hot stove after being told it would burn.
“No, Master.”
“Good girl.”
He carries me to my room and deposits me on the bed. Now that strength is flowing through me, I notice something odd.
“I thought you couldn’t go out in sunlight.” What a liar.
“I can’t.”
“But… ” I point to the window. The drapes are open and the sun is shining in on him, illuminating his handsome face and making him look like an angel.
“It’s the UV in the sun. The light itself behind proper glass doesn’t harm me. You can’t get a sunburn sitting in front of a window, can you?”
“Oh.” Good point. Now I feel stupid.
“Try to get some sleep. You’ll need it.” The look he gives me is almost pity. I cling to that look because it’s the only shred of evidence I’ve had thus far that he might have a spark of humanity left, something that might keep me alive longer.
He gathers the hair pins and locks the door on his way out. Against all odds, I drift into a peaceful sleep, his powerful blood humming through my veins.
***
There is that moment when you first wake up and your dreams are still hovering like a fine mist in the air. For a tiny fragment of time you feel as though you could choose to live in either reality. In fact, in those seconds, as the dream replays in your mind, still so fresh, it seems more real, and this world seems unreal and fuzzy.
I want to make the choice to go back to the dream, to live there. I was icing sugar cookies in my mom’s bakery and licking the frosting off my fingers. She was singing some stupid song she used to sing to me as a child. The lyrics were just playing in my head, but now they’ve evaporated along with the day. Why can’t I remember that song now? It’s going to bug me.
I’m never having frosting again. Christian’s insane diet rules don’t seem to allow for luxuries like whipped sugar in cheery pastel shades. That thought sits at the forefront of my mind, as if it’s the worst thing I can concentrate on and cope with at the moment. Somewhere underneath this sugary obsession is my mother’s face, caked in flour, but I dislodge that image to think about the cookies.
Finally I resign myself to reality. The bed was comfortable, the sheets softer than I could believe, a ridiculously high thread count—probably Egyptian cotton. The room has maintained a comfortable temperature and has all the amenities I could want. Entertainment. Food. A nice bathroom, because every girl needs a nice bathroom. But it’s all hollow and empty, all pretty pretend dress-up for the world I’m in now. A world of pain and blood and death, of vindictive, soulless evil, of things far worse than never tasting frosted sugar cookies again. Worse even than never seeing my mom again.
I open my eyes and jump to find Christian sitting on the bed beside me. I hadn’t noticed—and still don’t notice—any dip in the mattress besides my own body weight. Maybe it’s one of those beds you can jump up and down on without spilling your wine.
I watch, wary, as his fingertips caress the side of my cheek, brushing the hair out of my face and behind my ear. His thumb traces over my lower lip and I close my eyes because he’s too pretty. If this moment could be frozen and I could step back to a place of safety and look at it, even knowing the truth, it would be so tempting to see the pretty wrapping and forget the contents underneath.
“Did you sleep well?”
I’m scared this is a trick, but his face seems open and non-threatening. I don’t detect any malevolence lurking in his eyes just now.
He sighs. “Juliette, please never do something so foolish during the day. When I’m tired and the day is draining my energy, I become very difficult to deal with. If you intend to misbehave, you’ll be safer if you do it at night when I have better energy reserves and have rested. Do you understand?”
I nod, afraid to even speak right now. This reads like classic abuser to me. I’m so sorry.
“No, Master.”
“Good girl.”
He carries me to my room and deposits me on the bed. Now that strength is flowing through me, I notice something odd.
“I thought you couldn’t go out in sunlight.” What a liar.
“I can’t.”
“But… ” I point to the window. The drapes are open and the sun is shining in on him, illuminating his handsome face and making him look like an angel.
“It’s the UV in the sun. The light itself behind proper glass doesn’t harm me. You can’t get a sunburn sitting in front of a window, can you?”
“Oh.” Good point. Now I feel stupid.
“Try to get some sleep. You’ll need it.” The look he gives me is almost pity. I cling to that look because it’s the only shred of evidence I’ve had thus far that he might have a spark of humanity left, something that might keep me alive longer.
He gathers the hair pins and locks the door on his way out. Against all odds, I drift into a peaceful sleep, his powerful blood humming through my veins.
***
There is that moment when you first wake up and your dreams are still hovering like a fine mist in the air. For a tiny fragment of time you feel as though you could choose to live in either reality. In fact, in those seconds, as the dream replays in your mind, still so fresh, it seems more real, and this world seems unreal and fuzzy.
I want to make the choice to go back to the dream, to live there. I was icing sugar cookies in my mom’s bakery and licking the frosting off my fingers. She was singing some stupid song she used to sing to me as a child. The lyrics were just playing in my head, but now they’ve evaporated along with the day. Why can’t I remember that song now? It’s going to bug me.
I’m never having frosting again. Christian’s insane diet rules don’t seem to allow for luxuries like whipped sugar in cheery pastel shades. That thought sits at the forefront of my mind, as if it’s the worst thing I can concentrate on and cope with at the moment. Somewhere underneath this sugary obsession is my mother’s face, caked in flour, but I dislodge that image to think about the cookies.
Finally I resign myself to reality. The bed was comfortable, the sheets softer than I could believe, a ridiculously high thread count—probably Egyptian cotton. The room has maintained a comfortable temperature and has all the amenities I could want. Entertainment. Food. A nice bathroom, because every girl needs a nice bathroom. But it’s all hollow and empty, all pretty pretend dress-up for the world I’m in now. A world of pain and blood and death, of vindictive, soulless evil, of things far worse than never tasting frosted sugar cookies again. Worse even than never seeing my mom again.
I open my eyes and jump to find Christian sitting on the bed beside me. I hadn’t noticed—and still don’t notice—any dip in the mattress besides my own body weight. Maybe it’s one of those beds you can jump up and down on without spilling your wine.
I watch, wary, as his fingertips caress the side of my cheek, brushing the hair out of my face and behind my ear. His thumb traces over my lower lip and I close my eyes because he’s too pretty. If this moment could be frozen and I could step back to a place of safety and look at it, even knowing the truth, it would be so tempting to see the pretty wrapping and forget the contents underneath.
“Did you sleep well?”
I’m scared this is a trick, but his face seems open and non-threatening. I don’t detect any malevolence lurking in his eyes just now.
He sighs. “Juliette, please never do something so foolish during the day. When I’m tired and the day is draining my energy, I become very difficult to deal with. If you intend to misbehave, you’ll be safer if you do it at night when I have better energy reserves and have rested. Do you understand?”
I nod, afraid to even speak right now. This reads like classic abuser to me. I’m so sorry.
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