CHAPTER THREE: THE FIRST LESSON
857 Words
I didn't eat breakfast.
The food was on a table in a room I'd never seen — a dining room with a chandelier the size of a car and walls painted the color of blood. Eggs. Fruit. Pastries. Coffee that smelled like heaven.
I looked at it. My stomach turned.
So I walked to the window instead. Stared at the Madrid skyline. At the buildings I used to walk past. At the streets where I used to be free.
"You didn't eat."
I turned.
Alexander stood in the doorway. Dark suit. Dark tie. Dark eyes.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need energy."
"For what?"
He walked toward me. Slow. Controlled. Every step a command.
"For today."
My heart skipped. "What's today?"
"Your first lesson."
Carmen had said the same thing. Your first lesson. Like I was a dog being trained. A horse being broken.
"What kind of lesson?" I asked.
Alexander stopped in front of me. Close enough to touch. He didn't.
"The kind where you learn your place."
"I know my place. It's here. In your house. In your bed." I lifted my chin. "You already own me. What else do you want?"
His eyes darkened. Just a little. Just enough.
"I want you to feel owned."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It will."
He turned. Walked toward the door. Stopped at the threshold.
"Carmen will take you to the studio. Be ready in thirty minutes."
"Ready for what?"
But he was already gone.
---
The studio was on the third floor.
I'd never been up here before. The stairs were narrower. The windows were smaller. The air smelled like wood and leather and something else — something old.
Carmen opened the door. Stepped aside.
"Inside," she said.
I walked in.
The room was empty except for one thing.
A chair.
Wooden. Straight-backed. Arms on the sides. Leather straps hanging from the arms and the legs.
My blood went cold.
"What is this?" I whispered.
Carmen didn't answer. She closed the door behind me. Locked it.
I heard her footsteps fade down the hallway.
I was alone.
With the chair.
I walked toward it. Slowly. My heart pounding. My hands shaking.
The straps were leather. Thick. Buckled at the ends.
For wrists, I realized. And ankles.
I backed away.
The door opened.
Alexander walked in.
He'd changed clothes. No suit now. Black pants. A black shirt. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were bare. Muscular. Veined.
His eyes found me immediately.
"You're scared," he said.
"I'm terrified."
"Good."
He walked to the chair. Ran his hand along the back of it. Caressed the leather straps like they were alive.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked.
"A torture device."
"No." He looked at me. "This is a teaching tool."
"Teaching what?"
"Stillness."
I blinked. "What?"
"Sit in the chair, Ava."
"No."
"Sit."
"No."
He walked toward me. Slow. Deliberate. I backed away. My shoulders hit the wall.
He stopped inches from me. His body blocked the light. His shadow swallowed me whole.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
"Then why the straps?"
"For you." His hand reached up. Touched my chin. Tilted my face toward his. "You're going to learn to sit still. To be quiet. To wait."
"I can already do those things."
"No. You can't." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "You talk back. You fight. You run — in your mind, if not with your feet. I need you to stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop being afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Liar."
He was right. I was terrified. My whole body was shaking. My teeth wanted to chatter. My eyes wanted to cry.
But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"Sit in the chair," he said again.
"Why?"
"Because I told you to."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only reason you're going to get."
He walked back to the chair. Pulled it to the center of the room. The legs scraped against the floor. The sound echoed off the walls.
"Sit."
I didn't move.
"Ava. Last warning."
"What happens if I don't?"
He looked at me. His gray eyes were cold. Colder than I'd ever seen them. The temperature in the room dropped. The air thickened.
"Then I'll put you in the chair myself. And I won't be gentle."
My throat closed.
I thought about running. The door was behind him. Locked. Carmen had the key.
I thought about fighting. He was twice my size. He would win.
I thought about my father. Lying in a hospital bed. Alive because of this man.
I walked to the chair.
Sat down.
The wood was hard against my back. The arms pressed into my sides. The leather straps hung loose against my wrists.
Alexander knelt in front of me.
Picked up a strap.
Wrapped it around my wrist.
"This is wrong," I whispered.
"No. This is necessary."
He buckled the strap. Tight. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to hold.
He did the other wrist.
Then my ankles.
I was trapped.
Not moving. Not fighting. Just sitting. Just waiting.
He stood up. Looked down at me.
"Now," he said. "We begin."
- Writer
