“Miss.”
I groan as I start to wake up, every inch of my body sore, the worst of it between my legs.
A woman clears her throat. “Miss.”
I open my eyes. The room slowly comes into view. Black walls. No, not black. Dark, carved wood. A small square of light high up.
“Miss, I’m sorry to wake you.”
I turn, look at the older woman in a uniform standing on the other side of the bed. There’s another one, a younger one, standing just inside the door. I take in the bed, the bloodied sheet half pulled off one corner of the mattress. The thick blanket heavy as I draw it up to cover myself and sit up a little, wincing and very aware of the fact that I’m still naked.
“I need the sheets, Miss. It’ll just take us a minute to put clean ones on.”
I clear my throat, wipe my face and glance around for a clock. “What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock, Miss.”
I look back at the woman. She must think me an idiot. “Where is the bathroom?”
She points. I notice the other girl trying to act like she’s not looking at me.
“I just need one minute,” I say, hoping they’ll get the hint and leave so I can make it to the bathroom without having to run across the room naked.
“That’s fine, Miss,” the older one says and turns. She waves the other girl out.
I take a minute to sit up, still too tired from last night. I try to remember the last time I ate something but can’t.
“Are you all right?” the older woman asks.
I smile, hold the blanket to me as I swing my legs off but when I try to stand, the room begins to spin, and my knees give out. I throw my arm out to catch the nightstand but end up knocking a heavy brass lamp over, catching the edge of it on my forehead before it and I go tumbling to the floor.
The woman gasps and is at my side in an instant.
I sit up, still holding the blanket, and lean my back against the bed, very aware of the ache between my legs, the rawness there.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” This happens all the time, I don’t say. “I just need to eat something. I’ll be fine.”
She bends over me, worry creasing her face. She nods, calls to the girl she just shooed into the hallway. “Go get some toast and juice. Bring it upstairs.”
“But the master said—”
“I’ll worry about the master. You do as I say. Quickly.” She disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a glass of water.
I take it, drink a sip. “Thank you.” I touch my forehead.
“You’ve hurt yourself.”
My fingers come away bloody. “It’s fine. It’s just a cut.” I look at my wrists at the same time her eyes fall to them. What does she make of me, I wonder? A new bride with rope burns on her wrists, those ropes on the floor between us. Blood on the sheets.
I feel my face get hot.
She clears her throat and helps me back on the bed, and I try not to look at the blood smeared on it. Try not to think about how he used those sheets to clean me.
The girl returns then. I hear her coming. She must be hurrying because whatever is on the tray is clattering loudly.
“Here we are,” the older woman says as she takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand. I glance at the lamp that fell over, realizing there’s no bulb in it. I look around the grim room at the remnants of all the candles. Does he use only candles throughout the house? It’s a behemoth. I saw that much last night.
The woman hands me a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, and I happily take it, drinking it all.
“Better,” I say, feeling the sugar do its work. “Thank you.”
She pours more into my cup from the small pitcher and I sip that one and eye the toast.
“Go on and eat something. We’ll start in another room and come back.”
“But ma’am,” the other girl starts.
“You hush,” she tells her and hustles her out.
Once they close the door, I put my cup down and pick up a piece of toast to eat a few bites dry then get off the bed to take the sheets off myself, embarrassed of what they’ve already seen. I bundle it inside the blanket and leave it on the foot of the bed then cross the room naked to go into the bathroom. A shower will make me feel better. And clothes. And then I’ll think about what comes next.
But first, I need to see the tattoo. Standing in front of the mirror, I look at myself. No new bruises at least. Nothing fresh enough for me to notice apart from the cut on my forehead. It’s small, though, and doesn’t hurt much.
Will it always be that way with him? A battle?
I take off the rosary and set it on the counter to splash water on my face and dry it, pull what’s left of the pins out of my hair, releasing the last of the twist. I lift it up and turn my back to the mirror, trying to get a look at the tattoo. All I can see is that it’s carefully covered in plastic.
I go through the drawers for a handheld mirror to get a look at it but find none. I’ll have to ask him to show me. I hate that I have to ask him for anything. But the truth is, I know I’ll have to ask for everything.
By the time I get out of the shower, the bed has been remade, the soiled bedding gone, and the lamp righted. Brand new candles have been placed inside the candleholders, a few already lit.
The large walk-in closet is filled with clothes, all new and all in my size, but hardly any of it my style. I choose the simplest sweater and pair of jeans I can find and put them on along with a pair of comfortable, thick socks. I don’t bother with shoes. They mostly have high heels. I slip the rosary on although it’s cumbersome but then I hear his words again.
“I think you’ll do exactly as you’re told.”
I reach beneath my sweater, take it off and set it beside the bed. He can’t seriously expect me to wear a freaking rosary around my neck 24/7.
I go to the door and try it. I expect it to be locked so I’m not surprised when I find it is. I guess he’s not taking any chances that he’s wrong. That I won’t do as he says. With a shake of my head, I turn back into the room, trying to ignore the part of me that is relieved at least one choice to disobey him has been taken away.
My gaze lands on that mask. It’s in a glass box set on a stand and I go to it, open it. It’s not locked.
It’s ugly and beautiful at once, the mask. Made of metal with, if I peer close, skulls and roses carved into it, the letters of the society, I.V.I, the V slightly larger than the I’s on either side woven in with the skulls and roses. De La Rosa. Of the rose. It must be what’s on the back of my neck too.
I lift the thing out and remember how that weight felt on my head. My neck could almost not bear it. But that probably had something to do with the sex. With how he took me. There’s a flutter in my stomach at the memory, and I wonder how I can be turned on by something like that. By someone like him.
But I am. And I’m not going to lie to myself about it. I’ve not been with a man before him so I can’t judge, but all I know is I’ve never come so hard as when he made me come. And even given the rawness between my legs, I’m aroused thinking about it.
There’s another side to this too, though. He was just as turned on.
“Maybe I’m not the only weak one, Santiago.”
I put the mask back on its stand and run my fingers under the small chains that dangle from it, crosses hanging off them. I remember the Hail Marys he made me say as my punishment.
“Freak,” I say to the room and walk to the two windows on the far wall. I have to pull up a chair and stand on it to see outside, and I can’t open either of them because they’re actually bigger windows, but the wood all around the room has been carved to only let in this little bit of light. I wonder if he chose this room especially for me. I’m sure he did. Will he deprive me even of sunlight?
I step down off the chair carefully, holding onto the back when I feel myself wobble, then lower myself into the seat.
He could do that. Keep me prisoner in this room. It would be the same as holding me in a cell below ground.
I rub my face and get up. Walk around. Take in the carvings on the wooden walls. Skulls and roses. Like the posts on the bed. The one he bound me to. The whole thing is stifling.
It doesn’t take me long to look through everything and then I sit, and I wait.
But he doesn’t come for me as the sun begins to descend the sky. He doesn’t come as I light all the candles in the room and wait. He doesn’t come long after I’ve changed into a nightgown and even when my stomach growls so loudly, I’m sure he can hear it wherever he is in this house.
I’m only grateful for sleep when it becomes apparent he won’t return to even feed me tonight.