Page 80 of Rescuing Aria
Now… I’m not so sure.
The door lock clicks. I spin toward the sound, heart leaping into my throat. My gaze darts around the room for a weapon. The lamp is too unwieldy. The pen on the nightstand is too flimsy.
The carafe. Heavy crystal. I grab it, water sloshing over my hand as I position myself against the wall where the door will hide me when it opens.
The handle turns. The door swings inward with a soft click.
A girl enters carrying a breakfast tray—no older than seventeen, maybe eighteen at most. She’s dressed in a simple black shift that’s too formal for a housemaid and too polished for someone free. Dark hair pinned into a neat bun, eyes downcast in practiced submission.
When she doesn’t immediately see me, her brows lift slightly.
“Miss Holbrook?”
I stay silent, still half-shadowed, still gripping the carafe like a weapon.
She turns, spots me near the corner, and freezes.
Only for a second.
Her expression shifts—not to fear. But recognition. Understanding. Like she’s seen worse reactions. Like girls with wild eyes and weaponized carafes are part of her daily routine.
“I’ve brought your breakfast.” Her voice is soft, with a hint of an accent I can’t place. Maybe Southern. Maybe midwestern. Something scrubbed clean. “Mr. Wolfe thought you might be hungry when you woke.”
“Where is Jon?” My voice cracks from disuse, rough as gravel.
She flinches. It’s quick—barely perceptible—but it’s there.
“I’m not allowed to speak about the other guests,” she says. The tray lands on a small table by the window with quiet precision. “Mr. Wolfe will answer your questions when he joins you.”
“I’m not hungry.” Another lie. My stomach betrays me with a low, aching growl at the scent of strong coffee and buttered pastry.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just nods like she’s heard it before. Like everyone says that in the beginning.
“As you wish.” She straightens, hands folded in front of her. Up close, she’s even younger than I thought. Slender wrists. A fading bruise on her forearm, half-hidden by the cuff of her sleeve. Her gaze lifts, finally meeting mine.
She doesn’t blink.
Not cold. Not cruel. Just—resigned.
“The bathroom has everything you’ll need. Fresh towels, toiletries. Mr. Wolfe requests you make yourself comfortable.”
I take a step forward, still holding the carafe tightly. “Comfortable? I’ve been kidnapped. I’m a prisoner.”
Her mouth parts as if to answer. Then she stops herself. Eyes flick—not toward the door. Not toward me. But toward the corner of the ceiling. Subtle. A single twitch of her gaze.
Then she looks back. Carefully blank. “Mr. Wolfe prefers the termguest.” Her voice dips, just a little. “He’ll explain everything shortly.”
I watch her. The tension in her frame. The perfect stillness of someone trained not to flinch, not to resist.
“There are no cameras in the bathroom,” she says, so softly it could almost be for herself. “You don’t need to worry about taking a shower.”
The implication chills me far more than a direct warning ever could.
Everywhere else—watched.
I study her face. “How long have you been here?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” She lowers her gaze.
