Page 24 of Chain Me
I clung to that last voice, the pathetic whisper of the person I had spent twenty-six years living as. Calm, reserved Eleanor Gray. The woman content to be a spinster. The heiress who needed no one. That girl wouldn’t drink whatever was in that cup. She would cross her arms in stubborn pride and suffer.
Don’t be so childish.
That newer voice was unwelcome, suspiciously masculine. To silence it, I sank back against the pillows and pulled the thin sheet over my head, smothering as much noise as the cheap cotton could. Almost as if to mock me…I felt. Movement. Something. Deep down inside me, like the flexing of a muscle I didn’t even know existed. It throbbed, demanding attention. Acknowledgment.
The longer I attempted to ignore it, the sharper the pain became. Insistent.
Drink.
I hauled myself into a sitting position. My hands trembled, outstretched before me, but it felt like ages before I gathered up the nerve to reach for the cup. I cringed with the first sip of lukewarm liquid. Before disgust could fully register, I was already swallowing the second. Third. An endless stream that didn’t cease until the final few drops noisy crawled up the straw. My hands still shook as I set it aside and pulled the tray closer. The eggs were lukewarm, but I managed to redeem myself by devouring them slowly.
That hollow feeling in my stomach felt sated once I’d cleared the plate, but it still demanded…more.
“Eleanor?”
I looked over at the doorway and found a woman standing there. Her dark eyes softened as recognition seared through my chest.
A much more welcome sight than Dublin.
“Yulia?”
“Who else?” Her mouth cracked into the most beautiful smile. With her black hair slicked back against her head and her slender body clad in an ebony pantsuit, she looked as witchy as ever. “I’ve brought you something to wear other than those hideous gowns.” She lifted her arms, each one displaying a dress on a hanger. “Which one do you prefer?”
Amid the chaos and turmoil I desperately fought to ignore, fashion was an abrupt, though preferable, change in subject.
One selection she held was a rich, modest black, made of silk. The other was a similar design but made of white lace.
“I’m partial to one in particular,” Yulia admitted, fingering the white dress. “But I’m curious what you think.” Her accent gave the words a lilting edge and I relished every note. I’d forgotten how lovely someone’s voice could sound when they weren’t growling threats or shouting insults.
Or peddling vicious lies.
“The white one,” I blurted, pointing toward my selection.
“Of course. I see you still have your good taste.” She gently set the chosen dress over the foot of the bed. Slung from her shoulder was a black duffel bag, which she set down at her feet. “Dublin asked me to design a few things for you,” she explained while folding the black dress and tucking it inside the duffel. “Luckily I’d just finished some new designs that I managed to tailor in a pinch. Though I probably should get your measurements again…”
I’d been in the process of sitting up while she spoke, and her eyes settled over my concave stomach.
Memories gnawed at the edges of my skull. Snippets of a hushed conversation too terrifying to interpret—poor Eleanor…
“You should try it on,” she said, gently dragging me back to the present. “Though I should warn you that Dublin made some…specifications.”
“Like what?” I ran my hand over the surface of the white dress. It felt silky smooth—not laced with broken glass or any other devious tricks I could discern.
“Things he promised were utterly necessary.” Her upper lip contorted in a grimace. “I’m sure you’ll discover that soon enough. Here, let me help you.”
She eased my gown over my head and guided me into a bathroom suite attached to the room. Facing my reflection in the mirror, I cringed. For a woman who’d needed a blood transfusion, I didn’t have much to show for it. There were no bruises. No cuts. No broken bones to explain away my slow, sluggish movements.
But I was still rail thin. Too thin.
“I will definitely have to measure you again,” Yulia deduced, observing me with a frown. “You’re skin and bones—”
“It’s nothing,” I blurted, letting myself ignore my hazy memories of Dublin’s diagnosis for a split-second. Something about a growth. Utterly trivial. “I’m sure anything you make will fit just fine.”
“Oh.” Yulia swallowed hard. Her eyes scanned my face, and her lips twitched, resisting a frown. “Did Dublin talk to you?—”
“More or less.” I shrugged and turned my attention to the shower. As the water warmed, I tested the temperature with my fingers. Then I stepped beneath the spray, allowing the sound of rushing water to obscure the awkward silence.
Dublin deserved some credit. Pregnancy was an intriguing diagnosis, but no different from hemohemorrahgia—a complex lie designed to extort something at my expense.
