

Mind made up, I drop quietly down the stairs and reach the second level. There’s more sound down here, voices and what sounds like pans clattering in a kitchen.I ease along the hallway of closed doors and pause when I get to where it opens into the foyer, the second floor looking down at the front door.