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The light streaming through the window is muted, pale. I turn to look at the clock beside the bed. It reads six am. I pull the covers over my head for a moment and contemplate screaming. That’s probably not a good idea, especially not early in the morning. I take a few calming breaths and then shove back the covers and tug down his shirt as I hurl myself off the edge of the very tall bed.
I want a shower, some clothes, and apparently food since my stomach decides then to rumble loudly.
Have I only been here for two damn nights? It already feels like an eternity.
I shiver as my bare feet smack against the cold wood floor. In the room's corner is a bathroom. The lights turn on automatically as I walk in, and my eyes swing around the room, moving from the toilet to the shower, and then to the vanity.
I notice it’s fully stocked with supplies, but nothing I can use as a weapon unless I want to squirt shampoo in the bastard’s eyes. The image of me shoving a pair of nail scissors in his eyes gives my spirit a little boost as I start the shower.
The soap all appears new. Not that I can be picky about it as I scrub my skin, paying special attention to the still-stained blood splatter on my chest. I can’t believe I slept like this, but truthfully, I was too exhausted to care.
After I dry off, I put his shirt back on with my overused panties, but I’ll be damned if I go without them, and braid my wet hair. When I exit the bathroom, I find an older woman standing in the middle of the room, holding a stack of clothing. Her mostly gray hair is pulled back into a tight bun, reminding me of a strict teacher. Her face is weathered with frown creases that look to be permanently carved into her face.
The glare she is giving me makes it clear asking for her help in escape is a dumb plan. For some reason, she already dislikes me. I can see it in her eyes.
I stare at her and wait for her to say something. She watches me for a moment, almost like she is sizing me up, then shrugs, drops the stack on the bed, and walks back toward the door. “He expects you to bring him breakfast, and he does not like to be kept waiting.”
“What?” Did she just say bring him breakfast?
“While you are staying here, you are to work as a maid, cleaning the house, doing laundry, and serving in any other way you are required,” she explains to me like I’m a misbehaving child.
“You do know I’m not here of my free will, right?”
“And what does that matter? Would you rather be in a cold cell with no food? Staying in the guest room isn’t free. Now, hurry before we both get in trouble for being late.”
I take a moment to wrap my head around what she is telling me. Only when my brain has caught up with reality do I answer.
“Of course,” I grit through my teeth, not even trying to hide my annoyance.
She walks out with a lingering look that’s equally curious and challenging. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she sees me as a threat. Stopping at the door, she says, “I’ll be in the hallway when you’re ready.”
The clothing isn’t much—another dress shirt, still too big for me, and a clean pair of white cotton panties. Well, I’ll take it. I strip my dirty clothes and slide into the clean ones. The scent of fabric softener and soap drifts off my skin. For the first time in hours, I take a deep breath. Whatever this psycho wants from me, I can endure. At least that is what I have to keep telling myself, so I don’t lose my mind.
I cross the room and open the door. The woman stands in the middle of the hallway, fidgety. I gesture for her to lead the way, but she is already trudging off down the empty hall.
We walk down a staircase, past a few doorways—with guards posted outside—into a giant kitchen. Only two other people are inside, washing dishes or cooking. I stand against the granite countertops and wait. The woman works, and I feel like an idiot for lingering and not doing anything. To be fair, I’ve never cooked a thing in my life. We always have chefs and maids at home.
“Don’t just stand there. Get to work,” she sneers at me. “Are you not good for anything?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Start cooking.”
“Okay…” I look around the kitchen like the cabinets are going to give me instructions on what to do. “Can you tell me what he likes to eat?”
