Chapter 8
1459 Words
For a second, Amelia forgot where she was. Then the silence reminded her.
She sat up slowly, pulling the thick duvet to her chest. Morning light slipped through the curtains and spilled across the marble floor. The room looked expensive enough to belong in a magazine. She stayed still for a moment, listening — to the distant hum of the estate settling around her, to the muffled sound of movement somewhere far below.
She threw off the covers. She wasn't going to sit in bed and wait for the monster down the hall to dictate her life.
She walked toward the corner of the massive room to grab her canvas duffel bag, but she stopped. Near the far wall, she noticed a set of tall, frosted-glass double doors she had completely missed the night before.
She pushed them open.
Row after row of beautiful, high-end clothing hung perfectly organized by color. Thick cashmere sweaters, tailored slacks, silk blouses, and buttery leather jackets. She walked slowly down the aisle, her fingers brushing the fabrics. She checked a tag on a dark emerald sweater.
It was exactly her size. Everything was her size.
She didn't know what unsettled her more—that he had planned for her arrival, or that part of her was relieved not to be wearing wet clothes.
She stood among the perfectly arranged garments for a long moment, unsure whether to be grateful or unsettled. She settled on neither. She needed a shower. She needed food. She needed to think.
She found the en suite through the door beside the closet — all white stone and brushed chrome, with a rainfall shower that ran hot within seconds. She stood under it longer than she intended, eyes closed, letting the heat work through the tension knotted in her shoulders and neck. The clothes she had worn in the rain yesterday were stiff and ruined. She was not going back into them.
When she stepped out and wrapped herself in one of the thick robes hanging on the wall, the knot in her chest loosened slightly.
Only slightly.
She returned to the closet and pulled down the emerald cashmere sweater and a pair of dark, perfectly fitted denim jeans. She dressed without ceremony. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror, she paused only briefly — then moved on. She had more pressing things to think about than her own reflection.
Ten minutes later, she navigated the wide, pale marble hallways until the rich smell of roasted coffee led her to the east wing.
She stepped through a wide archway into an industrial kitchen that gleamed under sharp overhead lights. At the center island, a massive man with a thick, graying beard and faded Cyrillic tattoos on his forearms was methodically breaking down a whole chicken. He moved the knife like someone who had done this ten thousand times.
He looked up and frowned.
"You were supposed to call."
Amelia blinked.
"What?"
"The Boss said food would be brought to your room."
"I found the kitchen."
Dimitri grunted.
"Clearly."
He jerked his chin toward the counter. "Eat."
Amelia looked to her right. A pristine, gold-rimmed plate held a perfectly poached egg, smoked salmon, and a delicate pastry arranged with careful precision.
"I can't eat that," Amelia said, walking further into the room.
The chopping stopped. The man finally lifted his head, looking at her the way a general looks at an insubordinate soldier.
"I am Dimitri," he said heavily. "I am the head chef of this house. You are the guest. You eat what is prepared."
"I'm not a guest, Dimitri." Amelia said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm a hostage. And if I eat rich smoked salmon on an empty stomach right now, I am going to throw it up on your floor. I just want two plain, scrambled eggs."
Dimitri stared at her, deeply offended. "Scrambled eggs is an insult to the bird."
"I'll live with that guilt." She pointed to the copper pans hanging over the stove. "If you point me to the eggs, I'll make them myself. You don't have to wait on me."
Dimitri crossed his massive arms. He looked like he was debating whether to physically remove her from his kitchen. But something in the defiant set of her jaw made him stop. He let out a heavy sigh that ruffled his beard and pointed a thick finger toward a small burner in the corner.
"You use that station. You do not touch my good knives."
"Deal."
Amelia found the eggs and a small whisk. She cracked them with practiced ease, working in silence while Dimitri returned to his chicken. The kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and woodsmoke, and for a few minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic knock of his cleaver and the quiet scrape of her whisk against the bowl.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.
An older guard walked into the kitchen, wearing the standard dark suit. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow, and he walked with a slight, painful limp. He went straight to the coffee machine, rubbing his exhausted face.
"Long night, Tomas?" Dimitri asked.
"Perimeter sensors kept tripping," Tomas muttered, pouring a mug. "Stray deer. Boss almost had us sweep the woods anyway."
Tomas turned and his eyes landed on Amelia. She was standing in the corner, quietly eating her scrambled eggs straight from the pan with a fork, unbothered. He paused, looking at the emerald sweater, then to Dimitri, then back to her. A tired, warm grin spread across his scarred face.
"Well," Tomas said, his voice a gravelly rumble. "You must be the nurse."
"I'm Amelia."
"Tomas," he offered. "Night shift. Word down in the barracks is that you stitched the Boss up on the pavement while yelling at him." He took a long sip of his coffee. "Half the men think you're crazy. The other half think you're terrifying."
Amelia let out a dry laugh. "I was just trying to stop the bleeding."
"Sure you were, Doc," Tomas chuckled. He leaned against the counter, wrapping both hands around his mug like it was the only warm thing in the world.
Amelia went to take another bite of her eggs.
As her fingers tightened around the handle of the metal fork, a sudden, violent numbness shot through her right hand.
She gasped quietly. Her fingers completely gave out. The fork slipped from her grip and clattered loudly against the ceramic plate.
"Everything alright?" Tomas asked, his grin fading into genuine concern.
"Fine," Amelia whispered quickly. She pulled her hand off the counter and curled it into a tight, white-knuckled fist, pressing it hard against her thigh.
A sharp wave of vertigo washed over her, making the edges of the kitchen blur and tilt. It lasted for three terrifying seconds before her vision snapped back into focus.
It wasn't exhaustion. It was the same numbness. The same terrifying loss of control.
The exact same symptom her mother had tried to hide before she died.
She forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose.
"She is not fine."
The temperature in the kitchen plummeted.
Tomas immediately straightened his posture, ignoring his bad knee, and dropped his chin. Dimitri set his knife down without a sound.
Amelia turned slowly.
Nicolai stood in the archway. He was dressed in a tailored black dress shirt, his pitch-black eyes locked onto Amelia with a suffocating, unblinking intensity. He looked like he had been standing there long enough to see everything.
"Boss," Tomas said smoothly, keeping his eyes on the floor.
"Return to your post, Tomas," Nicolai commanded quietly.
Tomas gave Amelia a brief, subtle nod before slipping out the side door without another word, leaving the kitchen in absolute silence.
Nicolai stepped slowly into the room. His gaze moved across her face, tracking the pallor in her cheeks, the way she was holding her right hand stiff and close against her thigh. He didn't miss anything.
He had seen the fork drop.
"I told you to stay in your room," Nicolai said.
Amelia lifted her chin. "I needed to eat."
Nicolai stopped on the opposite side of the marble island. He looked at the plain eggs on her plate. He looked at the emerald sweater. He looked back up at her eyes and held them.
"When you are finished," Nicolai murmured, his voice quiet and unhurried and somehow more threatening for it, "come to my study. We have work to do."
He turned and walked out.
Amelia looked down at her right hand. The trembling had dulled to a faint, stubborn flutter. She pressed her fingers flat against the cool marble of the counter and stared at them for a long moment.
- Writer
