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He leans forward and kisses me, his cock still throbbing in my ass. He tastes my tears and licks my throat. He comforts me with the sweetest lies.
“It is only me, Bella.”
My breath has returned. And Javi does not waste this opportunity. He thrusts into me, groaning out his pleasure. And I don’t understand this. I don’t understand how I can be so broken. How I can be relieved that it is him, even after what he just did to me. He unties my wrists, and they are limp at my sides, but still, he drapes them over his back.
I claw into his sweatshirt, wishing I could draw blood, and he fucks me harder. Kissing me until I bite his lip again and force him away.
“I hate you!” I scream. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
He kisses me anyway. And he fucks me anyway. Telling me how good I feel. How much I please him. And then, how I am only his.
“Mine, Bella,” he repeats with every thrust. “I would not share you. I never will.”
And with these final words, he bottoms out inside of me and shudders out his release.
He collapses on top of me. Kissing my throat. Stroking my hair. Comforting me with his hands and his lies.
“I hate you,” I tell him again.
But my voice lacks the conviction to make it believable, even to my own ears.
He unties me and carries me back to the conservatory. I am certain he will abandon me to my misery now. But instead, he climbs into the bed behind me and wraps his body around mine. Housing me with his arms and his warmth.
“My Bella,” he whispers into the darkness. “Forgive me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
IN THE QUIET solace of night, her mind is still loud. Haunted by nightmares of the things I have done to her. The things I can’t stop doing to her.
Even so, she clutches me like I am her savior. This girl has it so wrong. And I don’t know how she still doesn’t get it. That I am no savior. I am only a monster.
I swipe away her tears with my thumb, and she opens her eyes. Bluer than ever.
“You’re still here,” she croaks.
I shift away, and she squeezes her fist in my shirt. One by one, I peel her fingers off and abandon her to the warmth of the bed.
“I hate you,” she says again.
But it is without heart this time. And when I look down at the hurt etched onto her sensitive face, I wonder if she will ever really hate me. If there is anything I can do that will make it so.
"Do you like the house?" I ask.
She lifts a delicate brow.
"You mean my prison?” she snaps. “Why wouldn’t I love it here?"
"Then it is yours to do as you please," I tell her softly. "To feel at home."
"You're letting me out of the conservatory?"
She doesn't sound like she believes me.
"As long as you are a good girl."
This makes her happy again, and it is much better when she's happy. I tell myself so in one breath and hate myself in the next.
"The doors and windows are locked, so do not think about trying to leave."
Her face falls, but still, she nods.
"And you must promise to stay out of the West Wing."
"Why?"
"Just promise," I demand.
"Okay," she murmurs. "I will."
I let her get up, even though all I really want to do is kiss her.
"Come." I walk ahead and leave her to follow. "I will show you to your room."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JAVI WAS NOT LYING when he said that the doors and windows were locked. I know, because I have tried them all. Room by room.
They are heavy. Well built. And impossible to open without a key. He has thought of everything to keep me locked away in this gilded prison. That is the first thought that comes to mind. But upon further inspection, I realize that the locks themselves are actually quite old. They have been in this house for many years.
An artifact from Javi's childhood?
I know from the footage I saw that his mother was mentally ill. This offers a possible explanation. Perhaps I have not been the only prisoner within the walls of Moldavia. Perhaps... Javi was the first.
My father used to tell me a story when I was a girl. A story about a caged bird who longed for the outside world. For the wind beneath its wings and the fresh mountain air.
The bird would sing every day, yearning to break free from its golden cage. But little by little, the bird adapted to the cage. Over time, the enclosure began to feel safe. Slowly, the memories of the outside world faded away.
The bird could no longer recall what it was like to soar above the wind. It wondered if the memory was even real at times. And when the bird thought of flying again, fear replaced longing.
What if it could no longer fly? How could it ever feel free in a world with so many unknowns?
Now the bird had everything it could ever need.
Safety. Peace.
It spent its days singing and napping and snacking on seeds. Until one day when the cage door was left open by accident. The bird found itself powerless to leave the confines of the space.
It realized that it did not want to. The cage was home. What felt like a prison at first was now a sanctuary.
Whenever my father told me this story, I always felt so miserable for the bird. Every time, I would ask him for a different outcome. I would huddle beneath the covers, pleading that the bird would find freedom again.
But it never did.
My father told me that it was idealistic of me to ask for such an outcome. That life is not always so pretty. He said that sometimes the monsters lurking within us are worse than anything outside our safe spaces.
I never really understood those words. But here in Javi’s home, they have become crystal clear. I get the analogy now. And I know what the bird represents.
Javi is afraid.
Afraid to leave Moldavia. Afraid to show anyone his true self.
He was imprisoned here too as a child. Taught to fear the outside world by his mother. And when she died, her predictions were only all too accurate.
Javi was taken away. Locked up. Abandoned with the rest of the bad apples. I don't want to feel sorry for him. How can anyone justify murdering a parent in cold blood?
I certainly never thought I could.
But my thoughts are shifting, the longer I am here. The longer I spend with Javi and come to understand his deep-rooted fears. He has been alone his entire life. Cast out from society. Taught fear and avoidance. Hurt by the one woman whose role it was to nurture him. The extent of which, I may never know.
Is it possible he snapped? That one day, he finally got tired of her hurting him? Is there a length of time that could ever justify his actions that day? What amount of pain must one endure before it is okay to make it stop?
I don’t know. But I want to. I want to know everything about him. And that is a dangerous want to have. But once it takes shape in my heart, I can't stop it. I can't stop the sickness from growing inside of me. Day and night, it haunts me.
Javi told me not to go into the West Wing of the house. And this is how I know that is where my answers are.
It starts out small. I learn his schedule first. I observe which rooms he occupies the most. They are in close proximity to each other. All in the East Wing. Even his master suite is only two doors down from my room. But he has not come to me again. Not since he showed me the house that day two weeks ago.
He has left me to make my own meals. Meals consisting of what I find in the fridge and pantry. It is all child's food. Macaroni and cheese. Fruit snacks. Chicken nuggets. Hot dogs. And the makings for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I didn't realize it until now. These are the same things he's been feeding me the entire time I've been here.
He eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day.
It occurs to me that Javi probably does not know how to cook. Because nobody ever taught him. I make a mental note of it. I make a mental note of everything. How l
ong he spends in his office each day. Working on several computers. Doing what, I don't know.
Something for the agency. Something I probably don't even want to know.
At night, he goes to the room at the end of the hall. I would call it a gym, except it consists only of a punching bag and a weight bench. He works out like he's trying to kill himself. Then he showers. And he reads. This last one, I find surprising, though I'm not entirely sure why.
