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Something horrible happened in this house; I’m certain of it. Itfeelshaunted, frozen in time. Outside, Christmas is carrying on, and Paris is lit up with lights and holiday cheer, but there’s nothing remotely joyful or holiday-like in Alexandre’s apartment. If anything, I’m trapped in Halloween.
But as the days pass, the longer I’m here, the harder it is to dislike him, no matter how much I tell myself that I should. Most of the time, I’m not even sure he wants me here, let alone wants me in any other way. He only speaks to me to give me instructions, rarely appears downstairs, and when he does look at me, he doesn’t leer or stare. He hasn’t touched me since that first night when he put his hand on my cheek. And strangely, I’m starting to feel more sorry for him than anything else. I don’t know what it is that he feels so guilty about, but I find it harder and harder to believe that he hurt anyone here. He doesn’t seem dangerous, just—sick. I’m starting to get the distinct impression that Kaito gifted Alexandre with something he did not want and was ill-prepared for, when he sent me to Alexandre’s doorstep.
Being Alexandre’s “pet” seems to be, for all intents and purposes, nothing more than being his maid, rather than the sexual servitude I’d feared. And despite the “training” he’d talked about that first morning, none of that really seems to materialize. In fact, despite everything that happened that first day, he appears to have withdrawn more and more with every day that passes after that. I don’t know how I feel about it, exactly.
On the one hand, I don’twanthim to pay too much attention to me. Even if I do feel more than a little sorry for him, I’m also frightened. I don’t know anything about him, or what he might do in the wrong mood, and his threats of punishment haven’t been forgotten. But if hedoesn’tpay attention to me, how am I meant to please him enough to earn the reward I want—to go see my brother, and put my plan to escape into motion? Unless he lets me leave, I don’t have any way out. My hope is that he’ll take notice of how well I do the tasks hehasassigned me, and so I throw myself into tending the apartment, regardless of how little I’ve ever cared for chores.
He hadn’t told me to stay out of what seems to be his office, so when I clean there, I take some time to poke around. It doesn’t take long to figure out that he is, in fact, mind-numbingly rich. I find financial records that point out that much, as well as bills of sale for a variety of things that I’ve seen inside the house. He seems to be a collector of sorts—of books, antiques, art, etcetera—but everything he buys is damaged or flawed in some way, noted on the bills of sale. Nothing he purchases is ever pristine. It makes me more curious than ever about what’s really going on with him—why he’s amassed such a large amount of expensive things only to let them molder away in the dark apartment. When I clean, I go around opening curtains and letting light in. Sometimes when I come back through a room, they’ve been closed again, as if Alexandre came through at some point and returned the house to darkness.
It’s like living with a ghost. If he hadn’t touched me, sometimes I think I’d wonder if I’m not still drugged somewhere, in some fantastical, haunted dream.
The library fascinates me most of all, and to my endless pleasure, I have plenty of time to spend in it. Once the apartment is scrubbed from top to bottom and every dirty piece of clothing and bedding in the house is laundered and folded and put away—a process that takes most of my first three days here—it doesn’t take much to keep it up. My daily chores only take a few hours morning and night, and the rest of the time, I hide away in the library. At first, I kept cleaning supplies close by, so I could make up an excuse if need be, but by the end of the first week, I realized that Alexandre wasn’t going to come looking for me. If anything, he tries to stay as far away from me as he can.
Once I figured that out, I made myself more at home in the library. Of all the places in the apartment, it’s the only one that doesn’t really make me feel uncomfortable. Despite my lingering guilt about enjoying anything at all here, I start to look forward to the part of the day when I can go upstairs and slip into the library, light a fire in the stone fireplace, and pick up whatever book I’ve been reading. I pull the heavy velvet curtains back, curl up by the window, and watch the snow fall over Paris with the fireplace crackling in the background. In those moments, much like that first dinner alone, I can almost forget why I’m here, and lose myself in the magic of it. I’ve never experienced anything like that in my life before, and I never thought I would.
But eventually, I always have to come out.
One evening, about a week after I first arrived, Alexandre doesn’t even come down for dinner. Every night before, he’s made it, never asking me to cook anything. I don’t know if it’s because he actually enjoys cooking or because asking me if I know how would require him to say too many words to me. Still, every day since I arrived, Alexandre makes breakfast and dinner, leaving me to scrounge for leftovers for lunch between chores, a meal I never see him eat.
When he doesn’t appear for dinner, I end up hovering in the kitchen, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do. I’m afraid to go up and look for him, but at the same time, I’m equally scared of what might happen if I disappear into another room and he has to come looking for me. As much as I’d hated all his talk of rules and training on the first day, I almost started to wish for it. It feels less unknown than the constant uncertainty of what the hell I’m actually here for.
Finally, when it’s well past dark and there’s no sign of him, I rummage in the refrigerator for something to eat. I find the leftovers of a roast, fresh sourdough bread, some kind of French cheese, and grainy mustard and make myself a sandwich wrapped up in a napkin, and then carry it upstairs to the library.
Once inside, with the door closed, I feel free. It’s snowing again, heavy, thick flakes, and I build a roaring fire in the fireplace and pour myself a half a glass of wine from an already-opened bottle in the liquor cabinet. I opt to sit cross-legged on the big rug in front of the fireplace, eating my gourmet sandwich, drinking my wine, and letting the snow fall. For a moment, I feel like I’m in my own little world.
And then, as always, I think of Georgie and the flat in London, what he might be doing right now, and how close Christmas is. Only a few weeks, and he’ll spend the first Christmas of his life without any family, withoutme, unless some miracle happens. It’s enough to kill any joy I might have.
I finish my sandwich, drink the rest of the wine, and toss the napkin into the fireplace. For the rest of the night, I try to read my book curled up on the chaise by the window, but it’s difficult. The house is very silent, and I haven’t seen Alexandre since my breakfast was left for me this morning.
What if he’s dead?That’s frightening in and of itself. I’d be even more alone than I already am, in a strange city. I’d be free—but what would I do with it?
I tell myself that he’s probably just sleeping, or avoiding me. More than once in the past week, since his outburst at the dinner table, I’ve wanted to snap at him that if he doesn’t want me, he should just let me go, like I asked that first morning. But every time I come close, I remember the sharp“non” that my request was met with and his talk of punishment for bad pets. He might forget other things, but I don’t want to gamble on him having forgotten that.
When my eyes start to get heavy, I go through my usual ritual of cleaning up the library before I leave. I have every intention of tiptoeing back down to my room, but as I step into the hall and carefully close the library door behind me, I hear a strange moaning sound from Alexandre’s room.
I hesitate, waiting. It comes again, an almost painful sound, followed by a hoarse grunt.
What if he’s hurt? Sick, or in pain?I bite my lip. It’s not my business.I don’t care about him,I remind myself.He’s keeping me captive here.But I stand there anyway, hovering, indecisive. If heissick or in some kind of trouble, he might appreciate my help. He might reward me.
Maybe he’d even let me go.
Slowly, I tiptoe towards the door. It’s cracked ever so faintly, a thin strip of buttery light filtering out into the hall, and Alexandre groans again. It sounds pained, but something else about it sends a shivery feeling through me, my thighs clenching as if in response to something I don’t understand.
I bite my lip, hesitating to call out his name. Very carefully, I slip my fingers around the edge of the door, pulling it open just a little. Just enough to peer in.
What I see freezes me in place.
He’s standing at the edge of his bed, wearing the burgundy robe again, but it’s open, falling to either side of him. At this angle, I can see his broad, hard, muscled chest, the flat stomach that still has the hint of what were abs before he lost so much weight, lean hips, and strong thighs. My gaze skates down far enough to see what looks like scarring wounds on his knees before my eyes jerk up again to where his hand is—between his thighs, stroking his fully erect cock.
My mouth goes dry, and my entire body tenses as a wave of shocking heat goes through me. It feels like an instinctual, primal response, my body momentarily forgetting who this man is, and instead only seeing him as the handsome, chiseled figure that he is, his long-fingered hand wrapped around his straining cock as he strokes it, thrusting into his hand. I’ve never seen a man touch himself before, especially not so fiercely, and I can’t move, transfixed.
He’s holding a photo in his other hand, glossy and slightly crumpled as if he’s held it often, and though I can’t really make out who’s in it, I catch a glimpse of blonde hair and a slender face. My heart thuds in my chest, fear trickling through me to tangle with the heated curiosity sliding through my veins.Is that one of the women who were here before me? Is she why he always looks so guilty? Why he can’t look me in the eye?
I know I should back away, stop watching. I should go downstairs before he catches me. I can’t imagine how angry he’ll be if he does, especially since he told me specifically not to look in or go into his room—but I can’t make myself tear my eyes away. His body is magnificent, even in his current state of health, his face taut with pleasure, his dark hair flopping forward into his face. He looks fierce, masculine, and sexual in a way that I only experienced once before when I saw the hedonistic tableau in Kaito’s mansion. I’d been drawn to it then despite myself. I find myself feeling that again—the shiver down my spine, the throb between my thighs, a strange hollow ache for something that I don’t really understand.
I know the mechanics of sex, the parts, and how it's done, but I don’t know anything about it beyond that. I’ve never seen it, never experienced anything. I’ve never felt so naïve or innocent as I do at this moment, as I stare at Alexandre stroking his thick cock, his hand jerking feverishly along the length of it. I have no idea what is considered big, but he looks huge to me, filling his fist, long and swollen. For a brief, shameful moment, I imagine myself lying on that bed with my legs locked around his hips, that hand guiding that thick, hard cock into me. A throb of heat jolts through my core, making me shudder and whimper.
Fear follows it at the sound, and I clap my hand over my mouth, but he’s too focused on his own pleasure to notice or hear. I hover there, wanting to see the finish, what happens when a man comes. But just as I’m sure it’s going to happen, as his jaw tightens and his hips jerk rapidly, his breath coming fast and harsh as he fucks his own hand with primal abandon, he suddenly lets go of it, groaning as if in pain.
