A creaking noise startles me awake.
I place a protective hand around Jeremy, but thankfully, he doesn’t stir.
I study my surroundings in search of the sound. The room is empty, aside from me and Jeremy, but the creaking continues, louder this time, magnifying to a terrifying intensity before blaring classical music blasts from outside.
My gaze snaps to Jeremy, who’s still peacefully sleeping, his tiny hand strung around my waist. He didn’t want to let me go, afraid the ghost would take me away.
Not sure what he meant by that, but kids his age have wild imaginations, so it could be anything. Jeremy is especially bright and catches on to things fast. Whenever I teach him something, his brain absorbs it quickly, and soon enough, he mimics me.
An overpowering giddiness takes hold of me whenever he calls me Mommy. I certainly don’t deserve it, but it’s the best thing that’s happened to me since I stepped into Lia’s shoes. With Jeremy’s attachment to me, I can pretend my existence actually has a purpose, after all.
The classical music is louder now, distressed, almost like it’s the climax of a scene. Who the hell would blast music in the middle of the night with a child sleeping?
Gently removing Jeremy’s fingers, I cover him with the duvet and slowly inch to the edge of the mattress. On my way to the door, I step on some of his toys, but thankfully, it doesn’t hurt the way it did when I stepped on them when I was carrying him to bed earlier.
I quietly open the door, then close it behind me when I’m outside. The music is deafening now, almost like I’m in an opera house. An eerie feeling grabs me by my nape like marionette strings as I descend the stairs. I clutch the handrail for balance, because it feels like whoever is gripping the strings will push me to my death.
The music is coming from the sitting room Ogla led me to this morning. I halt at the entrance when I find out the reason behind the music.
A woman.
She’s standing in the middle of the room, wearing a wedding dress that stops below her knees. It’s identical to the one I saw in that Giselle poster. Ballet shoes cover her feet, the ribbons wrapped around her calves.
She’s standing on pointe, her back arched at a sublime angle. A veil covers her face, and I can’t see it because she’s turned away from me.
Who is she? And why the hell is she dancing in the middle of Adrian’s sitting room? Don’t tell me this is his mistress or something.
She twirls around to the music on one leg, her other taut in the air. That must hurt. Staying on pointe for that long is pure torture and strains your muscles and tendons; that’s why it’s supposed to be done in short intervals.
I try to approach her so I can see her or stop her, but she leaps away—jumping, twirling, and arching her back. Then she’s running from one side of the room to the other, clutching her head and meeting the distressed music with an act of pure madness.
My feet freeze in place as I watch her insanity unfold with her dance moves.
It’s Giselle.
The music climbs to a crescendo as she falls on the ground before leaping up on pointe again, swaying from side to side.
Blotches of blood explode on her feet, soaking the ivory satin ballerina shoes.
I gasp. “Hey, stop!”
She doesn’t. Her movements turn frantic, severe, and out of control. Blood mars both her feet, but it’s like she doesn’t feel the pain as she stands on pointe over and over again.
“Stop…” I sob over the loud music. “Stop it!”
She twirls away from me, her head tilting in irregular positions before it moves back into place.
Blood splashes on her fair skin and leaves stains all over the carpet.
I want to run to her, hold her, and make her put an end to this, but my feet won’t move. The marionette strings are keeping me in place and I’m unable to reach behind me and cut them.
“Stop it!” My voice is hysterical, on the verge of something even I don’t recognize.
She comes to a halt on pointe and turns to face me while still in that position.
My lips part at seeing her.
It’s me.
Or a close replica to me, anyway.
The face under the veil is the spitting image of mine. Bloody tears stream down her cheeks, leaving patches of red on her veil and her dress.
“Did you stop?” she whispers.
A sickening crack of bones echoes in the air and her legs give out from underneath her.
“Nooooo!” I shriek.
I sprint toward her, but I’m yanked back by the marionette strings attached to my nape.
My eyes shoot open and I gasp with a sob.
For a second, I think I’m going to find myself in the midst of the blood, or that I’ll witness the break in her legs—the protruding bones or the bloodied, broken skin.
Instead, I’m in Jeremy’s bed, arms wrapped around his small body as he snuggles into me.
No music blares outside and nothing disturbs the peace.
A long breath leaves my lungs as I murmur, “It wasn’t real. None of it was.”
“What wasn’t?”
I squeal at the calm voice coming from behind me and slowly turn my head, my fingers still shaking, but I don’t release Jeremy. Ever since I hugged him this morning, I’ve been having this morbid need to protect him, thinking that if I fail to do so, it’ll be like losing my baby girl all over again.
Adrian sits in the dimly-lit room. Only the light from the phone that’s nestled between his long fingers is a break in the black. It could be because of the shadow the screen projects on his face, but he appears scarier now. No light present in his darkness. No escape. No reprieve.
He’s like a dark lord sitting on his throne.
A devil.
A monster.
A villain.
The innate need to run that I’ve felt ever since I stepped foot in this house—hell, since I first met him—strikes me again.
“You didn’t answer my question, Lia,” he reminds me ever so casually. Or what appears as casual, because it’s feigned. I can almost hear his actual tone, which is closed off, harsh, and is sucking on the essence of my soul.
Everything about him is sharp and has an edge. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a hint of his powerful chest. He’s half-relaxing in his seat with his long legs crossed at the ankles. Half, because his posture is still upright and he looks like he’s ready to pounce any second if he feels the need to.
How long has he been sitting in the shadows, anyway?
And why the hell am I having one nightmare after another ever since he brought me here?
“Lia.” The single word holds more warning than should be possible.
“You don’t need to know.” I slowly sit up, gently peeling Jeremy’s fingers from around my waist. He mumbles something in his sleep, and I brush his dark hair as I tuck him under the covers that are decorated with spaceships and stars.
“That’s two punishments.”
My head jerks up to face Adrian. “But…for what?”
“One for not learning the list Ogla gave you and the second for now.”
I knew Ogla was his damn spy. “But I didn’t talk back just now.”
“Defying me is equivalent to talking back. Not answering my questions warrants punishment, too.”
“Maybe you should make me a fucking list like the mafia one so I can learn it and magically tiptoe around it.”
“And that’s three.”
“You can’t be fucking serious.”
“Perfectly am. Four.”
“I’m not allowed to talk at all?” I snap.
“Not in that tone, no. Five.”
“Just stop it, already, and admit that you’re a sick bastard who gets off on spanking me.”
“Six.”
I open my mouth to say something, but soon seal it shut, realizing that whatever I say will only worsen my state.
Damn him.
He rattles me so much that I keep playing into his hands and digging myself into a hole with him. The visceral nightmare I just experienced isn’t helping either. Ever since I woke up, I’ve been jumpy and disoriented, having little to no control over my reactions.
“Go on, Lia.” Adrian’s calm yet threatening tone resonates in the air. “I’m very interested to see how far the number can go up.”
When I remain silent through the sheer force of my self-control, a small smirk tugs on his lips. “Now, tell me what you thought wasn’t real.”
“A nightmare,” I say quietly, because if I speak any louder, I’ll be snapping at him. He’s provoking me so he can get the number of my punishments higher, and I won’t give him that satisfaction.
His finger taps against his thigh once. “What type of nightmare?”
“None of your business.”
“And that’s seven.”
“What?”
“Eight.”
“Am I not even allowed to keep my nightmares to myself?”
“Not since you stepped into my house, no.” He drops the phone to his lap, places both of his elbows on his knees and leans forward, interlacing his fingers under his chin.
Even though it’s dark, I can almost see the blackness of his eyes. It’s not only something visual, but it can also be tasted in the air, leaving a sharp tang on my tongue.
“You don’t seem to grasp the situation, so let me explain it to you for the last time, Lia. You’re my wife, my property, my thing. That means you walk the line I trace and make the decisions I allow. If I say you leave your will at the door, you do. If I say you will walk blindly into a well, you will. In my house, my word is law and my decisions are final. If you feel the need to defy me, by all means, do. I’ll enjoy every second of whipping you into submission.”
My jaw aches, and I realize it’s because I’ve been clenching it tight during the entire time he spoke. I’ve never felt the need to bolt out of my skin like I do in this very moment. I want to fly out of here, to go somewhere, anywhere, where his presence isn’t squeezing my throat with imaginary hands.
But the sane part of my brain knows that I have no choice, that I can’t handle life in prison, no matter how tough I think I am. Being with him isn’t a choice, it’s the only means of survival I have.
Isn’t fate cruel? Why is my safety linked to one of the most dangerous men alive?
Adrian rises, and I scoot farther into Jeremy’s side, as if a child will be able to help me in this situation.
“Get up,” he orders.
“Why?”
“Nine. With every second you don’t stand, the count will increase.”
“I’m just asking,” I try not to snap, but end up doing it, anyway.
“Ten. At this rate, you will have a long night, Lia.”
I don’t miss the hint of sadism when he says ‘long.’ The bastard really gets off on the thought of punishing me.
He’s a freaking deviant.
I scramble to my feet because I really don’t want the count to get to eleven.
“Follow me.” Adrian heads to the door without waiting for me.
I chance a glance at Jeremy’s peaceful sleeping face, hoping I can somehow become one with his mattress or his covers.
My hesitation doesn’t last long as I follow in Adrian’s footsteps and quietly close Jeremy’s door behind me.
My legs shake with every step I take. Sweat gathers on my brow, and my knuckles turn white from constantly clenching them into fists.
People say they know fear. Like when their car almost crashes or when they witness a gory scene on the streets, but that’s not true fear. The actual horror is the unknown.
Ignorance about one’s fate is the worst type of terror.
It tangles around my ribcage like wires, attempting to break the bones and prick my heart in the process.
The darkness isn’t scary; what’s inside it is. And right now, that darkness is filled with Adrian’s quiet but lethal presence.
My gaze remains focused on his back, on the rippling of his muscles beneath his shirt and the ink peeking from underneath his half-rolled sleeves. His strides are steady, as if this fucked-up situation is normal.
As if picking up a homeless woman and forcing her into his wife’s role is something completely acceptable. Does the man ever feel? Does he have a beating organ like the one thudding inside me or is he a different species whose heart only pumps blood into his veins?
If he cared about his wife so much, how could he exchange her with a fake so easily?
But maybe he used her as he’s using me. Men like him don’t form attachments and are heartless monsters who only know how to take.
As Adrian steps into the bedroom and closes the door behind us, I wish fear was the only feeling inhabiting me. I wish the clenching of my stomach was because of a hit of adrenaline and not because of some other demented sensation I don’t want to put a name on.
Because I know he didn’t call me here just to sleep. I know that some savage plan is being concocted in his screwed-up head right now.
My need to bolt slowly dims, replaced by a strange type of acceptance.
It’ll pass, just like everything else in my life.
As long as he doesn’t see my reaction, he won’t get to me.
Adrian unbuckles his belt and I stare, transfixed, trapped in a daze, as he wraps it around his hand, a blank expression on his face. “Get on your knees.”
