And for a moment, I believed that everything would be okay.
19
Ashlynn's Warning
The morning after Gabriel stayed in my room, I found Ashlynn in the laundry room.
I hadn't been looking for her. I'd been wandering the house, my feet carrying me through corridors I didn't recognize, past rooms I'd never entered. The mansion was a labyrinth, and I was learning its secrets the way you learn a language—slowly, painfully, one word at a time.
She was folding sheets. The white linen was crisp and clean, the corners sharp, the movements of her hands precise and economical. She'd been doing this for decades—longer than I'd been alive—and her body knew the rhythm of it the way mine knew the rhythm of stitching wounds.
"Miss Monika," she said, not looking up. "You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Couldn't sleep, or wouldn't?"
I didn't answer. I leaned against the doorframe and watched her work. Ashlynn was older—sixty, maybe, or sixty-five—with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun and a face thathad seen too much to be surprised by anything. Her hands were gnarled, the knuckles swollen with arthritis, but they moved with a grace that spoke of a lifetime of service.
"I remember when the master brought home a dog once," she said. "A pit bull. Big thing, mean as sin. He'd found it in a fight ring, half dead, and he'd brought it here to heal. The vet said it couldn't be saved. Too aggressive. Too damaged. Said the kindest thing would be to put it down."
"What happened to it?"
"He kept it. Nursed it back to health. And that dog loved him more than anything in the world. Would have died for him." She paused, her hands stilling on the sheet. "But it never trusted anyone else. It would bite anyone who got too close. Bit the gardener. Bit the cook. Bit my husband, once, when he tried to feed it."
"That's a strange story to tell me."
"Is it?" She looked up, her eyes meeting mine. They were pale blue, the color of winter sky, and they saw more than I wanted them to see. "You remind me of that dog, Miss Monika. You've been hurt. You've been broken. And now you've found someone who makes you feel safe. But that doesn't mean you're safe."
"Ashlynn..."
"You need to leave." She set down the sheet and walked toward me, her steps slow but determined. "These men—they don't share. They don't forgive. You're going to end up dead or worse."
"I can handle them."
"No, child." She reached out and took my hand—her fingers cold, her grip surprisingly strong. "You can't. No one can. I've been in this house for thirty years. I've seen women come and go. Some of them left in cars. Some of them left in boxes. None of them stayed because none of them could survive."
"I'm not like them."
"Of course you're not. That's what makes you dangerous." She squeezed my hand, her eyes fierce. "You think you can fix them. You think your love is enough. But it's not, child. It will never be enough. Because they're not broken. They're not damaged. They're predators, and predators don't get fixed."
I pulled my hand away. I didn't want to hear this. I didn't want to believe it.
"You don't know me," I said. "You don't know what I've been through."
"I know you grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania. I know your mother died when you were twelve. I know you've been stitching wounds since you were old enough to hold a needle." She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. "I know you think you're special. That you're different. That you can survive what the others couldn't."
"Maybe I can."
"Maybe you can't." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I've seen the marks on your body, Miss Monika. I change the sheets in this house. I know what happens in these rooms. And I know that a girl who lets three men use her like a toy is not a girl who survives."
The words hit me like a slap. I felt my face flush, my hands clench at my sides.
"That's not what's happening."
"Then what is it? Tell me. Explain it to me like I'm stupid."
I opened my mouth to speak. Closed it. There was nothing to say.
