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Then I remember, the actual revenge hasn’t even started yet. A shiver races down my spine as I think of whoever is going to buy me. I’m sure they will have vile things planned for me. I should be terrified, and part of me is, but I’ve known I’d be sold in some way or form my whole life. Not much has changed, only the seller.
Speak of the devil. Footfalls meet my ears as he passes down a perpendicular hallway, and I freeze in the act of dusting a sconce on the wall. My heart jumps out of my chest, and I almost drop the duster at the surprise of his presence.
Just when I think he’s gone, he pops his head back around the corner, and I quickly jerk my arm down from the light fixture and turn toward the next one. In the opposite direction. The one I’d already dusted that didn’t need dusting to begin with.
What does he want? Why is he watching me?
I focus too intently on the dusting as his footsteps echo off the hardwood on his way toward me. Each step causes the knot of anxiety to tighten in my gut. When he reaches me, I quickly turn and hustle to the next wall sconce, completely ignoring his presence.
As if that were even possible.
He dominates any space he’s in, as if the world itself bows to his will. The air feels denser as I suck it into my lungs. The hallway which felt cavernous a moment ago, has somehow shrunk with him so close. This feels like a cat-and-mouse game, except I’m the mouse, and there is no escaping Nicolo. It’s either his sharp claws or a mousetrap.
There is a heavy weight on my tongue. Part of me wants to confront him, find out why he’s so intent on looming over me all the time. The other part of me, the one that wins, scurries down to the next sconce and decorative table underneath. I would like to make it through one day without a confrontation.
Of course, the click of his shoes alerts me he’s followed. I swipe non-existent dust off the sconce and carefully move the decorative vase on the table to dust that surface as well. All the while, he stands there. I can’t see his face, so I have no idea what he’s doing or thinking.
When there are no more things to dust, I twist around and risk a glance at him. I find him staring down at me, his eyebrows tucked in tight, the tiniest upturn in the corner of his mouth. As if he finds my games amusing. As if I’m some kind of pet.
I narrow my eyes, toss the duster onto the table, and storm past him. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a smile spread across his face, which only angers me more.
Right now, I don’t have much of a choice in things, but I have a choice in standing here letting him watch me like I’m some type of entertainment.
My door makes a loud, satisfying sound when it closes. That’s the best part about high-end houses. The doors sound so much better when they meet the frame with a purposeful shove.
I wait for a little while, thinking he’ll follow me in, demand answers for my attitude, or give me another lecture, but he doesn’t. One of the maids brings lunch to me later, and I stay in my room to eat. Not risking another run-in defeats boredom in my mind. At least for now. Another couple days of pacing back and forth within the same four walls, and I might go back out begging for chores, but not right now.
If he wants me, then he’ll have to come and get me.
It isn’t until I’m lying in bed later, legs stretched out in the fresh shirt Sarah brought with dinner, that he hunts me down. I’m already showered; I tied my long brown hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. I considered asking Nicolo for another hair tie, maybe some more personal hygiene items, but I’d rather eat glass.
When he walks in without knocking, of course, he carries two low ball tumblers in one hand bunched together between his fingers. He holds the glasses toward me without a word. While I don’t trust the amber liquid inside, nor the man offering me the drink, I take it anyway. I need something to break up the jumble of thoughts in my head.
Especially with him standing there looking so… disheveled. Usually, his clothing is meticulous. Except for the night I met him when he was caked in blood.
Tonight is different, though. He’s less dangerous and more chaos. Like he’s one second away from exploding. His shirt is untucked, the tails hanging out, and his collar is open, revealing hints of black ink beneath. I want to trace the ink embedded in his skin, if only to know what it feels like. I don’t know anything about this man. Knowing what he feels like might mend the kind of disconnect I’m feeling.
