Our brown eyes connect, but only for a beat before I have to look away and take a deep, measured breath. Through the lattice windows, I squint at the horizon, trying to make out if there's anything beyond the rows and rows of snow-capped pine trees, stretching out as far as the eye can see. It's a dreary wintry evening, from the looks of it, and the sun seems to be falling fast based on the blackness creeping over the horizon. But it's still nearly too bright for me to stand.
Distantly, I wonder if this new sensitivity is permanent. Shouldn't my eyes have adjusted to the light already, or did my time underground leave permanent damage? It makes me wonder if there's anything else broken beyond repair. My eyes drift shut as I focus on my breathing again, trying desperately not to think about... well, anything, really. Remembering gets me nowhere good. Thinking about what happened, remembering, wondering about them... It's all better left buried if I have any chance of finding a way out of here. Later. You can fall apart again later. When Corvin comes for me, I feel him before I see him, even though he doesn't make a sound. He might as well have turned off the lights. His very presence darkens the space-plummeting my world into a dismal black I'm not sure I have any chance of climbing my way free from. Every inch of my skin has been scrubbed, waxed, and buffed, and then I was all dolled up and thrown into this nightgown that leaves very little to the imagination. My only saving grace is that it's not white. I'm pretty sure I know where this is heading-why else would men capture and keep a teenage girl?-even if I'm still struggling to figure out the why of all the lead-up and pretense. Frustrated tears clog the back of my throat, stinging my eyes and nose. My chest feels heavy, like there's a weight sitting on it, making it hard to breathe. I wish it was already over. Corvin makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, telling me my time to stall is up.
Slowly, I turn away from the windows and the floor-length corner-angled mirror. The thin chain still hooked to my neck drags over the burgundy shag rug, pooling loosely next to my bare feet. Last I saw Corvin, he was helping Griselda get me out of the tub, unhooking me from one room in exchange for another. Then, without a word, and hardly a glance at my dripping, naked body, he chained me to the bedpost and left us. Once I was dressed, and my hair brushed and smoothed out, Griselda left me too. Finally, I was alone. Not that it lasted long, or benefited me much. All it did was just give more time to stew in my thoughts and panic. Corvin doesn't immediately say anything when we're face to face. He's changed clothes. Where before he had on a white t-shirt, streaked with dirt, and loose-fitting jeans, he now wears sleek dress pants and a form-fitting button-up. All black. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his lightly haired forearms, and the prominent veins branching down to his strong, lightly tanned fingers. On his right wrist, he wears an expensivelooking gold watch. His dark brown hair is swept back, like it was the night we first met, not a stray fly-away to be seen. As usual, his jaw is smooth, but painstakingly sharp, like it's been chiseled by Michelangelo himself. It's a crime, really, for someone so beautiful to be so evil. Dark gray eyes stare at my face for one long beat, cold and unreadable, before drifting down my body. A furrow forms between his dark brows, and I press my elbows into my sides, trying not to squirm under his penetrating gaze. He mutters something. I frown. "What?"
He shakes his head and glances away. "You're too skinny." My eyes bug out. Is he for fucking real right now? He runs a hand over his jaw, his mouth, eyes troubled as they flit around past me unseeingly. "I don't know if you know this," I say slowly, my voice tight as I try to bottle up the anger wracking through each syllable, "but that's what happens when you starve a person." He stills, his gaze swinging back to focus on mine. My jaw quivers, and I clench my fists where they brush against my thighs. He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Hm." "What?" "Nothing, just..." He shakes his head and looks away. "Never mind. We need to go. It's nearly time for dinner." And just as he says that, a deep, resounding vibration shakes the floor, rattling the glass behind me. Corvin's unfazed by the sound, and I vaguely remember the last time I heard it. "Are those church bells?" I find myself asking. His droll sideways look says, Obviously. I huff and cross my arms, wincing when I feel my ribs poking through my dress. My eyes track him as he heads over to the bedpost that he wrapped my chain around. He unhooks it, wrapping it around his left forearm like he's done it a million times before. With no warning, he gives it a tug, causing me to stumble toward him as he turns his back on me and starts walking. There's gotta be only maybe fifteen feet of slack to this thing. To reach the mirror, I had to crawl over the queen-sized bed rather than walk around.
He steals just about all of that length now as he pauses and pulls me toward him, gripping the chain inches from my throat, giving me no choice but to tip my head back to look at him. "D-dinner?" I ask, hating the hope ringing out in my voice. He scoffs and turns away again, dragging me toward the door leading into the hallway. "W-wait, I'm not dressed," I rush out, grabbing the chain for some kind of purchase, just above where he tightly fists it in his much larger hand. Not looking back, he says, "Yes. You are." I open and close my mouth a couple times, but before I can manage a protest, he gives another firm tug on the chain. A yelp bursts from my lips as the collar pinches my throat. "Let's go. He doesn't like it when we're late." I blink. He? Again, a flash of that older, white-haired man flits across my mind. The man I haven't seen since the gardens the night everything went black. He had a cane and blue eyes and a creepy fucking smile. They called him sir. "Who?" I whisper so softly, the word barely makes any sound. Still, I know he must hear me. But other than the faint stiffening of his shoulders, I get nothing. It makes me want to scream. Or punch him in the head. Maybe both. This time, we don't take an elevator. Instead he leads me down a short hall that breaks off into a balcony overlooking the sweeping room below. Corvin has to practically hold me up as he guides me down the sprawling, quarter-turn staircase, my legs unwilling to work like they usedto. I'm so weak, so frail, it's like I'm a prisoner not just to this massive house, but the husk that is my body too. Light orchestral music reaches my ears from somewhere below, and I immediately recognize the piece as one of Tchaikovsky's "Six Pieces." The collar on my neck digs in slightly as Corvin adjusts his hold on the chain, wrapping it more tightly around his forearm as we reach the first landing and then turn to descend the last remaining steps. Hands fisted at my sides, I glance around, taking in the huge, two-story foyer surrounding us. There's hardly an inch of free space along the walls. It's all sweeping arches made of dark crown molding and mahogany paneling, much like where we just descended from, all adorned with excessive decor. Mirrors, paintings, sconces, plants. A glance up shows high, vaulted, fresco-painted ceilings, like something straight out of the Vatican. It's the very opposite of minimalist, and yet it doesn't look cluttered. It looks organized. Excessive, but meticulous. The floors are the same as upstairs too-all wood, with the exception of the rugs and runners that are laid scattered about the place. Providing muchneeded warmth and comfort on the soles of my feet. The music grows slightly louder as Corvin leads me around a corner, down a short hallway, and into an equally extravagant dining room. But not loud enough to drown out the sounds of tinkling chatter and laughter that greet us. My pulse speeds up, anger and something else I can't pinpoint boiling my blood. All that time I was wasting away below ground, with nothing more than folded up paper and dripping water to keep me company, they were up here,eating and laughing and going about their lives like mine hadn't been stolen. Like I meant nothing to them. It shouldn't... hurt, but it does. It does. Does my existence mean that little to them? Do they really have no remorse or shame? It all comes to a halt, though, when we enter the room. The laughter, the chatter, my racing thoughts-all the sounds cut off except for the familiar music and my thundering heart. Corvin comes to a sudden stop just inside the arched doorway, tension rocketing up his spine. He hardly seems to notice when I collide face-first with his shoulder. Grimacing, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, and take a muchneeded step back. Flicking my gaze past him, I press up onto my toes, curious to see what caught him off guard. From just over his shoulder, I watch as several heads pivot toward us from their seats-two of which being the twins, and across from them, an older man I'm pretty sure I've never seen before. He's older than Corvin by at least ten years, I'd say, but not quite as old as the man facing us from the head of the long table. The one who currently takes up all my attention, and has every survival instinct in me screaming out in alarm. Him. Vague memories surge across my mind as those sharp, misleadingly joyful blue eyes find mine, brightening with an almost childlike excitement. "There she is," he says in that soft, melodic voice I remember as clearly as if it were just yesterday that I first heard it.My heart thumps heavily in my chest as I try not to cower even further behind Corvin. It's a ridiculous instinct. As if the one who chained me and starved me is somehow different than these other men. As if he's somehow better, or safer. I have to remind myself that while the others are in no way innocent, they haven't actually done anything yet-at least, not of their own volition- unlike Corvin who's taken it upon himself to man-handle me, strip me naked, starve me, and threaten and mock me. Hell, he even violated me the night I got myself into this mess, even if it was at the behest of this strange white-haired man. It could be worse. I silently wince at the thought, hating that that's where my standards have fallen. The older man's thin mouth curls faintly as his bright, cornflower blue eyes sparkle in the flickering candlelight coming from the center of the table and the sconces lined up along each wall. His hair is snow-white, falling gently to his shoulders in waves, standing out bright and gleaming in the dim lighting. His features glimmer with something like amusement as he drags his attention over to Corvin. "I was beginning to think you might not show." "I always show, sir," Corvin replies tightly. The older man's face remains placid as he dips his chin in a small nod of acknowledgement. "That you do." He cuts a look at the man seated on his right. "Unlike somebody else I know." My eyes ping to the unfamiliar man smirking from behind a half-full wine glass. The red liquid sloshes as he leans to the side, throwing amassive arm around the back of his chair. Unlike the others, who are dressed up like Corvin from what I can see, he's dressed casually in nothing more than a simple gray t-shirt. I can't tell from here, but I'm willing to bet he's wearing jeans too. There's a ruggedness to him that stands out against everyone else. It doesn't fit here. His thick brows, a shade darker than his shoulder-length dirty blond hair, drop low over his narrowed eyes as he looks me up and down. In a distracted voice, he says, "I'm a restless man, what can I say?" His head cocks as he studies me more closely, an inscrutable look in his eye. "But when I heard about your newest addition, I decided Vegas could wait. She's a pretty little thing, sir. I don't know if I'm more shocked or impressed." The other man sniffs, but doesn't actually seem too offended when he says, "My tastes may be more reserved than yours, but I've still got eyes, Lycus. I know how to appreciate true beauty when I see it." Those dark eyes shift back to mine. "She's the one I've been searching for. I just know it. She'll fit right in." There's a shift in the air, a newfound strain that takes over the room, ramping up the tension. But I don't dare look around to see where-or who -it's coming from. All I can do is stare back at this strange, creepy man, wondering silently what he means. Lycus grunts. "Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? Bring her here, Corvin. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you want her all for yourself." The man addressed as sir smiles behind his own wine glass as he takes a small sip. "It's true. You have been rather... insistent on keeping the girl locked up, rather than let her join us." He gestures a black gloved hand at me as he speaks to the man standing rigidly before me. "I mean, really, son, did you have to starve the poor thing? She looks ready to keel over."
I stiffen as Corvin stills next to me. A quick glance at him shows his jaw twitching, but otherwise he remains cold and unfazed as he shrugs. "I forgot to feed her sometimes. Sorry." The older man clucks his tongue, eyeing his... son... with something like amusement rather than contempt. "So heartless. Sometimes I wonder where I went wrong." Lycus barks out a laugh, and I get the telling feeling I'm missing something. The collar around my neck pulls the faintest bit, and I realize Corvin's grip on the chain has tightened. I don't think it's on purpose this time. "Well, it's no matter," the older man says softly. His eyes are calculating, despite the mirth still teasing his lips. He waves his hand. "Come, come, my dear. Have a seat. You must be famished. I do hope you like chicken. Mercy makes a piccata that is just simply mouth-watering." He kisses the leathercovered tips of his fingers. Before I can even process his words, Corvin's already heading toward the open seat next to Lycus, giving me no choice but to stumble along after him. He's just about to sit, gesturing for me to take the one next to him, when Lycus goes, "Uh, uh, uh. Put the girl in the middle." Corvin tenses, but only briefly, eyes hardening into a glare he aims down at the table. I don't miss the warning in Lycus's voice as he says, "Unless the rules are changing 'round here, Crow." His eye twitches, and that easy smile on his face tightens the slightest bit, disappearing into his scruff. My gaze bounces between them. Crow? Movement draws my focus to the opposite side of the table where the twins sit.
They're seated shoulder to shoulder facing us, and for once, Ezio is not smiling. Nor is he even looking at me. His face is carefully blank as he stares hard at Lycus, save for the slight flutter in his jaw. Next to him, Aquillus stares down at his lap, dark hair hanging over his brow. It's not until I drop my gaze to the spot on the table between their place settings, where Ezio clenches his dinner knife in bone-white knuckles, that I realize what it was that snagged my attention. "Now, boys-" "Sit," Corvin barks sharply, cutting off the man who's clearly in charge here. Corvin drags me over to where he was just about to sit, switching places with me, forcing me down by the shoulders. My shoulders curve up near my ears as I stare at the empty place setting before me. Next to me, Corvin plops down and scoots himself forward, leaving just enough slack in the chain between us that I can sit comfortably without feeling like I'm teetering to the side. I glance at the head of the table out of the corner of my left eye, wondering what the white-haired man is thinking. He must notice the tension permeating the room, but he looks relaxed. Pleased, even, as he takes us all in. His gaze returns to mine, and he dips his head. "Pardon my manners, my dear. I just realized you probably have no idea who I am." Pressing a gloved hand to his chest, he says, "I am the Fowler." There's the faintest Russian accent, one not unlike his son's when he speaks, but it's far less noticeable. It also doesn't escape my notice that hedidn't give me his name, just his title. His gaze narrows slightly, sharpening. "Do you know what that means?" I swallow tightly, and give a small shake of my head. "I'm a collector, you see. Some would argue that I'm a hunter, simply by definition, but hunting implies killing, and..." He sighs, shaking his head. "Well, I prefer not to kill my pets." I stare at him. On my left side, Lycus takes a long sip of wine. I can feel his gaze on my face, but I force myself to ignore it. "You... collect people?" I find myself saying before I can stop myself. For a moment, the room stills, going utterly quiet, save for the soft music. And then Lycus barks out a laugh mid-sip of wine. He snorts on the liquid and starts choking. Corvin is as tense as ever next to me as I dart a look around while Lycus coughs and thumps his chest. My eyes collide with Ezio's wide, shocked gaze. Even Aquillus has looked up, mouth parted, before he quickly diverts his gaze to his lap once more. The man who calls himself the Fowler lets out a low, tinkling laugh. I bring my attention back to him, trying not to show my growing unease. "A fowler is a hunter of wild birds, my dear," he says in a patient tone, not unlike one you'd use on a child. I blink, feeling like an idiot. Oh. But then I remember how I got here, and what they've done to me, and I don't quite feel so stupid anymore. So he has a thing for birds. It's not like that erases the fact he kidnapped me. I might be turning eighteen soon, but kidnapping is still kidnapping, and he's still not a good person.
And just because he tries not to kill his birds doesn't mean he won't kill me, if I don't play my cards right. "Interesting," he says quietly, bringing me out of my thoughts. There's an odd gleam in his eyes I don't like, and something tells me he's speaking more for himself. He watches me thoughtfully, and I try not to squirm as I wonder what my face might've betrayed just now. I can feel my panic coiling, shifting into this dark, rabid thing, readying itself to lash out. Some people freeze, some people flee... But me? I've always been a fighter. Trap me, corner me, and the claws come out. For a moment, I worry he can hear my thoughts. That he can visibly see the amount of restraint it's taking me not to lose my shit. Patience has never been a virtue of mine, and I've just about had it with all this pretense. Where is this all going? Why have I finally been brought upstairs? Why is he treating me like a guest and not like the girl he stole and locked away in a dingy cell? The only thing holding me back from doing something stupid is the metal collar on my neck, and the pang in my stomach as I remember how I ended up here in the first place. Nausea creeps up my throat as images of the night I was taken flash across my mind. Snippets of conversation I somehow managed to pick up on and retain as I was groped and threatened. It feels like a lifetime ago. The memories are blurry, but my body remembers. It's a feeling I can't shake. One that brings about other feelings and thoughts and memories thataren't as fuzzy. The kinds of which that will send me spiraling if I let them, down to a place I might not be able to crawl out of. So I quickly shut it down. Now is not the time to break. Now is not the time to grieve what I lost. Not when the Fowler's watching me, waiting with bated breath to see what I'll do and say next, sniffing out any weakness. Or maybe he's just waiting for a reason to kill me and be done with it. "Corvin, perhaps you can give her a tour of the grounds tomorrow?" he says, the sudden change in subject pulling me out of my head. He dips his chin toward the man seated just past me. "It's not yet unbearably cold enough that you can't take her through the gardens. Might as well soak up what little sunlight you can before the dark season is upon us once more." The dark season? I wonder silently, glancing at the thick, velvet curtains drawn over the windows, making it impossible to see outside. Not that I'd be able to make out much beyond the shadows and grays of night and winter now that I'm pretty sure the sun has fully fallen. Are we that far north? So high up that there will be days, or weeks, we don't even see the sun. He tilts his head my way, eyes unreadable. "I imagine you didn't get to see much on your little adventure the other day." I freeze. He knows about that? He nods, as if, again, he's reading my mind. Gulping, I focus on what else he just revealed. It wasn't weeks since my attempted escape. Just days.
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