MILA
“He came out of the blue on a rainy night, bringing me back to life.” – M
Asound I’m not quite accustomed to wretches me away from a deep slumber. The deepest slumber I’ve had in a while. You see, my mind never shuts off, not even when my mouth does, so on the rare occasions that I do find sleep, I can go on for more than the usual eight hours. Memories, facts, numbers, and questions are ever-present. Let’s just say my brain never has a dull moment.
The calming sound of waves crashing and the breeze blowing in the distance remind me that I am no longer home. Never have I heard such a magnificent sound back home.
Cities are too crowded and noisy.
Ever moving, just like my brain.
Back home, I could never find a quiet place, which is why I would sleep heavily for hours, paint and do some gardening to quiet all the noise. It would only help for a little while. The quiet never lasted. Once I was awake, life was harder, not only for myself, but, most importantly, for my sisters.
I quickly found out that if I was out of the way, sleeping, or hiding in the shadows, then I wasn’t an inconvenience to our father, who in return, would leave my sisters alone. Even if it lasted only for a little while.
Getting out of my head, I focus on the now.
This brand new day.
It was too dark for it to be morning. I knew as much when I opened my eyes. The thin and soft-looking curtains swayed with the breeze drifting through the room, a bit warm yet serene. I read somewhere that Turks and Caicos is warm all year. The usual temperature ranges from twenty to forty degrees Celsius with high humidity during the day, dropping at night between twenty to twenty-seven Celsius.
I don’t mind the heat like most people do. I even welcome it because, for so long the cold is all we’ve known.
Shaking off sleep, my mind starts to steer away back to depressing memories, but I don’t allow myself to be distracted. Instead, I rub my eyes and open them again, feeling more relaxed than I’ve felt in years. The tension in my neck from the hectic events of yesterday has faded away, and I no longer have a throbbing pain in my head.
Pulling the sheets, I get out of bed, noticing that I’m still in the same clothes from yesterday. I make a face of disgust when I think about how I shared a bed with the germs I did not wash away before I found sleep. I shiver at the realization. Gross.
Touching my hair, I cringe when I pull on it to find it dry and tangled. It also doesn’t smell like coconut and vanilla, as per usual.
I hold my breath for five seconds before I expel the air. I do these two more times until I find myself forgetting all about the dirty germs currently making a home for themselves on my skin. I must’ve been so drained from all the fear and excitement from yesterday that I must’ve fallen asleep without showering.
I didn’t even get to properly admire this room.
When I do look around the room, I can’t help but be amazed. This is no ordinary room.
No.
Wow. Walking barefoot on the carpeted floor, I try not to think of how dirty carpets get when not vacuumed regularly. Instead, I move around the enormous room that looks straight out of a millionaire’s beach home.
Everything is white with different tones of blue. From the sheets to the four-post bed to the dresser and floor-length mirror. The curtains that cover the glass twin doors open onto a balcony that overlooks the back of the house, where you get the perfect view of the ocean.
I also notice the lovely fresh flowers all around the room and the built-in bookshelf wall in the corner behind a cream bean bag that looks not only comfortable but like it could hold three of me. It is that big.
My pulse starts to pick up when I move closer to the white bookshelf, which holds various books, and that’s putting it lightly. Every shelf holds at least ten to fifteen books, while others are decorated with crystals like the ones I have at home and even a few cactuses. Ones that look just like Mr. Prickles.
Touching one of the books, I check out the cover and beam when I realize these are all some of the stories that I’ve yet to read and have marked as to be read on my digital book library app.
This is not only my dream room but every bookworm’s dream too.
But how?
Who do these belong to? I don’t see Riagan as the type of man who enjoys romantic fiction.
Do these books belong to a sister of his, perhaps?
A girlfriend? Why does the thought of the giant man having a girlfriend leaves a bitter taste in my mouth?
Now I’m curious and won’t be able to think about anything else until I get answers. I have so many questions. Many that I didn’t get to ask yesterday. I’ll ask them today, but first, a shower. Sniffing my clothes, I scrunch my nose up. I won’t be able to carry on with the day until I get rid of these dirty clothes.
Stepping away from the bookshelf, I patter toward the bathroom. Turning the light on, the first thing that I see is the white marble tub mounted in the center beside a freestanding rainforest shower. There are two vanity mirrors, white towels, and two white robes. Frowning, I realize this is a couple’s bathroom because why two of everything? How odd.
I’ll add it to my long list of questions to the man that brought me here. But first, a shower, yes.
I spend exactly fifteen minutes there, not only scrubbing my skin to get rid of the pesky microorganisms but washing my hair with coconut-vanilla shampoo.
Wrapping a towel around my body once I’m done, I step back into the room.
The room is quiet. Secluded. But I’m used to it. I’m more comfortable in silence than I am around noise.
I move to my left, there is what looks to be a walk-in closet. Moving through it, I flick on the light to find not only clothes but shoes as well. Who are these? I wonder. I can’t wear other people’s clothes. It is not sanitary. Besides, there is the fact that it is rude to just put something on that does not belong to you but, to my dismay, I’ll have to forget about that and find something to wear. I grab the first thing I see that looks my size.
When I am done getting dressed, I take in my appearance.
Yellow sundress with thin spaghetti straps. Not too loose but fitted enough to show the curve of my hips. My wet hair falls over my shoulders while my face appears far too calm. Then an image of me trapped between Riagan’s bare chest and a door comes to the forefront of my mind. Was it a dream? I am not sure anymore. What I’m sure of is the anxious feelings swirling in my stomach all of a sudden. I’ve been trying to keep the man out of my mind because there is no doubt in me that if he remains there for too long, he could make room for himself. As in a permanent one, and that can’t happen.
A feeling I can’t quite put a name to courses through me, and I find myself looking behind me toward the bed, and when I do, my eyes land on an item that reminds me of home.
Deja-Vu. Is it? The feeling of having already dreamed something that is currently being experienced.
The dream catcher.
The lovely dream catcher hanging from the bedpost.
“Here, stelina. This will catch all your dreams and fight off the nightmares.” The memory of a ten-year-old Kadra flashes through my mind as she gave me my very first dreamcatcher. She swore the item made of lace doily and wood macramé would keep the monsters away. I didn’t believe it, not really. My logical mind wouldn’t allow me to accept that a common object had the power to catch dreams, but I never told her that. No. I placed the pretty dream catcher next to my bed, and I did the same with all the others she brought me after that.
“Kadra…” How did I forget about her? She must be going out of her mind and most likely burning the city down trying to find me. I want her to be safe. I don’t want her to worry about me while she’s dealing with her demons, and sadly, she has plenty of those. Riagan’s words also flash through my mind. He said she messed with a very important family. Is she at war? Was I unintentionally getting in the way of her finally putting her demons to rest? I don’t know. All I know is that I need to let her know I’m alright so she doesn’t worry.
Sighing, I slip my feet into white sandals that I grabbed from the closet and walk towards the bedroom door. My fingers flex around the knob. “You can do this, Mila. For Kadra. For yourself.” I whisper out loud before making my way out of the room.
Here goes nothing.
Hopefully, I won’t get chopped up into tiny pieces and fed to the pretty fishes of the sea.
Hopefully…
I’m slowly walking down the stairwell while nervously raking my fingers through my now-wet hair. Somehow, this all feels more real today.
The orange hue of the sunset comes through the glass windows, illuminating the house and letting me know that I, indeed, slept like the dead. It’s sundown… again. As I walk down the staircase, I take in everything around me. A modern design that could be showcased in countless luxurious magazines greets me once my feet touch the marble-white floor.
The living room area.
White, blue, and silver dominate the color scheme, consisting of a huge leather couch and two chairs next to it. A small round table stands in front with several books on it. Classic literature.
My brow furrows, and I get closer, picking up one of the books and opening it, only to cough loudly when the dust twitches my nose. Waving it away, I read the title. “A love that never was.” Romeo and Juliet. Huh…
Flipping through the pages, my eyes widen when I realize this is a first edition of this particular tragic tale. Every detail I discover about this mansion makes me feel as if it was made for me.
From the decor to the choice of reading material.
The odd art and the beautiful and quiet atmosphere.
Putting the book down, I go back to studying the interior around me. My gaze lands on a glass bookshelf, where there are tiny sculptures and antique items of different shapes and sizes, and by the exquisite work, they must be very expensive. He also has unconventional art hanging on the walls.
There’s a painting of a roman warrior drenched in gold paint, and his armor is made of glass hanging right above a huge white sofa. The painting seems like an odd choice when this place has a more nature-outside vibe. And Riagan doesn’t seem like a man who enjoys classic art.
I did read somewhere that the rich love to collect antiques and old paintings for fun.
How unique…
Does he collect antiques and rare things?
He must because why else keep historical artifacts inside his home? Then I remember that Lucan Volpe is his brother and also a world-known artist who has exhibits of his art all over the globe.
I always found Lucan Volpe fascinating.
Who knew that underneath the blood, chaos, and duty to the three families, there was more to him? More than what his father wanted for him.
Ambition for more than mayhem.
A remarkable talent.
Does Riagan keep his brother’s masterpieces here? Are these it? I feel pressure in my chest like before, tapping my chest, I try to make the ache go away as I start to move forward towards what I guess is the kitchen.
I pause in my steps. Riagan is sitting on the kitchen island, chewing gum with a cigarette behind his ear and a bare chest. I knew he was tattooed, but now that he has no shirt on, I can’t find a single piece of virgin skin. I’m transfixed by it, and all I want to do at this moment is reach out and trace the black ink. He looks like one of my canvases on a good day.
The room is a bit dark since nightfall is near, but I’m still able to see him. My eyes roam from his chest up to his face. I swallow hard when I find him looking straight at me as if his stare could penetrate my soul.
“You’re up.” My eyes clash with his for a rare second before I drop my head and look at his feet. Heat rushes through me when I feel the burn of his gaze on my skin. Chewing on my bottom lip, I raise my head, remembering how he said I shouldn’t hide my face. I’ve been hiding from people all my life, and yet I don’t want to hide from him even when every molecule in my body is screaming for me to do so. I don’t. But I still feel embarrassed for sleeping through an entire day when I’m a guest in his home. “What’s wrong?” He barks, and I jump, startled by his tone. I try to silence my mind when it jumps to conclusions. Is he mad? Why did he raise his voice? “Shit. I’m sorry.”
That makes me lift my gaze to his. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t hurt me.” You say sorry when you hurt someone who doesn’t deserve it. Those were his words. “You did not hurt me.” I smile shyly at him.
A small grin appears on his face. “I clearly scared you, butterfly and for that, forgive me.”
“It’s okay.” I shrug, looking at his neck, avoiding his gaze. So I look at his chain instead. It’s pretty, and it sparkles whenever his chest rises. “I’m used to it.” I don’t look away from the piece of jewelry, and at the same time I hear a growl. A growl like I think an animal would make moments before he attacks his prey. But there are no wild animals here. Just Riagan.
“Used to it? You mean being afraid?” I look away as he continues. “You shouldn’t be.” He hisses. “Not with me. I regret raising my voice. Know that it is nothing you did.” Why does he say things that make my heart rate spike? Is he aware that he does it? And why do his words always make heat creep up my neck to my cheeks?
Not knowing how to respond, I nod and step closer to the kitchen, and while the dark room won’t allow me to see it in all its glory, I do notice many cooking devices and a triple-door refrigerator. We have a lot of the same things back home, and the kitchen, like the garden, is one of my favorite parts of a house.
You see… since I was a little girl, I loved to play chef with my sisters, and I would imagine I had my own bakery, and my sisters or Carlotta played my customers. It made my heart happy to pretend to bake them goods and watch their faces light up every time we played. Once Kadra took over the family and my parents were long gone, I was allowed to safely roam the mansion, and one of my favorite places to get lost in was the kitchen. I searched the internet for recipes and watched cooking videos until I mastered the craft of baking. I don’t play pretend anymore. Because of Kadra and Arianna, I didn’t have to hide anymore and was able to learn and do the things that make me happy. In hindsight, baking makes me happy. Do you know what also makes me happy? Knowledge. Right now I know very little about my situation here. This weird arrangement has yet to be explained fully to me. Turning to Riagan, I speak. “I have questions.”
He nods once, rises to his full height in all his bare-chested glory, walks to the garbage bin, spits his gum out, and walks toward me. I stand there watching his every move like a scientist studying the human brain. It’s fascinating, actually. Everything he does causes a shiver of excitement to run through me, and I know this reaction to him is not normal. “Follow me.” He says roughly before passing by me and making his way out of the kitchen towards the back area.
And I follow him.
He could be leading me to my death, yet I follow his every step.
