The fingers prodding at my shoulder shocks me into awareness. My hands jolt up instinctively, a shocked noise escaping my throat as I’m ripped from the deep sleep I was lost in.
It takes me a minute to adjust. The figure in front of me steps back, and I blink up at her in confusion until I remember.
That farce of a fucking trial.
Oakbourne Manor.
Them.
The woman that greeted us last night – Ellen – watches me closely, impeccably dressed in a tidy blue blouse and charcoal gray skirt. “Good morning, Anastasia.”
I push myself upright, glancing around. It can’t be long after dawn. The kitchen looks pink in the early morning light, long shadows slowly retreating around us to reveal the wooden units, the giant aga cooker against the far wall. “Morning.”
Ellen purses her lips. “You can use the washroom to… freshen up. You have a busy day ahead.”
Right. Day one of… around seven thousand. Give or take.
I nod woodenly. I’m still aching as I scramble to my feet and make my way to the bathroom, Ellen’s eyes on my back. I wash up as best I can, swilling my mouth with water several times over before I take a breath and make my way back.
Ellen is pulling ingredients from the large refrigerator, stacking them up on the wooden counter. My stomach growls at all the food, and she glances at me. “I’m Ellen, in case you missed it last night. I’m the housekeeper. There’s also a maid, Clara, who you’ll meet tomorrow. She travels in for a few days each week to help out.”
I nod, standing awkwardly. “I’m Stasi.”
“I think the whole world knows who you are.” Ellen’s voice is a little shorter as she gestures me towards a tall stool. “Sit, and I’ll run through our routine.”
One whole hour later, I’m trying to wrap my head around the sheer list of tasks I’m apparently expected to do, courtesy of Silas. “And this is… every day?”
Ellen nods. “You get a slightly different schedule on a Sunday.”
I stare down at the list Ellen hands me. Up at dawn. Stoking the fire, helping with breakfast. Then to cleaning. Floors, windows, light fittings, even door hinges. Bathrooms. Bedding. Washing. Day after day, the same thing. Even things that don’t need to be done every day.
And that doesn’t include the chickens.
I feel a little light-headed as I blink up at Ellen. “Do I… get to eat?”
The edge of her lip curls up, just a little. “Meals will be provided to you.”
Well, that’s a significant improvement.
Carefully, I fold up the list. Ellen taps her fingers on the counter. “Any questions?”
Slowly, I shake my head. “It all seems pretty self-explanatory. Where do I find the equipment?”
“I’ll show you.” Ellen regards me for a moment longer. “No questions at all?”
“Uh…,” I glance down. “The chains?”
My hope fades away when Ellen shakes her head. “Maybe in a day or two. They were very clear.”
I swallow. I bet they were.
Blowing out a breath, I nod. “Alright. Um. Would it be possible to have a toothbrush?”
Ellen looks startled. “You don’t have one?”
I spread my hands out ruefully. “Do I look like I have a toothbrush? Or a change of clothes? Anything at all? I came straight from a cell.”
Ellen glances at the state of my clothes. She grimaces. “I’m sure we can arrange something. I’ll speak to them. A toothbrush at least should be fine.”
They can’t argue with that, right? It’s not like I wouldn’t get a toothbrush in prison.
And I’d get underwear.
I open my mouth to ask, but Ellen is already crossing to the steps. “Follow me, and we’ll get started.”
Sighing, I slide off the stool. I’ll ask later.
Ellen leads me through the house. The floors feel familiar beneath my feet, the same marks and scuffs embedded in the wood as there were ten years ago.
Memories. So many damn memories that my throat threatens to close up, and I have to push them away as Ellen pulls open a large cupboard. “You’ll find most of what you need in here. If there’s anything else, you can come and find me. I’ll get you when it’s time for breakfast. Start down here, and then you can go upstairs once everyone is up.”
Everyone, meaning them.
Ellen turns to me, and I nod firmly.
I have absolutely zero plans of venturing anywhere near the Tate brothers.
Maybe I can avoid them altogether. They can’t stay here all the time.
I glance over my shoulder, and Ellen stiffens. “The doors are locked.”
When my eyes flash to her, she tilts her head. “In case you were thinking of trying to leave.”
The chains shake when I lift up my hands. “Where would I even go?”
Where could I run, when the whole fucking world is my enemy? At least right now, with my story splashed across the headlines. The thoughts tumble around in my head as Ellen leaves me to it, and I pull out the sweeping brush and mop.
Maybe… I could run. Eventually. Once they’ve forgotten my face, once they’ve moved on to their next piece of entertainment.
But for now, I’m well and truly stuck.
I shuffle back down the large, airy hall. The windows on either side of me stretch almost to the ceiling, and I’m already dreading trying to clean them later.
I start in the entrance hall. Sweeping first, working out how to place my feet to avoid tripping over the damn chains. I use the pan to sweep up the pile of dirt, placing it down on the table in the middle of the room with an apologetic wince. It’s not like I won’t be cleaning that too.
I carry the bucket down into the kitchen, filling it with hot water from the sink. Ellen watches me from her station as she chops vegetables, but she doesn’t say anything as I slowly drag the heavy load back up the steps.
The work might be physically hard, but it’s nothing new. My head empties as I work, methodically working from one end of the hall to the other. It seems like it’s been a while since they were done at all, and I wonder absently what the other maid, Clara, actually does.
Not the floors, apparently.
It takes three buckets before just the one floor is done, and I glance up the small flight of stairs that leads to the longer hallway with a grimace. My stomach grumbles, and I take the bucket back to the kitchen, casting a hopeful glance in Ellen’s direction.
She sighs. “Sit.”
She’s stirring something in a pot on the cooker, and I watch as she ladles a large portion into a bowl. She slides it down in front of me, and I peer at the gray color. I can almost feel my appetite disappearing. “What… what is it?”
“Porridge,” she says briskly, covering the rest of the pot.
I take the spoon she hands me and poke at the surface. It doesn’t move. “Um. Does… does everyone have this?”
When Ellen shakes her head, my shoulders slump. Prison food.
Still, it’s better than what they gave me in my cell. The porridge is surprisingly tasty, and I work my way through the entire bowl. It’s an effort not to swipe my finger around the edges as I take it to the sink and wash it out. I could easily have eaten another bowl at least. Ellen pours me a glass of water, and I gulp it down before rinsing that out too and heading back out to work before she can tell me.
It takes me the rest of the morning to scrub the other floor. The dirt caked into the wood makes me wonder if anyone has actually cleaned it since the last time I was here.
This house used to be spotless.
By the time I’m done, there’s a large pile of dirt heaped into a spare bucket on the table, and the floor is gleaming wetly. I rest the mop inside the bucket and take it in, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done.
Now on to one of the hundreds of other things I have to do today.
Sighing, I turn to take my dirty water back to the kitchen. Something sounds above my head, and I pause, glancing up at the cream ceiling.
Footsteps.
Swallowing, I move down a step, and then another, cursing the chains that stop me from racing back to the safety of the kitchen.
“Well. What do we have here?”
The deep, masculine purr makes my shoulders stiffen, even as I take another step closer to escape.
“Anastasia. It’s polite to speak when you’re spoken to, you know.”
Gritting my teeth, I turn slowly. “Good morning. Or is it afternoon now?”
Rafe surveys me lazily. His blonde hair is damp, scraped back as he runs a hand over the golden stubble covering his jaw. “I have no idea. Not all of us are incarcerated here, after all.”
I rake my eyes over him. He’s changed so much.
The boy I knew so well, replaced by a man that I don’t know at all.
“Enjoying the view?” His voice is low. My eyes snap back up to his, the blush coloring my cheeks.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My voice is haughty. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”
Rafe tsks, the sound pushing out between his teeth as he takes another step. He’s dressed smartly, a white shirt with the top two buttons undone tucked into black trousers, and I glance down at his leather shoes.
“Wait,” I blurt, throwing my hand up. Rafe actually stops, his brows raising.
“I’m sorry?” he asks slowly.
Swallowing, I gesture at the floor. “It’s just… it’s clean. And wet. If you step in it…”
My voice trails off at the incredulity in his face. Rafe glances at the floor, his eyes moving to the bucket of dirt on the table. To the other bucket at my side.
And he takes another, very deliberate step.
Damn it.
Of course he’s going to walk right through it. I have to roll my eyes as he takes several heavy steps, rubbing his shoes into the floor and leaving sticky footprints behind that I’m going to have to go back over.
Sighing, I lean against the wall. “Thanks for that.”
He stops halfway through the room, pausing next to the table in the center. “No need to thank me.”
I jolt upright as he peers into the bucket of dirt. “Rafe…”
He glances back at me, green eyes piercing. “There’s something you need to learn, Anastasia.”
“And that would be…?”
My eyes are glued to the bucket. At his fingers, gripping the edge.
“I’m not here to make your life easier.”
I choke as he lifts it. And tips it, flinging the dirt out in a soaring arc that spatters all across the shining floor.
For fuck’s sake.
He stomps over to me, his shoes treading the dirt further into the floor as he pushes the bucket into my stomach. He leans in, his breath ghosting over my ear.
“In case you hadn’t realized, I’m here to make your life as fucking difficult as possible.”
Message received.
But his eyes slide down, and I follow them. To the second bucket, filled with filthy water.
I look at him, at this angry man I don’t recognize. “Don’t you dare—.”
He doesn’t even hesitate before he kicks it, the metal crashing into the ground as the muddy, murky water flows out. It gushes down the steps and down through the hall, destroying every bit of the hours of work I’ve spent scrubbing it.
“How clumsy of me.” He smiles, then. As if the sight of me staring in horror at the work I have to do all over again brings him joy.
It’s an effort to drag my eyes back to his, to meet his stare. But I do, steeling my shoulders.
“Did that feel good?” I ask him quietly. Looking for any part of the Rafael I remember. “Was it worth it?”
The smile slowly slides away from his face. “Better get started, Anastasia. This floor is disgusting.”
But I’ve already turned away from him, carefully stepping down, reaching to tip the bucket upright. “I have a lot to do, it would seem. So if you wouldn’t mind getting the hell out of my way, I’d appreciate it.”
I don’t look up as his footsteps thunder past me, echoing down the hall until they disappear altogether.
I spend several minutes staring at the empty bucket.
No, these are not the boys I remember. And the sooner I get that fact straight inside my head, the sooner my heart can stop hurting.
I work through lunch. Head down, I scrub every single part of the floor again. Then I move onto the windows, polishing each pane of glass until it shines in the bright afternoon light. Up and down the little stepladder, carefully balancing to reach the top panes.
This is familiar. Safe.
I move on from the common areas to the bathrooms. Slowly, I move upstairs, my head swiveling as I look for any sign of a lingering Tate brother. There’s nobody up here, though, no sounds floating from behind the closed doors.
My eyes catch on one particular door at the end. Closed, of course. But then, it always was.
And then I waste several long minutes staring at the very end of the hall. At the empty space there.
And I turn away abruptly, heading into the first bathroom. Then the second. Washing and scraping and cleaning until my hands feel raw and my eyes are gritty from the number of chemicals I’ve probably unwisely combined. And I haven’t even gone into their rooms yet, haven’t been brave enough to cross that boundary.
I’ll have to tomorrow, though.
Ellen finds me as the last of the light fades. I’m in the last bathroom, on my knees trying to clear out the plughole – and ew. Thank fuck for rubber gloves. “Anastasia?”
My head jerks up, and I feel a little gratified at the surprise on her face. She glances around the room. “You’ve done a good job.”
I wouldn’t say her tone is particularly warm, but it’s better than the iciness of this morning as I rest back on my heels. “I’m nearly done with this room.”
Her gaze is assessing. I wonder what she expected from me. The spoiled, privileged, ugly stepsister.
“Dinner will be ready soon,” she says quietly. “The brothers eat in the main dining room, and we’ll eat in the kitchen.”
“Sounds good to me.” Best news I’ve had all day, in fact. I have no desire to face Rafe again after the hours I spent cleaning up his damn mess earlier, let alone Silas and Kit at the same time.
“Excellent,” she says crisply. “You can help carry the plates up.”
My mouth opens, and then closes again. “I don’t think I’m clean enough for that.”
I’m actually disgusting by this point. My clothes feel as though they’re about to crawl off me. Ellen grimaces as she looks me over, but she doesn’t say anything, and suspicion curls in my stomach. “They’ve asked for me, haven’t they?”
At least she looks a little sheepish. “They have.”
It takes me a second. To bite down on my lip, hard. To force down the snappish words I want to throw at her. Our history isn’t Ellen’s fault.
Slowly, I rise, yanking off my gloves. “Fine.”
This should be interesting.
Ellen makes me scrub my hands, my arms, almost up to my shoulders, but it doesn’t make much of a difference to the dirt covering the rest of me as I follow her into the dining room. My arms strain under the weight of the silver steel soup tureen I’m carrying. I focus on not dropping it, my eyes very determinedly not moving to the three men sat around the end of the large dining table.
Silas lounges at the end, Rafe and Kit on either side of him.
Something else familiar. Memories of dinners, breakfasts, midnight feasts… I blink them away as though they never existed at all. Ellen directs me to the space between Silas and Kit, and I lean in to place the pot on the protective wooden shelf, bracing as Rafe leans back in his chair.
“Jesus,” he remarks. “What is that smell?”
My face goes up in flames as I take a few quick steps back, intending to escape from the room as quickly as possible. Even Ellen takes pity on me, gesturing from the doorway to hurry up.
Silas’s voice drops into the silence like a whip. “Stay where you are.”
I pause, my body already half-turned towards the door. “I wouldn’t want to put you off your food.”
“Too late for that,” Rafe says caustically. “Did you lose your sense of basic hygiene along with your decency, Anastasia?”
I glance towards Ellen, but she’s abandoned me, the door closing. “It’s a little hard to stay clean when you don’t have access to hot water. Or soap. Or a toothbrush.”
Kit leans back in his chair, surveying me with his deep violet gaze. Assessing me. “You have access to hot water now,” he points out.
I make a show of jangling the chain that links my wrists together. “Ah, yes. The little faucet in the washroom is perfect. Such generous jailors you are.”
“We are generous,” Silas murmurs in response. “If it wasn’t for us, you would be rotting away in prison, Anastasia. Or did you forget?”
I press my lips together before I respond. “If you’re waiting for a thank you, it’s not going to happen. I know why I’m here.”
And it’s not out of the kindness of their hearts.
Rafe opens his mouth, but Silas holds up a hand, cutting him off. His blue eyes pierce me as he gestures towards the steaming dishes on the table. “In that case,” he says silkily. “You’d better get on with it and serve.”
My body tenses at the idea of moving closer to them. Prey, approaching predators. But my steps are jerky as I ball up my fists and stride up to the table. I yank open the tureen, staring down at the green soup. It feels warm beneath my fingers, the perfect temperature to eat. My stomach rumbles in appreciation for the delicious smell.
“Hurry up,” Silas snaps. I battle back the snarl I want to throw at him in response. The sooner I do it, the sooner I can leave. At least for tonight.
I grab Kit’s bowl first, ladling soup into it until it’s nearly overflowing. He doesn’t say a word as I drop it in front of him, but I can feel his gaze on me. All of them, watching me.
Rafe holds out his bowl with a smirk, but it slides away when I ignore him, snatching Silas’s bowl and filling it. It nearly tips when I shove it towards him. “Your soup. Sir.”
“Careful,” Silas murmurs. “Or that attitude is going to get you into trouble.”
I’m already in fucking trouble. The anger creeps up my spine, curling around my neck as I reach for Rafe’s bowl and he slides it to the side. I grab for it again and he grins, moving it out of reach just as my fingers brush it. My fingers curl into a fist as he tilts his head, blonde strands of hair slipping from the cord he uses to keep it away from his face. “Didn’t Silas tell you to hurry up? You’re terrible at this, Anastasia.”
I grit my teeth. “Give me the bowl.”
He waves a finger in the air. “Please.”
Twenty years of this?
“Please,” I force out. But when I reach for the bowl again, he pulls it away.
“On second thoughts,” he leans forward, taking a deep, obvious sniff. “I don’t think I want you near my food, Anastasia. I’ll serve myself. You smell like a sewer.”
“Rafe.” But there’s amusement in Silas’s voice, even as I flinch.
I can’t do twenty years of this. I can’t.
Rafe stares at me, waiting for my reaction. So eager to watch the blows land. My hands drop back down, wrapping against the handles of the soup.
Taking a deep breath, I lift my head up to meet his green eyes.
And I smile.
I give Rafe my bland, empty-faced smile. A smile I’ve perfected over the last few years. A smile to cover up how dead I feel on the inside.
“Your soup, sir.”
Rafe’s eyes widen a fraction before I shove the heavy container so hard that it tips over. Curses ring out as the soup spills out, the crisp white tablecloth turning deep green as it spreads and pours off the edge.
Directly into Rafe’s lap.
I take a step back as he shouts, jumping to his feet. His face flushes. Sticky green pea soup covers him, splashed across his clean white shirt, soaking into his trousers.
My fingers tremble, but I lift my chin up as they all turn to face me. All silent, eyes wide.
My curtsey is awkward, hampered by the chains. I catch Silas’s eye as I rise back up. His jaw ticks as he stares at me.
“Enjoy your soup,” I say pleasantly. “Sirs.”
My back is ramrod straight as I turn away from them. Waiting to be called back for whatever punishment they dream up for my little show of rebellion.
But nobody calls my name as I slowly shuffle away, yanking the door open and retracing my footsteps back to the kitchen.
Nobody says anything at all.
Ellen turns to me as I walk into the kitchen, her eyes lifting in surprise. “They finished the soup already?”
Swallowing, I shake my head, debating how to explain. “I… um. I tipped it, actually. Over Rafe. Sorry.”
Silence. Ellen gapes at me.
Then her mouth snaps closed. She points to a stool. “Sit.”
I sit. She lifts yet another lid on her cooker, ladling something into a bowl before she slides it in front of me. “Eat.”
The broth is clear and tasty, but it tastes like ash in my mouth as I choke it down. Ellen disappears, and I look up miserably when she walks back in. “How much trouble am I in?”
Silas and Rafe will not let this go unpunished. Kit… I don’t know.
The edges of her mouth tip up slightly. “I think you’re safe for this evening. I’ll serve the rest. Clean up in here, and you can settle down for the night.”
Knowing that I don’t have to face them again lightens the weight in my chest. “Thank you, Ellen.”
She watches me closely. A little too closely.
“I don’t know your history with them,” she says quietly. “But these are not the men I know, Anastasia.”
Sighing, I stand up.
“Believe me. They’re not the men I know, either.”
