Page 7 of Dormeo
3
ROSE
“She’s unconscious. You’re not fucking someone who’s out cold.”
Those are the words, spoken in a velvety deep voice, that filter through my peaceful slumber and alert me to the fact that something is wrong. Very wrong.
A thick fog clouds my mind, and even though I feel well rested, a niggling sense of unease urges me to snap out of it. I’ve never been spoken about in such a way, not within earshot anyway, and I’m not used to overhearing such vulgar language.
I overheard my father cursing when I was passing his study late one night, and he’d had far too much whiskey with his best friend, but nobody who comes into our home would utter such profanities in front of a Lady.
No men, that is.
My younger sister has a penchant for causing chaos and will drop the odd swear word for shock value.
But now isn’t the time to worry about these men's words. I need to be more concerned about their actions.
I attempt to wiggle my fingers, relieved to find the heavy weight that seemed to be keeping my body pressed downisn’t real. As my brain clears, I can gradually move a little more. Curling my fingers, I feel cool satin slide underneath my fingertips. The surface underneath is yielding. A mattress. I’m in a bed, and a luxurious one at that. The mattress is like a cloud.
Drowsiness still tugs at me, and I struggle to shake it off. It’s tempting me back into the darkness of my mind, and the delightful, relaxing dreams that have kept me cosy and content.
And yet, that husky voice intrigues me, pulling me back to the surface. I want to see who that voice belongs to. Something about those words feels wrong. Searching, the memory slips through my fingers like water every time I try to grasp it.
What did he say again?
Something uncouth.
Are they talking about me? Am I’m the unconscious person someone wants to fuck?
It’s preposterous. Everyone knows I’m to be married to a gentleman of my father’s choosing, and that to cross him would mean certain death. I’ve seen enough staff and former friends disappear after some perceived slight to know that my father isn’t a man to be trifled with.
And that to him, maintaining my virtue, orresale value,as my sister likes to call it, is of paramount importance.
It takes all of my strength to force my eyes open the tiniest bit. I struggle to make sense of what I’m seeing. The bed is huge, an ornate four poster, made from a wood so dark that it’s almost black, but it’s located in a room unlike any I’ve ever seen. The walls are smooth stone and there’s a sheen to them that reflects the flickering light cast by a roaring fire. Iron torches secured to the walls glow making the room feel even warmer.
My legs refuse to cooperate with my efforts to sit upright, but I manage to lift my hands, maybe an inch, and I can twist my head ever so slightly to the side, allowing me to take in more of the vast space.
“Where am I?” I whisper. My words come out slurred, and I frown.
Am I ill? Is this some kind of healer’s chamber?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to dredge up my last memory, but it’s all too fragmented to make up a clear picture of what’s happened.
I have a flashback of my father’s face, etched with deep regret. Then a vision of his guards gripping my arms, and the memory of pinched skin as I struggled against their hold. And then darkness.
Is that just a bad dream my mind has conjured up?
My father would never hurt me. Not out of love, but because I’m worth too much to him. Another asset for him to trade off when the time is right.
“Wakey, wakey, Sleeping Beauty.”
Flinching, I attempt to move away. That’s not the voice I like. This one is deep too, and with a harsh edge that has me shrinking back as far as I can.
Which isn’t much.
“Gaap, don’t.” The warning is quiet but carries with it the threat of violence.
I’m relieved to know I’m not alone with this man who seems to set all of my senses on high alert.
