Between His Claws

Chapter 3: The Map of the Dominated

Alyssa

My heart hammers against my ribs. I should strike. Plunge the blade into his flesh. That's what my mind screams to do. But my body is paralyzed. By his presence. By the quiet audacity with which he defies my threat.

— You won't do it, he murmurs, as if reading my thoughts. He's now a meter away from me. I can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the pulse at the base of his neck. You're a saver. Not a killer. It's written in every fiber of your being.

— You've killed people, I breathe, voice breaking. I saw it. In your men's eyes.

— I've ordered people's deaths, he corrects, without denying it. It's different. It's an act of will. Of power. Killing out of necessity, out of survival, is one thing. Killing in cold blood… that's a line you won't cross. Even now.

He's right. Part of me, the doctor, revolts at the idea of slicing flesh, of making blood flow. Even his.

— Why did you kidnap me? The question escapes me, a sob of anger and incomprehension.

He moves closer, slowly, until he's so near the tip of the scalpel brushes the fabric of his shirt, just above his heart. I feel the heat radiating from him.

— Because you fought for a man already dead. Because you looked me in the eye and struck me. No one does that. His hand lifts, so fast I don't have time to react. His fingers close around my wrist holding the scalpel. His grip isn't brutal, but it's iron, absolute. Because your light is so bright it blinded me.

He squeezes. A sharp pain shoots up my arm. My fingers open despite myself. The scalpel falls to the rug, muffled.

I'm now facing him, unarmed, my wrist still prisoner in his. His other hand lifts and brushes the bluish mark on my cheek, where one of his men hit me.

— You will learn, Alyssa, he whispers, his warm breath on my face. You will learn that some cages have no bars. That some jailers need no chains. I don't want to break your body. I want to break your mind. Until you understand that you belong to me.

His gaze plunges deep into me, seeking fear, weakness. And he finds them. But he also finds something else. Hatred. A hatred so pure, so bright, it seems to surprise him.

— I will hate you until my last breath, I spit through clenched teeth.

Silas's eyes light up, as if he's just received the most beautiful gift.

— I'm counting on it.

He releases my wrist. He bends down, picks up the scalpel, and places it back on the bedside table, in its exact spot.

— Eat, he says, heading for the door. You'll need your strength. The war starts now.

He leaves. The door closes with a silent click.

I stand there, my whole body trembling, my wrist aching, the spot where his fingers touched my skin burning like a brand.

I look at the scalpel, then at the closed door.

He's right. It's a war.

And I've just lost the first battle.

Time loses meaning. An hour? A day? The fire in the fireplace never goes out, tended by invisible hands. The tray of food remains on the table, untouched. Hunger gnaws at me, but eating would be a capitulation. Drinking his water, accepting his food… it would be acknowledging my dependence.

I'm dozing, slumped against the wall, when a new sound makes me jump. It's not the door. It comes from the opposite wall. A section of the paneling, which I thought was decorative, slides silently open to reveal an opening. A man stands there. It's not Silas.

It's one of his guards, the one with the dead eyes who looked at me in the hospital. He's tall, massive, with a scarred face. He says nothing. He just jerks his head for me to follow.

My first instinct is to refuse. Curl up in my corner. But curiosity, that damned impulse, is stronger. And besides, it's an opening. A chance to see, to understand, to plan.

I get up, legs stiff. I keep a cautious distance, but he simply turns and walks into a dark corridor. I follow.

The manor is a maze. The corridors are cold, stone, dimly lit by electric torches mimicking flames. The walls are bare, no paintings, no tapestries. Only, at regular intervals, massive doors, all identical, all closed. The air smells of old stone and dust. This is the flip side of my gilded cage. This is the reality of Sombra Roja.

The man stops before one of these doors. He opens it and steps aside for me to enter. His gaze pierces me, urging me in.

I cross the threshold, and the smell hits me full force.

Blood. Fear. Death.