Hell by J.L. Beck
13
Rowan
What wasI just saying to myself last week about a gilded cage?
I can hardly believe it’s been a week, but the calendar doesn’t lie. I’ve lived in Lucian’s house for seven days. I’ve wandered through this palace of a house, smack dab in the lap of luxury. And I still don’t know why I’m still here.
It’d be helpful if I could ask him about it, but that would involve telepathy. I haven’t seen him since that first day in bed. If I had known he would cut himself off from me for a week, I would’ve said something before he left me alone in bed. I might’ve thanked him or something like that.
How was I supposed to know he would disappear?
No, disappear isn’t quite the right word. He’s still very much here sometimes. I’ve heard his shoes hitting the hardwood floor in the hallway more than once. I even saw him go into his room—at least, I saw the back of him a split second before he closed the door and shut me out. So I know he’s been here.
It’s just that I haven’t seen him face-to-face. And I don’t know whether it’s been deliberate on his part or what. Is he going out of his way to avoid me?
It’s so stupid, even wondering about things like this. I’m sure he doesn’t waste a second thinking about me—if anything, it probably makes him feel better, more secure, knowing I’m right here whenever he wants me. Whenever he gets that itch that only I can scratch. Otherwise? I might as well be nobody. Why would he think about me even a second longer than he had to?
But I’m not a pet. I’m not something for him to own, to visit when he feels like it, and leave for someone else to take care of when he gets bored with me.
I would tell him this, too, if he would show his face. I really would. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I sit alone for hours on end. One day bleeding into another, and I’m still no closer to knowing when the hell I can go home. Or if he ever intends on letting me go home at all.
At least there are plenty of books to read, and he already told me I have the run of the house except for his room, so I’ve spent some time catching up on movies and TV shows I either didn’t have time to watch before or couldn’t afford the subscription for. He has everything, of course, all the channels, all of the streaming services. I have the entire world at my fingertips.
I don’t have anybody else to talk to. I don’t have him. I don’t even have the household staff, though they’re kind and thoughtful. Greta, the cook, is especially sweet. She never asks questions about why I’m here or who I am. There’s no judgment, either. She asks if I’m hungry and what I like to eat, and the next thing I know, there’s an entire meal in front of me.
I can’t help but remember watching Beauty and the Beast with Mom when I was little. Lucian isn’t a beast—not physically, anyway—and I’ve never considered myself a beauty people randomly break out into song over. But this is a lot like that situation, where Belle was locked away in the Beast’s castle. She could do anything she wanted except leave. She could have everything she needed as long as she obeyed the rules.
Only this is no fairy tale.
It might be easier to handle if I knew when I could leave. If there was something on the horizon to look forward to.
It’s enough to make me laugh when I take walks around the grounds, always aware of being watched. There are guards all over the place—some of them easily visible, some not so much. I can’t make a move without one of them observing it. Sometimes I want to do something crazy, like jump in the pool or uproot one of the plants, just to see what they would do. Let them earn their money.
Nobody in her right mind would want to leave this place. I know that. And I don’t want to leave, not exactly. If I could stay here with the promise that things would make sense and be less awkward, I would happily say yes. If I could come and go as I please, and if I didn’t feel so much like I’m alone on a desert island.
Because Greta is the only person who talks to me. I’ve said hi to many of the men I’ve come across, but all of them look either annoyed with me or like they’re afraid to say anything back. What? Did Lucian warn them not to talk to me? What could be so bad about that? If he’s going to leave me here, essentially stranded, I should at least be able to have a conversation with somebody.
One thing hasn’t changed: I still make sure every day to be ready for him if he wants me. Not that it’s any huge hardship or anything. I like soaking in the tub, and everything I need is right there in the vanity.
That’s one thing I would like to ask him about. How did he know what to have here for me? All of the makeup I wear—my shade of foundation, the lip gloss I use—all of it is in the vanity drawers. And they were all brand-new, like they just came from the store, wrapped in plastic or sealed shut.
Either he’s a mind reader, or he had somebody break into my apartment and go through all of my things so they would know what to buy for me.
The idea makes my stomach churn. The thought of some random strangers going through my things. No, I don’t have a lot, but that’s not the point. What’s mine is mine.
I don’t know who Lucian thinks granted him access to my entire life, but I would like to revoke it if possible.
It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?
Right away, I feel guilty for even thinking along these lines. I get out of the tub and dry off on one of the thick, insanely soft towels. As I step onto the heated floor and sit down in front of the vanity chock-full of my favorite brands. I’m being ungrateful, aren’t I? After all, I could never imagine living in a place like this on my own. I should try to make the best of it and enjoy it as much as I can, right? Without all this thinking and uncertainty.
I examine my face, and I’m relieved to see the swelling has completely gone down. Greta didn’t ask any questions about that either. Thank god. No way would I have been able to get through it without breaking down. I’ve been carefully applying my brand-new makeup to the bruises, and it’s been helpful. I don’t have to flinch away in disgust whenever I catch sight of myself in a mirror.
My clothes are the right sizes, too. That’s another clue that tells me somebody went through what I left in the apartment. The day after I came here, I woke up to a closet and dresser full of clothes. Not just any clothes, either. The sort of things I couldn’t imagine ever buying for myself, with labels that made my eyes bulge when I read them.
He does realize I’m not used to this kind of thing, right? He didn’t need to spend all this money to keep me satisfied. I guess for a man like him, this is a drop in the bucket.
And for all I know, I’m not the only girl he’s ever done this for. It does seem like he had a whole little system in place, come to think of it. Like in no time at all, he got me settled into his house. No questions, no confusion. One minute the closet was empty, and the next, it was full of clothes. Whoever put my things away didn’t even wake me up. Yet another unnerving thought. Somebody creeping around while I was asleep.
I would ask Lucian about this, too, if he would talk to me. I should make a list.
I slide into a pair of ankle boots to complete my outfit—jeans and a tunic, both of them fit like they were made for me, which is amazing considering the difficulty I had finding jeans at the store—and then decide to take a walk. It’s the only thing I can do besides sitting around the house, and at least the grounds are pretty.
Today I take a walk through the garden, where roses like the ones blooming out front grow in a dazzling range of colors. I had never seen apricot roses before now, and they’re so perfect. I almost want to take one and bring it inside, but I know that would ruin it. It’s better to let it grow on its own and admire it.
It sort of seems like a waste, I muse as I walk down the carefully maintained paths. Lucian is never around to enjoy any of this, so why go to all the trouble of paying somebody to maintain the grounds so meticulously? As far as I know, he doesn’t throw parties here. No houseguests besides me. Even having staff on hand at all times seems pointless when there’s no one to serve.
I ask Greta about that when I go inside for breakfast. “It’s better not to ask questions,” she informs me with a motherly smile. “The boss has his ways, and he’s very particular about how he likes things to be done.”
“I figured that out on my own.”
“If he’s happy, that’s enough for me. I do my work, which I know he appreciates, and I’m left to my own devices. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a very comfortable situation.” She pours eggs into a pan and scrambles them for me just the way I like them, while a slice of wheat bread browns up in the toaster.
I know she lives somewhere on the grounds, but not here in the house. I’ve noticed a couple of small cottages at the far end, but I’ve never gone back there. That would take me beyond what can easily be seen from the upstairs windows, and I don’t like the idea of having somebody following me around on foot.
Or, god forbid, firing a shot in the air to warn me against wandering too far.
I can’t help myself. It’s just the two of us, and curiosity is killing me at this point. “Have you ever done this before? I mean, cooking food for somebody Lucian has staying here with him?”
“No, you’re the first.” If she thinks there’s anything strange about that, I can’t read it on her face as she plates my food. “Eat up. You could use a little meat on those bones.”
It’s not the first time she’s said that to me, but I would rather not. It’s not the weight that I need, anyway. It’s nutrition, and I can’t ignore how much better I’ve felt over this past week. I’ve slept better. I don’t immediately crave caffeine in the morning just to get myself moving. It helps that I’m not working obnoxious hours, too. As a result, I’ve been able to rest, and as Lucian put it the last time we spoke, take care of myself.
And I can’t even thank him for it. All I can do is wait for the rug to get pulled out from under my feet when he throws me out once he’s tired of me. This is so fucked up.
I have more questions for Greta, but I doubt she would have the answers to them. What did I do to make him stay away from me? Did I insult him somehow? It didn’t seem that way that last day. He was kind, gentle. He made me feel safe for the first time in… God, I don’t even know how long. Maybe ever? At least since I was old enough to understand the way the world works and how much can be taken for granted.
A girl can get used to that sort of thing. She might even decide she likes the feeling and wants more of it. So what does he do? He takes it away. He takes himself away. I feel like I’m walking a tightrope all over again, only I don’t know what’s under me. Is there a net? Or maybe a pit full of alligators? All I know is I can’t look down, or I’ll fall.
I thank Greta for breakfast and leave the kitchen. It’s almost easy to imagine parties here, with everybody laughing and toasting while gathered around the long, marble-topped island. Lucian doesn’t strike me as the type of person to have big family events, though. I don’t even know if he has a family. There certainly aren’t any pictures of anybody anywhere in the house.
That makes me wonder. There has to be something around here to give me some clue about him, about the person he really is. From what I’ve seen so far, everything in the house could have been put together by an interior decorator, or maybe somebody who dresses sets for TV shows and movies.
There’s no heart in it. No personal touches. If I had Lucian’s money, you best believe I would take my time with a house like this. I would make it mine. I would fill it with me. I would also try to spend some time there when I could, but he doesn’t do that, either. And maybe that’s the problem. He’s hardly ever here, so what does it matter if the house says anything about who he is? So long as it’s clean, I guess.
Still, I have to search. I have to know. Otherwise, the questions are going to drive me crazy. I go from room to room, exploring, my footfalls echoing. The dining room, where it looks like thirty people could sit at the table all at once and still have plenty of elbow room. The library, where I’ve spent a couple of afternoons in a chair by the window. There isn’t even anything special about the books—some of them, I noticed, look like they’ve never been opened.
All of this is fake, too. Set dressing. Like he wants to put an image of himself out into the world, even if he never lets the world inside.
Downstairs is an impressive wine cellar and a home gym that looks like something people would pay membership fees to visit. I’m sure he must spend time down here, being as fit as he is. I run my hands over a few of the machines, wondering when he used them last. The attached sauna must get some use, too. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I tried it out, but I’ve never been in one before and don’t know what to expect.
I’m not about to go to one of the guards and ask them for help; that much is for sure. I’m still unsure if they’re even allowed to talk to me.
On and on I go, eventually moving up to the second floor, to the bedrooms. It’s like moving through a museum, everything so quiet and so impeccable. Everything set up for guests he’ll probably never have. I wonder if the housekeepers change the bedding even though it isn’t used. Lucian strikes me as the type of person who would want that, just in case visitors might arrive.
He may not be great at knowing how to entertain a guest, but he does seem to believe in making them comfortable. I can’t complain about that.
Finally, after what feels like hours—there’s a ton of ground to cover—I reach the only set of rooms I’ve been told never to go into. Again, the whole Beauty and the Beast thing runs through the back of my head. He can’t keep anything really horrible in there, can he?
No. He’s not a monster. He’s not a sweetheart, either, but I can’t make him out to be a serial killer or something just because he wants his privacy. I’m sure there aren’t bodies in there or torture devices. Though I don’t think anybody could blame me for wondering. A girl could wonder a lot of things after living through this situation.
The hall is empty without a guard in sight. I hold my breath just to be sure there isn’t a noise coming from someplace. Nobody on the stairs or lurking in the shadows. If I’m ever going in there, now’s the time to do it. I won’t take long. I only want to get a look at how he lives with the door closed and the rest of the world on the other side. What makes him tick?
I touch my hand to the doorknob.
“What are you doing?”
Son of a bitch.
I recoil from the door like it gave me a shock and spin on my heel. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, I expect to find Lucian at the top of the stairs. Glaring at me, fists clenched, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. I can almost feel what he’ll do to my body as punishment for this.
I wish I didn’t almost like the idea.
It’s only one of his many guards. I don’t know their names, and frankly, I don’t want to. I can’t get Alexei out of my head, that damned liar. Whenever I start to break down and consider Lucian as being human, I remember what his guys do for him and snap out of it.
“I was…” I mean, it’s obvious what I was doing, isn’t it? “I hoped he might be home. I haven’t seen him in so long, and I thought—”
“He ain’t in there.” He jerks his thumb in the opposite direction toward my room. “But he sent you something.” I guess he was leaving it for me while I argued back and forth over whether I should explore Lucian’s suite.
I know better than to take my time. Trotting down the hall with my head down. Good thing I never opened the door. I hope he doesn’t report back to Lucian on this.
There’s a long box on the bed with a smaller one beside it. I open it with trembling hands, holding my breath in anticipation.
Inside is a long black, one-shouldered dress. It shimmers when I hold it up to the light. I bet it’ll move like water over me. In the smaller box is a pair of strappy stilettos. I guess this is my outfit for this evening? I can’t help the little tingle of excitement that I won’t be alone anymore.
There’s a note tucked into the tissue paper. Meet me at the club tonight for number three.
