Chapter Five

 

The sun is shining directly in my face when I wake up the next morning. Not wake up, actually. I open my eyes to the bright, stinging light from the drapes drawn open, grab the pillow, and slam it over my head like WWE. 

I used to watch it when I was younger, after my mother died. I thought if I became stronger, I could defend myself from the scumbags my stepdad brought around the house. 

Turns out they wanted nothing to do with his daughter. 

Somehow, the loan sharks and gangsters were more honest than the man my mother left me with. 

My head hurts. 

I groan as I crawl out of bed, finding my way with my hands while my eyes remain shut. Just there…a little bit more…I’m closer to the edge now. 

I miscalculate badly. 

One minute I’m reaching for the bed frame, and the next I’m toppling to the ground in a tangle of sheets. My butt takes the brunt of it, hitting the cold flooring with a thud. 

I bite my tongue—on instinct—as I grab my backside, muffling my shriek of pain. It doesn’t help, because the familiar metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. 

Great. 

I’m off to a good start this morning. 

I sit there for a couple of minutes, trying to ward off any more bad luck. Then I slowly untangle myself, standing to my feet. 

I glance around the room, my eyes widening at the dull wall colors and the large space. For a brief moment, my brain floods with panic. And then I’m reminded, as the memories come flooding back, that I’m not in my tiny bedroom in my shoebox apartment. 

No. 

I’m the property of the Hawthorne brothers, specifically Adrian Hawthorne. And he bought me for one dollar and a cent. 

The bed.  

I whirl around as my pulse skips. He was in bed with me last night. I remember holding my breath, pretending I couldn’t feel the warmth from his body from my hiding spot. 

Like I couldn’t smell him—all musk and masculine—invading my senses. 

And then he left. 

Because I slept off and ended up…

No. 

I race to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My chest heaves as I stare at the mirror, at my reddened face. I manhandled him. And I could’ve touched him anywhere, but it had to be down there.  

“Oh god,” I moan, slapping my hands to my face. “You should’ve slept on the floor, Alina.”

Now he thinks I’m a creep. I’m the creep he bought from an auction because her alcoholic, gambling stepfather put her up for sale, and nobody could spare a dollar. 

I sink to the floor slowly, gloom and doom weighing heavily in my chest. “I’ll just stay here,” I mumble to myself. “I’ll lock the door and live out the rest of my days in this bathroom.”

My eyes dart straight for the bathtub. I’d thought about sleeping in it last night, and he said it was a foolish idea. 

Well, I doubt he’d say the same thing now. Adrian Hawthorne probably wants nothing to do with me at this point. 

I make it only a minute in before my stomach grumbles loudly. 

“Please.” I wrap my arms around my waist. “Go away.” It grumbles again, and a sharp, stinging pain tears across my stomach. I double over as my vision goes white, gasping for air.    

I try to breathe, but the pain intensifies, digging deeper into my stomach, as if eating at my intestines. 

I forgot. I have an ulcer. Another gift I got from working three jobs, dealing with a student loan, and still having to bail out my deadbeat parent. 

I fainted during a class in my first year and woke up in a bed, in a room with white walls, wearing an oversized gown. That’s when I found out I had an ulcer.  

If I die here, nobody will mourn me.  I’ll be forgotten by all. 

I’m not sure what pushes me to my feet—pure spite of my weak self-will, but I drag my feet out of the bathroom and out of the bedroom, still dressed in pajamas. 

The house is incredibly big. 

I walk down the stairs into a large hallway, then into another one at the end of the first hallway. Paintings line the walls, most of them abstract, but breathtaking nonetheless. 

I forget about my hunger for a bit before the smell of something warm and rich, with mouthwatering spices, hits me. My stomach makes the demanding noise again. 

“Hi.”

I whirl around. 

A woman stands a couple feet away. She looks like she’s in her forties, with jet black hair tied into a strict bun and her arms folded behind her back. “You’re Miss Wilson?”

I nod. 

She cracks a small, polite smile, tilting her head. “Good morning. I’m Grace, the housekeeper. Mr. Hawthorne is in the dining room already. I’ll take you there.”

“Dining room?” My lips pull in a tight, confused line. “I’m having breakfast with Adrian?”

Her lips twitch. “Yes. Mr. Hawthorne has ordered that your breakfast be served with his. Although…” she trails off as her brows furrow. Her gaze roams over my body, and she purses her lips lightly. “I’m not sure if that is appropriate.”

I glance down at my pajamas. “It’s—” it’s silk,  is what I want to say. It’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned. 

“I don’t have anything else,” I mutter instead.

“Oh.” Her eyes soften. “Well, then, we should get you some clothes.  I’ll have the fashion designer come around later today. She should be able to get you fitted.”

“But,” she adds before I can say anything, “you’re late for breakfast. Mr. Hawthorne is a very punctual man.”

I nod meekly, following behind her. 

She opens a door, then steps back. “You can go in.”

“Thank you.”

The dining room—unsurprisingly—is more spacious than…well, my apartment. Adrian is seated at the head, holding an open newspaper to his face. 

I clear my throat. “Hi.”

He sets it down, slowly. He says nothing for a minute, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

My stomach growls. My knees weaken, and I grab the closest chair to keep from crumbling. 

Adrian’s brows crease sharply. He stares at me, an unreadable expression on his face. “You should sit,” he says flatly. “Before your legs give out, Miss Wilson.”

I feel my face heating up and quickly sink into a chair, dropping my gaze to the table. Cinnamon scent wafts past my nostrils, from the covered plate two chairs in front of me. 

I avoid eye contact as I reach for it and take the top off. Warm, fluffy pancakes greet me, and a happy sigh slips past my lips. 

I grab one with a fork, then another, serving myself. I whisk the fancy syrup bottle next to it, spreading a generous amount on the small pile.  

My fork sinks in. 

I lift the first bite to my lips, already tasting it. 

“How did you sleep last night?” His tone is mild, almost polite—but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. I glance at him, by mistake, but he’s already staring at me. 

I choke on air. 

“I find it interesting,” he continues, setting it down with deliberate care, “how accurate your hands are… even in your sleep.”

He pauses as my chest suddenly feels smaller. Then, quieter, Adrian adds, “Tell me, do you always reach for things like that unconsciously, or was last night  specific?”