PRISON TRANSFER  

TATIANA

The car finally slows down. Gravel crunches under the tires and my brain immediately goes, Well, that sounds exactly like bones breaking. Nice touch. Next he’ll probably put on some creepy organ music and start wearing a cape.

I press myself harder into the seat like that’s going to help. Stupid. The seat isn’t going to save me. Nothing is.

Julian. Oh yes, Julian. Why didn't I think of him sooner. Julian will save me. He’s a lawyer and my secret boyfriend, the sweetest man I have ever met. He must have some friends in the force to get me out of the hands of my evil stepbrother.

My phone. I can’t find my phone. I searched my pockets and found nothing, then I remembered I left it in my room because mother always insisted on no phones in the dining hall.

“Oh Shit.”

The road behind us had been empty for miles, just cliffs and black water way down below. The kind of empty where people vanish and nobody ever comes looking. I’ve seen this movie. I know how it ends.

He opens my door. His hand wraps around my wrist again, same as before. Solid. No wiggle room.

“Are we going to talk about this?” I ask while he pulls me out. “Because I feel like we really should. Basic kidnapping etiquette, you know? Maybe a welcome speech or something.”

He doesn’t even glance at me.

He drags me up these wide stone steps. The mansion looms up with all this cold glass and dark stone. It looks like old money had a baby with a vampire lair. I don’t get time to pick which one it is before he’s hauling me down a hallway that smells like lemon polish and money.

“Is this your place?” My voice bounces off the walls like they’ve never heard a woman talk before. “If you’re trying to impress me, you should know I’m more of a cozy cottage girl. Something with a garden. Maybe a porch swing. This whole thing is giving American Psycho meets Downton Abbey and the vibes are honestly super confusing.”

A door opens. He shoves me inside. I stumble and catch myself on the edge of a bed. The door shuts behind me. I spin around but he’s already gone. The lock clicks, loud and final.

“Great,” I mutter to the empty room, trying really hard not to cry like an actual adult. “This is perfect. Love this for me.”

I sit on the bed. Then I stand up. Then I sit down again because my legs feel weird. The shots start replaying in my head, four of them, five, Mom’s tiny surprised sound, Dad’s wineglass rolling across the table like it’s in some slow-motion commercial for unbreakable crystal. This glassware is so durable, it survives family massacres.

Rage hits me faster than sadness. It always does. All those books say the heroine should feel something soft first, like she needs a hug. Me? I just want to break something back.

There’s a lamp on the bedside table. Heavy brass. I grab it with both hands and swing it straight at the door like he’s still standing there.

I didn’t even hear him come back in. How did I not hear him? His scarred hand catches the lamp mid-swing. The impact vibrates up my arms but he doesn’t even flinch.

He just looks at me.

“You either kill me or let me go,” I say, breathing hard. “You murdered my family.” I swallow. “Our family.”

He goes completely still. Those pale grey eyes lock onto mine and give me nothing. That quiet is worse than if he’d yelled.

“Well?” My voice comes out sharper than I meant, but I need it right now. “Aren’t you going to say something? Sit down. Be quiet. Don’t try that again? I have a very particular set of skills?”

He sets the lamp down on a side table I hadn’t even noticed. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than I expected. Almost tired.

“The bathroom is through there.” He nods at a door I thought was a closet. “There are clothes in the wardrobe. They’ll be too big, but they’re clean.”

I stare at him.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. No monologuing? A list of rules? Some big dramatic speech about how Dad hurt you and this is all part of some inheritance revenge thing?”

Something almost like amusement flickers across his face for half a second, then it’s gone.

“You’re not my sister,” he says.

“Then what am I?”

He doesn’t answer. He steps back, hands resting on the doorframe, and I notice for the first time how he’s standing. Like everything hurts.

“You should finish your dinner,” he says.

I almost laugh. “You’re leaving me alone?”

He looks straight at me again. Those same grey eyes that decided not to pull the trigger earlier. “You have blood on your face.”

He says it the way someone tells you there’s spinach in your teeth. I reach up and touch my cheek. My fingers come away with dried brown-red flakes. I hadn’t even noticed.

He pulls the door shut. The lock clicks again.

I stand there staring at the door, thumb rubbing the dried blood between my fingers until it starts to crumble.

My family is dead. I’m locked in some rich stranger’s mansion. And the only person left who might explain any of this just told me to go wash my face and change clothes like it’s a normal Tuesday night.

I sink back onto the bed and press my forehead into my hands.

What the hell is happening?