CHAPTER 006

LYRA

The sharp click of a door shutting jolts me awake, and my eyes snap open. I stare up at the ceiling, instantly realizing I'm not in my apartment or the damp basement. I am on a massive, four-poster bed, lying on top of the comforter. The fabric is heavy and incredibly soft, unlike anything I have ever slept on.

"You awake. Good. Get up."

My head jerks to the side to find a woman in her fifties standing over me. She wears a sharp black skirt suit and a crisp white blouse. Her blonde hair, threaded with silver, is pulled back tightly it looks painful. Her face is blank, except for her eyes, which are looking down at me with raw disdain.

Grabbing a fistful of the comforter, I force myself to sit up, scramble back against the headboard, and pull my knees tight to my chest.

"Where the hell am I?" My gaze breaks from hers and darts around the room.

My entire apartment could fit in here with space to spare. To my right sits an emerald-green sofa with matching throw pillows. A thick, plush carpet swallows the floorboards, stretching to a heavy door, with an ornate vanity at the far end of the room. It’s simple yet elegant.

This must be his house. His men drugged me and carried me here.

Survival instinct kicks in, and without a clear plan, I jump off the mattress and sprint for the door. I pull it open, desperate for my legs to carry me anywhere but here, only to crash hard into a solid wall of muscle. It’s one of the suited men from the street. He is guarding the door.

"We do this easy way or hard way, miss," the woman says from behind me with a foreign accent that sends a fresh spike of panic down my spine. "Step back inside."

The man in front of me nods once and pulls the heavy door shut, locking me in.

My shoulder locks, and I force myself to turn around slowly.

"I am Bertha, manager of household. I’ve been told your name Lyra?" She holds out her hands, offering a piece of black fabric. "Go in and wash. He is waiting downstairs." She speaks as if this is all completely normal to her. Like it isn’t her first time doing this.

My bare feet remain glued to the carpet, and I swallow hard, gathering every ounce of courage I have left.

"What is his name? Who is he?" I demand as it dawns on me that I agreed to marry a man who kidnaps women and locks them in basements. I needed a name.

Her expression doesn’t falter as she marches over, grabs my wrist, and shoves the dress into my chest. "Not here to answer questions. Go in there and wash. He won’t sit whole night waiting for you." She steps behind me and shoves my shoulder hard toward the bathroom.

Night? Meaning I was knocked out for an entire day again?

My grip tightens on the fabric as I stumble toward the bathroom, my gaze drifting to the massive bedroom window. It is pitch black outside. No streetlights. No neighboring buildings. Wherever we are, we are completely isolated.

Bertha steps ahead of me, pulling open the bathroom door. I step onto the cold tile, and wait for her to leave, but she just stands in the doorway, watching me.

"Are you going to watch me shower?" I ask, trying to sound stern, but a tremor betrays me.

"Don’t do anything stupid, girl, if you want to wake tomorrow with head still attached to neck." She pulls the door shut before I can even process the threat.

Who the hell are these people?

As soon as the lock clicks, I drop the dress onto the marble counter and finally look at my reflection in the mirror.

My lips are cracked and bleeding, my hair is a tangled, greasy mess, and my eyes are bloodshot, sunken in with dark, bruised bags from the crying and exhaustion.

When I lift my shaking hands to push the hair out of my face, I see the dark crust of dried blood from the ropes flaking on my wrists. I stare at my battered skin, and a hot tear spills over my lashes, tracking down my dirty cheek as the crushing reality fully settles in.

This is really happening.

Slowly, I peel off the dirty hooded jumper and the stiff, ruined tights. A sour, awful stench of sweat and blood hits my nose. I smell like an animal. One found in a shed and eats garbage.

Just as I am about to step into the shower, my knees buckle, and I collapse against the side of the massive bathtub. I bury my face in my knees and just let the tears fall, sobbing silently into the empty room. I must have stayed there for a while because a loud, violent bang against the door pulls me back to reality.

I force myself up, step into the shower, and turn on the water. Freezing water blasts my skin, and I jump back, quickly adjusting the silver faucet until steam billows out.

My jaw throbs from the backhand I took in the apartment. The hot water bites and stings the raw skin on my wrists, and the bone-deep fatigue of sitting tied to a chair in that freezing basement crashes down on me all at once. I don’t know how I am physically still standing.

Once the water runs clear, I step out, grab one of the thick white towels neatly folded on the warming rack, dry off, and wipe the heavy mist from the mirror. I stare at the hollow look in my own eyes for a long moment before my hand reaches for the fabric on the counter.

It’s a long, black silk slip dress with razor-thin straps. Between the modest, below-the-knee skirts I wear to teach at the Catholic school and the oversized sweaters I live in on the weekends, I have never owned anything like this. Also, I don't go anywhere that requires this kind of dress. It’s completely alien to me.

I quickly rub some unscented lotion from the drawer into my skin and slip the dress over my head.

It fits perfectly. Too perfectly. The fabric is undeniably sexy, clinging tightly to every curve of my hips and backside. And without a bra, the hard peaks of my nipples press visibly against the thin silk.

I feel naked. Exposed. I cannot believe this is how I am being forced to meet the monster downstairs.

Dread pools low in my stomach as I turn the lock and pull the door open.

Bertha stands in the exact same spot, and her cold eyes immediately drop to my bare feet, dragging slowly up my legs, pausing deliberately at my chest, before finally meeting my eyes.

She steps aside and gestures toward the door. "We go now."

Defensively, I cross my arms over my chest, frantically glancing around for a sweater, a shawl, anything to cover up. There is nothing.

My feet halt just before I reach the threshold as a tightness gathers in my chest. I feel like cattle walking into a slaughterhouse, except the animals in the chute are oblivious to the butcher.

I know exactly who is waiting in the dark.

Bertha breaks my hesitation by shoving me forward, and I stumble, my bare toes hitting the cold hardwood of the hallway. The guard steps back and points silently toward the grand staircase.

Slowly, I let my feet carry me down the long, dim corridor, and I step onto the first stair, the heavy wood creaking under my slight weight. It’s an old house, I gather; the faded, antique oil paintings confirm it.

At the bottom, Bertha stops beside me and points to the left, but before turning, I look straight ahead at the massive front doors.

I could run. Bertha doesn’t look fast enough to stop me. I could make a break for the heavy brass handles, run into the dark, and scream for help.

I almost do it but then logic rushes in quickly. If there is a guard outside my bedroom, there are undoubtedly more stationed beyond that front door. And as if she could read my desperate thoughts, Bertha’s eyes narrow and she gives her head one slow shake.

Don't try it.

My spine stiffens as I grab a handful of my dress to keep from tripping and follow Bertha down the hallway to where warm light spills from a slightly open doorway.

She pushes the doors fully open, and I go still for a moment before forcing my feet to carry me inside.

The threshold opens into a cavernous dining room, its deep, blood-red walls lined with heavy framed art. Clusters of lit candles burn in every corner, casting flickering shadows across the space. At the center sits a long, polished mahogany table, laden with a massive spread of food. Ornate, French-style carved chairs line the sides, each place meticulously set with crisp cloth napkins, as if a large crowd is about to sit down for dinner.

I tilt my head up slightly, my stomach groaning at the sight of the food, and that’s when I meet his eyes.

He leans back casually, one arm resting on the back of the chair, his other hand loosely gripping a glass of clear liquor on the table.

The heavy doors click shut behind me, and when I whip my head around, Bertha is already gone. I turn back, and his eyes are already on me.

His gaze drops from my face, tracking slowly down the thin black silk. I feel the heavy, physical weight of his stare as it takes in the curve of my hips, the exposed skin of my chest, dragging all the way down to my bare, shiny toes.

"Sit," his deep, commanding voice echoes through the empty room.

I hesitate, my lips parting. "No."

He leans forward, his harsh, beautiful features finally catching the warm light from the chandelier above him.

"I said sit. I won't ask again.”

Every instinct in my body screams at me to stay pinned to the door, but the authority in his tone sends a paralyzing jolt of fear straight to my core. I realize I have absolutely no choice here.