Chapter 3

Chiara

"So this is his daughter?"

"Yes, Master. She went home because of her father's request."

"Perfect. Did you search her belongings?"

“We did. But we didn’t find anything other than costumes and wigs, Master.”

The two male voices talking in whispers pull me out of unconsciousness.

My eyelids feel sticky. My limbs feel like they're a hundred pounds heavier. I try to get up, but then I feel a strip of cold leather strapping me down. I realize that I'm bound to something hard and cold, like a steel bed, through my neck, wrists, and ankles.

I blink repeatedly, trying to get rid of the haze in my vision.

Slowly, the room I am in starts to loom into view.

Dark red walls. Bare, except for the array of weapons that are displayed in cases. Knives, swords, axes . . . even what looks like teeth. Sharp, big, animal teeth.

Chills run down my spine. I try to move but I'm plastered in place. I want to scream, but something is slapped right in my mouth, preventing me from making a single noise.

I can't move my head or I will choke. I can't move my arms and my legs. All I can see from my view is the display of weapons and those big teeth.

Where am I? What am I doing here? The last thing I remember is coming home to Dad after his news, which now I know is a stupid thing to believe in. He had some “friends” over, people who are shady and have tried to hurt me. . . .

He got himself in trouble again, didn’t he? That must be why I’m here. Those friends of his are people he must have owed money to, and now they want it back. This won’t be the first time, but this is definitely the first time I would get involved, because before, he would always tell me to get out of the way.

So why did he call me home?

It’s highly unlikely, right? As shitty as he is, he made sure I was alive and away from his fuck-ups.

Maybe this is my problem. Maybe I’m the one who brought this to myself.

What if it’s the man from Monamour? What if he wanted to take revenge on me?

The sound of heavy footsteps suddenly erupts above me. I struggle against my bonds and whimper under my gag, then I feel a cold hand on my forehead.

A shadow looms over me, then a man.

A man whose face is covered with a black mask.

His stark white hair is sticking up in waves. The mask is stuck in a permanent small smile. And his eyes. . . .

His eyes are bright gold. But there's no warmth there. It's the kind of eyes you will see on predators. Sharp and focused. Angry.

Something uncanny. Something dangerous.

"Hello, Chiara Castelli."

I whimper under my gag, trying to get out of my restraints, but I’m bound very closely to the metal bed and the straps seem very secure. . . .

Or at least, most of them are.

The strap on my right wrist is quite loose, and I can tell that it’s from heavy misuse. Which means that I’m not the first person who was ever here.

The man continues to stare at me, and there’s just something chilling about his face, especially his eyes. It’s almost like he’s staring deep into my soul, but also consuming a part of me that I can never get back.

“I assume you already know why you’re here,” he says, his voice deep. Like a smooth rumble. It’s almost like darkness can talk. “This can either be fast or slow. And it would be entirely up to you.”

With that, he takes out a small golden knife from the inside of his all-black suit. The blade glimmers under the lights, wickedly sharp.

I start to sweat profusely.

I’m shaking from head to toe. I have no fucking clue why I’m here, and I try to communicate that to him by shaking my head, but he just stares at me from behind that emotionless mask. For some reason, I can perfectly tell that he’s smiling, finding some sort of satisfaction from my fear.

He trails the sharp knife up and down my abdomen, and I know that he will gut me here and now without hesitation.

I need to get out of here. I need to call the police.

But to do that, I have to know who took me.

I try to edge my hand out of the leather band. It’s grazing against my knuckles, pulling on my wrist hard. I can hear my bones creaking. Pain is twisting up my arm. I know I should stop before I break something, but he’s too distracted staring at my face.

“We didn’t find anything on you, so now I have to personally . . . search you.”

I try to scream, but the gag in my mouth completely shatters the sound. The man lets out a low laugh as though amused, and with that, he slides the knife deeper into me, puncturing my jacket.

Millimeters away from my skin.

My whole being is hot with panic now. Slowly and torturously, he rips the front of my jacket, filling the room with ripping sounds. I can feel the tip of the blade on my skin. My mind is whirring with thoughts. I keep screaming even though no one can hear me. And I keep praying to whatever and whoever is up there to let this end. . . .

Then my right hand slips free from the strap.

My body reacts before my mind does. I snatch the knife that the man is holding, but he’s also quick to back away and get it far from my grasp. As a result, I only manage to slap it away from his hand, hearing it clatter on the floor.

He whips around to look at me like he never expected this to happen, but his eyes are devoid of any shock. All I can see there is pure venom, like I’m staring right into a monster’s eyes.

“Learning tricks from daddy dearest,” he mocks, drawing a gun from inside his jacket and pointing it at me.

As a last ditch attempt to do something--anything--to delay my death, I reach out and grab the man’s mask, pulling it to expose his face.