Little girl

Morning arrived faster than I wanted it to.

I woke up tangled in sheets that cost more than my entire medical school tuition, my body aching in places that had no business aching. The spot on my inner thigh where Stephan had injected the tracker throbbed—a persistent, stinging reminder that I was less of a guest and more of a somewhat cherished wild animal.

I dragged myself out of bed, my stomach growling loud enough to echo in the empty room.

"Right," I muttered, smoothing down my wrinkled pajamas. "Time to see if the jail comes with breakfast or if I'm expected to photosynthesize."

I opened the door cautiously. The hallway was empty. No guards. No Roberta lurking in the shadows like a disgruntled gargoyle. Emboldened, I padded down the grand staircase, following the scent of brewing coffee and frying bacon.

I found the kitchen easily enough. It was a large space of gleaming marble and stainless steel, appearing cleaner than any operating theater I’d ever seen. But it wasn't empty.

A woman stood by the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. She looked soft, her edges rounded and non-threatening, with kind eyes that widened when she saw me. Sitting at the island counter, swinging her legs and munching on a strawberry, was a little girl with curly hair and eyes that looked like they held a startling intelligence.

I froze in the doorway, my sarcasm loading in the chamber like a bullet. "I didn't realize the kidnapping package included a family plan."

The woman jumped, nearly dropping her spatula. "Miss Alina! Oh, my goodness. We didn't know you were awake. I'm Brielle. And this is—"

"I'm Atalia," the girl piped up, sliding off her stool. She walked right up to me, tilting her head to the side. "You're the pretty lady Uncle Stephan brought home. Roberta says you're a witch, but you don't look green."

I blinked, my sharp retort dying in my throat. I looked from the child to the woman. "Uncle Stephan? Roberta talks about me?"

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Of course she does. And for the record, kid, the only witch in this house wears designer lingerie and glares a lot."

Brielle stifled a smile, quickly turning back to the stove. "Atalia, leave Miss Alina alone. She's... tired."

"I'm not tired," I corrected, walking further into the room and eyeing the coffee pot like a lifeline. "I'm held captive. There's a difference. So, what's your story? Did he buy you at an auction too, or are you just heavily committed to the maid aesthetic?"

Brielle's smile faltered, a shadow passing over her face. "Mr. Stephan took us in when we had nowhere else to go. He is... kind to us."

I poured a mug of black coffee, taking a scalding sip. "Kind. Right. The man who kidnaps people and implants tracking devices is a regular Mother Teresa."

"He is nice," Atalia insisted, frowning. She grabbed another strawberry and pointed it at me accusingly. "He reads me stories. And he lets me hide in his office when Mommy is cleaning. He just has a hard face. Mommy says he needs love to melt the ice."

I choked on my coffee, sputtering as I looked at the small child defending the devil.

"Love?" I wheezed, wiping my mouth. "Kid, you can't melt an iceberg with a candle. Stephan doesn't need love; he needs a psychiatric evaluation and a restraining order."

"You don't know him," Atalia said stubbornly.

"I know enough," I shot back, though the venom in my voice softened slightly. It was hard to be angry at a kid who looked at a monster and saw a hero. "I know he's dangerous."

"He protects us," Brielle said quietly, placing a plate of pancakes on the island. "The world outside these walls... that is what is dangerous, Miss Alina. Stephan is the wall that keeps the monsters out."

I stared at the pancakes. This sounds like a classic case of Stockholm syndrome. I just pray I don’t get it.

"Eat," Brielle urged gently. "You need your strength."

I sat down, stabbing a pancake with a fork. "Fine. But if I find a tracker in this blueberry, I'm flipping the table."

The domesticity of the scene was disorienting. Sunlight streamed through the windows, the child giggled, and a woman cooked breakfast. It was almost enough to make me forget that I had been branded someone’s property. Almost.

The peace lasted exactly ten minutes.

The heavy thud of footsteps in the hallway made the air in the kitchen drop ten degrees. Atalia lit up, but Brielle instantly straightened her posture, reverting to the invisible servant.

Stephan walked in.

He was dressed in a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, crisp and impeccably tailored. He looked rested, calm, and utterly detached—as if he hadn't had his hands all over me just hours ago. As if he hadn't fled my room like a coward.

His gaze swept over the room, landing heavily on me. He didn't smile. He didn't say good morning.

"Brielle," he acknowledged with a curt nod. "Atalia."

"Uncle Stephan!" Atalia chirped, though she stayed in her seat, probably sensing the shift in atmosphere.

Stephan walked to the counter, pouring himself a glass of water. He stood uncomfortably close to me. I could smell that maddening jasmine scent again, and my body betrayed me by tightening in response. I shoved another bite of pancake into my mouth to keep from saying something stupid.

"I see you've made friends," Stephan said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that grated on my nerves.

"I'm gathering allies for the mutiny," I mumbled around my food. "Brielle is handling logistics; Atalia is on propaganda."

Stephan's lip twitched, a small crack in the mask. "Ambitious. But you have other priorities today."

He set the glass down with a sharp clink.

"Finish your breakfast, Alina. We are going to the study."

I glared at him. "I'm not finished. And I don't recall asking for a meeting."

Stephan leaned down, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of my plate, trapping me. The air crackled with that same volatile electricity from last night. Brielle hurriedly began scrubbing a pot, and even Atalia went quiet.

"It wasn't a request," Stephan murmured, his eyes locking onto mine, cold and hard as diamonds. "We received a package this morning. From your grandfather's estate."

I didn’t know when my fork slipped from between my fingers and clattered onto the plate. My heart skipped a beat. "My... what?"

"You wanted answers, Alina," Stephan said, straightening up and adjusting his cuffs. He turned toward the door, not waiting to see if I would follow. "I suggest you come and get them. Before I decide you're not useful enough to keep in the loop."

He walked out, leaving a trail of cold dread in his wake.

I looked at Brielle, then at Atalia. The little girl gave me a sympathetic shrug.

"I told you," Atalia whispered. "He's complicated."

"No," I muttered, sliding off the stool, my appetite gone. "He's a headache."

I followed Stephan into the hallway, my blood running cold. Grandfather's estate? I didn't have a grandfather. I didn't have anyone anymore.

As I stepped into the darkened corridor leading to his study, I saw Stephan waiting by the open door. He held a manila envelope in his hand, and the look on his face wasn't one of triumph as I had expected. He looked like he was calculating something that needed utmost attention to resolve.

"Get in," he commanded, ushering me inside and locking the door behind us. "And don't scream at what I'm about to show you."