Page 41 of Silent Oaths
Present
Theroom they’ve put me in is big, almost luxurious, with high ceilings and polished hardwood floors that gleam in the sunlight streaming through the oversized windows.Thebed is enormous, with soft, fluffy pillows and a comforter that’s way too warm for how coldIfeel inside.There’seven a sitting area in the corner, complete with an armchair and a small bookshelf stocked with novelsImight’ve enjoyed under different circumstances.
Butnone of that matters.Ican’t be thankful for any of it.
Theykidnapped me, forGod’ssake.
Noamount of comfort or niceties can erase that fact.Thesheer audacity of it makes my blood boil.Theytook me from my life, my freedom, and now they think they can pacify me with a pretty room and a soft mattress.
Iget up from the bed and pace to the window, wrapping my arms around myself.Theview outside is stunning—rolling green hills, dense trees stretching toward the horizon, and a winding path that disappears into the woods.It’sthe kind of place people would pay to vacation at, a place meant to feel like peace.
Ifeel anything but peaceful.
Pressingmy palm against the cold glass,Istare out at the picturesque scenery.Itfeels like a cruel joke.Allthis beauty, all thisfreedom,just outside the walls of this house, andIcan’t touch any of it.
Myfingers curl into a fist against the window, andIclose my eyes, forcing myself to breathe.Losingmy temper won’t help me.Itwon’t get me out of here.
There’sanother reason for my stomach twisting.They’retrying to keep me comfortable for a reason.AndIknow what it is now.Theywant me to work for them, become their mouthpiece, tear down their father’s legacy inTheBlackQuilland expose him for the monster he was.
Iagreed.
NotbecauseIwanted to, but becauseIdidn’t have a choice.
Iturn away from the window, scanning the room.Theornate furniture, the soft rug beneath my bare feet, the books—it’s all an illusion.
It’salmost laughable.Justdays ago,Iwas in the basement, pacing in circles like a caged animal.Ihad refused to eat, drink, or give them the satisfaction of thinkingI’daccept their care.WhenJulianbrought me food,Ithrew the plate at him.
Hedidn’t even flinch.Hejust looked at me with those dark, unreadable eyes before dragging my flailing body to the basement.
Iregretted it the second the door locked behind him.
Thehours dragged on.ThelongerIsat there, the more the silence crept in.
Werethey going to leave me there?
WouldIrot in that cold space, nothing more than a stubborn fool who refused to play by their rules?
Fearwarred with fury.
Ihated them.
Ihated that they held my fate in their hands.Nomatter how muchIwanted to fight,Icouldn’t control what happened next.
Andthen,Theodorecame.Hemade me kneel, put his hands on me, slapped me until my skin burned.
Ishould have despised it.Screamed, clawed at him, donesomething.ButIdidn’t.
Partof me—some twisted, shameful part of me—liked it.
Heatrushes to my face, andIshake my head, as if it will drive the thoughts away.No.Iwon’t let him get into my head.Hewon’t manipulate me like that.
Imight have agreed to help them, butIamnottheirs.
Theycan dress me in silk, give me a warm bed, but it doesn’t change the truth.
Iam still their prisoner.
It’shard to tell how longI’vebeen here.Days?Aweek?Mysense of time feels warped, stretched thin like the nerves in my body.
