Falling for a Trained Killer

Chapter Seven

I hold my breath as I hear Marcus turn the knob and stop when he realized the door was locked. I stood and took a step back knowing that he can hear me move on the other side of the door. His voice was still calm. I remembered the night before. The bodies, the blood, the horror and his position as so dispassionate the entire time. 

“Unlock the door.”

That was an order; distinct, clear, and purposeful. I watch the lock. There was silence. I do not move or say a single word and that is my only strategy. You are just going to upset him more, I warn myself. 

“I thought you understood me when I said I was not to be disobeyed?” 

In his office he had said that his rules were to be obeyed. What rules were those going to be? I am not one for following the rules so I don’t really see myself just bending to anything that this guy wants. 

My mouth runs dry and I can feel my lips fall apart slightly with a shiver of fear. Was he about to try to have s*x with me? If he thought that tonight was going to be a dinner date with me for dessert it was not in the cards. I did think that he was damn good looking and I could not hide my immediate attraction. Did I want to sleep with him? Yes, and I don’t like that. If he came into this room and tried to kiss me, I would not fight that at all. 

But I don’t want it to happen. He is also a killer who brought me here. That fear forced me to look around the room for some sort of weapon to fight him. I pick up the small blue crystal vase with yellow roses in it from table. It is light and easy to lift. So, I am going to hit him with this and then what? The situation is hopeless. I formulated something to say and blurted it out, not even thinking. 

“I am not hungry.” I nearly shout at the door in a shaking voice.

The door knob stopped turning. I heard steps walk away, slowly. I put the vase back down. My hand was trembling. I sigh in relief laying back down in the bed and glare out the window. What was I really doing to do with that vase if he tried to come into the room? He is a trained assassin. The thought of fighting him was completely nonsensical. But, if he made any move to try to hurt me, I was going to fight him. I was definitely going to try. I wasn’t just going to give in. That was not who I am. I am strong! I am a fighter! I reassured myself. I will get out of this. Eventually, I fell to sleep. 

The next day I continued to stay in the bedroom. I studied a gold and white French Provincial Chandelier with twelve pearled lights above the bed. The piece was stunning. I looked sideways at another artwork on the wall. A small print by John Waterhouse, another Pre-Raphaelite work of a woman wrapped in a long purple shawl in a garden of green and white. The lengthy shawl flew around her neck gracefully in an animated breeze. 

This place has the finest antique furnishings. So, Marcus had an extensive art collection, and the money to spend on it. I don’t like the fact that he likes the Pre-Raphaelite artists at all as the period has always been my personal favorite. 

I’m too afraid to step from the room. This is my cell. This mansion is my prison. In the afternoon there is a knock on the door. When I did not hear his voice, I opened it slightly to see a female maid. I’m glad it was not him again. I can’t stand the low growl that is his voice. She said something in Spanish and I can tell that her voice is old and mature, but I don’t dare open the door any further and shut it again turning the lock. 

Another knock later that afternoon came with a younger girl. She too, knocked quietly on the door and I heard the shift of metal like she was carrying a tray of food. Still I do not answer as the day turns to night. I shower and lay down to sleep again. 

The third morning, I sit in the bed trying to put things in place. There were many servants I had seen as I ran across the grass the day I woke up here. Gardeners, cleaners, and maids were mingled among the very distinct lion size of a man; Jonah. I need to find one of the servants to help assist me in an escape. I hope that I could find one of them who spoke English. Can I get one of them to raise an alarm letting the U.S. Embassy know that I was here? Would they come and rescue me? If Marcus found out that I asked for help would he stop me as he said he would, as well as kill any of his servants that would aid me?

There have been no reoccurrences of Marcus coming into the room at seven over the last few days, which sets me at a kind of ease. I won’t be able to make it much longer without some sort of food but I am not opening the door. Who knows what is behind it waiting for me? The fourth day followed the same pattern and I am starting to grow weak. Each time I stand or stir from the bed I feel dazed and blank. On the fifth morning I take my now ritualistic shower and I see no point in putting on my dress anymore. 

I move to the exquisitely large white wardrobe, which had sworn I would not, and open it. It is filled with clothes. I walked to the walk-in closet where I find dresses hanging in an array of different lengths and colors. Some are casual, others are meant for a red-carpet event. They are all a size four. My slim size. The labels of Gucci, Prada, and Ceseare are stitched on fabric. It only gives me another affirmation that Marcus has considerable money. I shut the drawer again. At least twenty pairs of shoes are lined along the walk-in. 

All the clothes are my size. Does that mean Marcus bought them knowing that he was going to keep me here? How quick was that? No, not possible, I think to myself. Maybe he sent someone out to purchase them, or picked them up in New York. I open another drawer and find lace and silk matching underwear in three colors only: black, white, and red. Well, whether he bought them or not, Marcus is never going to see those.  

I don’t want to wear anything that he bought, but I am not staying in here naked and inviting either. So, I take a dark purple satin nightgown in the walk-in closet from a hanger. My favorite color. I turn towards a single pane mirror leaning against the white wash wall on the far end of the room. The mirror is like a piece of art itself. Exquisite gilded gold-leaf surrounds the frame entangling the glass in a long oval shape.

My favorite feature of my red curls bounce down my back in a tangled mess. I am not wearing any makeup. My large breasts are perfectly contoured against the lace top of the nightgown. My white porcelain skin and red full lips are reflected in the glass of the mirror and only stand to remind me what I look like. So much for trying not to look attractive. 

I woke up the next day. Its day six and I’m getting very anemic laying in the bed just feeling hopelessly afraid. Having not left the room once has allowed my ankle to heal completely. The bruises on my neck and shoulder are also turning a hue of olive green, indicating that they have nearly healed as well. I can only concentrate on the size of the mansion. The number of servants I have seen. He was obviously beyond wealthy and had several bodies at his disposal over the compound that I was now trapped in.

There was a knock around sunset. I continue to ignore the knock just as the others before, only looking up at the ceiling and rolling to my side. I am so tired and the emptiness of my stomach feels shallow. I glare at the two elongated windows on the other side of the room. They are the full height of the wall and half covered by the white drapes. From what I can see beyond, the sun is making a promenade of red, yellow, and burnt orange outside. It is so alluring that it almost gives me peacefulness given the current situation. 

“I am told you do not eat or drink the meals which are brought to you.” I heard Marcus say at the door. 

My eyes close at his opaque voice. Why is he here?

“Unlock the door.” The same instruction from my first day here rings in my ears through the wood and metal. 

The sunset is no longer relaxing as my breath constricts in the echo of his order. It was the first time since day one I have heard his voice again. I rolled to my other side not answering just watching the door. 

Then I heard a key. The clench in my stomach turns to a throbbing twist. I turned in the bed sitting up. A sharp wooziness whacks the back of my head like a hammer. The second that I did I had to touch my temple in pain. The lack of substance is taking its toll. The door opened and I lifted the sheets tight around my chest like they would protect me from him. I swallow with nerves as Marcus entered the room.