When he finally withdrew and carried me to the shower and began to rinse me with the same tenderness he’d used after wiping the tears from my cheeks, I made the mistake of looking in his eyes.

  In them I saw a glimmer of something darker than I could have fathomed—a twisted kind of fondness that made my heart race for reasons I couldn't fully comprehend.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He guided me towards the closet that I had caught a glimpse of while submerged in the bath. His grip on me was a paradox, soft yet somehow claiming ownership. I silently questioned whether he noticed the subtle quivers racing through me, the way my body yearned to recoil from his touch.

  Yet, I remained still, instinctively understanding that any show of resistance would only deepen my predicament. With a conscious effort, I steadied my breathing. I didn’t want him to know how badly he affected me.

  We entered a space that looked like it was ripped right out of an interior designer’s dream. It was the biggest closet I had ever seen, a perfect pairing of gothic grandeur and modern luxury. The two stories were connected by a winding iron staircase that granted access to an upper level. My eyes were immediately drawn to the skylight that adorned the ceiling and cast a golden glow over the clothing.

  Alexander's clothes took up the entire right side. Suits, button-down shirts, and a few casual options were neatly arranged by color and purpose, an ode to his meticulous nature.

  “All of this is yours,” he explained with a roundabout gesture to the other half.

  I took in the clothing with a sinking feeling. Every garment felt like a reflection a different version of me would happily wear, a mix of modernity and a nod to the past.

  Dresses in the style of 1950s fashion, shirts paired with skirts, and even a few pairs of sweatpants that looked out of place among the refinement.

  Designer heels of varying heights and color stood proudly, waiting to be chosen. A collection of matching handbags was lined up above them. I found that a little sardonic, given I couldn’t think of too many places I’d be carrying a purse. Nonetheless, someone had put thought into every detail, an effort I couldn’t fathom.

  I’d always envied the women that stepped out looking like they had a filter on. I’d attempted it only once, and after hours of attempting to blend and contour, I could’ve passed as an extra in Killer Klowns. If I wasn’t going to work, I wore whatever was comfortable for a day of simple errands or lounging.

  "Why is everything so formal?" I couldn't help but voice my bewilderment.

  “Within our community, tradition holds a special place. Women here dress as women should—a reflection of timeless elegance and sophistication.”

  As he spoke, he traced a finger along one of the delicate dresses, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly diverted my attention elsewhere, exploring the room further. His explanation described this space perfectly. It was the wardrobe of a refined housewife who knew class was essential.

  I slowly walked around, careful not to show how sore I was, cognizant he was watching my every move. It could’ve been my imagination or overthinking things, but I believed he got pleasure from the pain he caused me in bed. I wasn’t going to willingly be the supply to his demand.

  Beyond a leather ottoman was a wall adorned with long mirrors, their shined glass casting an illusion of endless space.

  To the right of this, an ornate vanity stood with meticulous organization—a trove of makeup, perfume bottles, and an assortment of hair tools. Could this all have belonged to someone else? Had another woman stood in this very spot once, taking it all in? Or had she been used to this exuberant level of wealth?

  I turned towards him. “Did these things belong to your wife?”

  His response was accompanied by a gaze as deep and golden as autumn leaves, his countenance a veil of stoicism. Beneath that, a ripple of irritation seemed to surface, though his expression remained shuttered. “I would never give you hand-me-downs, and I wouldn’t ever allow anything a woman from my past may have even touched to so much as brush against your skin.”

  I heard what he was saying but couldn’t quite believe it. This couldn’t have been done in a day or two.

  Glancing up, I saw the second level held even more clothing. It was truly like a mini department store, only organized ten times better. Pensive, I looked back at Mr. Hawthorne—Alexander.

  “You were married, weren’t you? Doesn’t that mean she was someone important? I’m only here because you forced me to be, for however long I’m a novelty. It just makes more sense to me.”

  “Novelty?” His eyes seemed to darken for a moment, a subtle shift in his expression that didn't go unnoticed before his inscrutable mask was back in place. His tone held a hint of reproach. “Do not downplay what you mean to me by insinuating you're some spontaneous fuck or random whore.”

  His fingers brushed against the fabric of another dress before he turned his gaze back to me.

  “These were never for anyone but you. Every stitch, every fabric, every color was chosen specifically for you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Everything in this room belongs to you and only you—just as I do."

  His words were heavy with conviction, a possessive force that was both unnerving and gave me a strange sense of belonging. I did my best to shake it off and continued to look around, so I didn’t have to hold his stare.

  “So, I’m the only woman that’s ever stepped foot in here?”

  “No woman has ever been in this room, or our bed. One didn’t make it into the house.”

  One didn’t make it? Just how many wives did this man have? He’d mentioned being a widow and a husband but never specified what that meant.

  At my silence, he gestured towards the rows of clothing that surrounded us, his voice taking on an undertone of command I was beginning to think came naturally to him. It wasn’t something he chose to do—he simply did it.

  "Pick an outfit, deliciae. Choose something that resonates with you."

  I glanced around the room, overwhelmed by the sheer variety of choices before me. Anything would be better than the robe, but I wasn’t sure what to grab. A smile curved his lips as he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine.

  "Allow me," he murmured as he pulled out a dress with a sense of purpose. “Wear this one.”

  I looked it over and almost nodded in approval. It had the same era about it as the others, its elegant design evoking an aura of sophistication.

  “Go ahead and get dressed. If you need me, I’ll be doing the same.” He strode away, his steps deliberate, and I couldn't help but watch the powerful expanse of his back as he moved. My breath hitched when I spotted the telltale signs of nail marks etched into his skin.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, and I averted my eyes in a rush, but not before taking in the sight of his sculpted abdomen and the wicked ink that adorned it.

  Without comment, he selected a few garments and disappeared from the closet. I waited, ensuring he wasn’t going to return immediately, before finally allowing myself to exhale and relax my tense hold on the dress he'd chosen for me. I needed to find something to wear beneath it.

  After a few minutes, I was able to locate what I was looking for—bras and underwear. There were only matching sets—some silk, others lace, and a few considerately cotton. I grabbed a random combo, the fabric soft against my fingertips as I held them up to the light. I quickly pulled them on and then braved approaching the wall of mirrors.

  I had seen my reflection in the pane of glass above the bed, but it wasn’t me I wanted to see. Every time I so much as moved my arm, I could feel the mark that had been seared onto my skin. I turned and hesitantly traced my fingers over the back of my shoulder blade. The pentagram was complex with a prominent A at its core.

  It stood out against the still-reddened canvas of my brown skin and was tender to the touch. This was such a possessive thing to do to someone.

  Even after Alexander’s explanation, I didn’t understand the full meaning of the brand. I couldn't escape the feeling that I had been dropped into uncharted waters and was completely unprepared for the tide.

  The distant sound of a closing door jolted me from my thoughts, reminding me that my solitude within the closet had a time limit. With a sigh, I carefully lowered my hand and moved toward the vanity to peruse the collection of skincare products.

  My fingers lingered over bottles and jars that held the promise of radiant skin. I almost laughed at the irony. I allowed myself a moment of indulgence as I smoothed on some expensive lotion that smelled like night-blooming jasmine with a hint of warm vanilla. I didn’t bother applying make-up. I had no desire to doll myself up and even less to have a repeat of my clownery.

  I combed through my hair, detangling the long strands with gentle strokes before weaving them into a quick and simple braid.

  When I finally stepped into the vintage dress, I hated to admit it, but I did feel as if a sense of elegance had settled around me. The silk fabric caressed my skin, and the tailoring emphasized my curves in a way that was both flattering and demure.

  Returning to the bathroom, I saw Mr. Hawthorne—Alexander—had dressed in a black quarter-sleeved button-down and slacks. I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he wasn’t who Shana claimed he was. I wondered if she knew this would happen and if that’s why she’d been so afraid.

  When I got out of this place, she was going to owe me a thorough explanation, and it had better be a damned good one. I took a deep breath and slowly approached.

  The air was tinged with his signature cologne, an exotic symphony that heightened my senses. Even performing the casual act of brushing his teeth was captivating in its simplicity. His eyes met mine through the mirror’s reflection as he offered a wordless invitation. I didn’t have much of a choice but to accept.

  There was an electric toothbrush waiting for me on the other side of the second sink, another testament to his attention to detail. His gaze lingered on me as I picked it up and added toothpaste, the weight of his observation unnerving.

  It was surreal to be doing such a domestic task with the very man who held me captive. But then nothing about this situation was normal—not even by most kidnapping standards. One thing I knew without a doubt and another for certain was that he believed I was his, and he wanted me to believe he was mine.

  I was beginning to understand that there was a terrifying conviction in his claim.

  When we were both finished, he stepped away from the sink and made another unspoken gesture to follow him. We crossed through the bedroom and entered the hallway, where a new vista of his sprawling home revealed itself. Expansive windows offered glimpses of the world outside, a world that seemed to be encompassed by the tranquil spread of the lake shrouded in a thin blanket of fog.

  It was then that a thought struck me. This house was surrounded by water on all sides. Before I had the chance to voice my suspicion, Alexander's touch captured my chin, his intense gaze locking with mine.

  "Delicia, you're more beautiful than you realize," he murmured.

  His words, and the way he was looking at me, sidetracked any rational thought.

  I found myself lost in the depths of his eyes, astounded by his uncanny ability to divert my mind.

  “You’ll have a full tour later,” he added, dropping his hand to my waist to guide me towards the stairs.

  I allowed myself to be led, curiosity mingling with a trepidation that was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress. The smell of cooked food permeated the air, more potent as we arrived at the dining room. This time, the drapes were drawn, casting a softer, more intimate ambiance.

  In another display of old-fashioned chivalry, he pulled out a chair for me, his gesture both polite and disconcertingly charming. After I was seated, he pressed a small button on the wall, and the sound of a bell echoed throughout the house.

  He settled into a chair beside mine, and within minutes Esther and Nicolette appeared.

  They were dressed in attire similar to mine, but notably less formal. I’d wondered where they had disappeared to the night before.

  Their entry brought an array of breakfast dishes—different from the ones before—which they carefully placed upon the table with quiet reverence, Esther offering a friendly smile. Their departure was marked by bowed heads and an acknowledging deference to Diabolus.

  "Why are you called that?" I inquired, curiosity tugging at my thoughts.

  He leaned back in his chair, his smirk as enigmatic as ever. “It means ‘devil,’” he explained with a hint of mischief. “It's fitting, don't you think?”

  It was, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I glanced at the spread of breakfast options before me, momentarily distracted from the puzzle that was Alexander Alistair.

  Today’s choices ranged from savory to sweet. As I studied the food, it dawned on me that these were all of my favorites. How thoroughly had he been watching me to know something as trivial as this? Not even Anya knew I liked whipped cream with my fruits, and she had been by my side for years.

  I didn’t find this notion sweet or romantic. It was terrifying. Especially after seeing the closet full of clothes that he claimed were purchased specifically for me. He’d gone to extraordinary lengths planning and plotting for the day he'd finally bring me here. His irritation at my novelty remark suddenly made more sense. This wasn’t a mere infatuation. No, this was a deeply rooted obsession, cultivated over time.

  “Eat.” His voice drew me back to the present, his gaze unwavering.

  I selected at random, my mind racing. Scrambled eggs with peppers and onions, bacon, and a small stack of fluffy pancakes.

  I carefully constructed the food on my plate so that it wasn’t touching before I took a gamble on the eggs. After the first taste, I began to eat with more determination. They were light and flavorful, the bacon perfectly crispy, the pancakes melting on my tongue.

  Alexander didn’t eat. Or speak. He seemed content just watching me and sipping whatever was in his mug, his presence equally unnerving and captivating. My thoughts drifted to my earlier suspicion he had so skillfully deflected—how the lake seemed to encircle the house.

  Though I had a hunch, I still didn’t know where I was for sure. I set my fork down and reached for my glass of water, taking a slow sip. The coolness was a welcome sensation. If I wanted a chance at figuring out how to get out of here, I needed to find a way to breach the guard he effortlessly employed.

  I decided to start with something harmless and innocent. “Is Esther related to you?” The question slipped from my lips with a forced note of curiosity.

  His eyes held mine for a moment, and a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps—passed through his gaze before he answered. “Yes, she is. Esther is my younger sister.”

  It wasn't a shocking revelation. I’d already guessed they were family based off their resemblance to one another, and seeing as she kept happily attending to me with a beaming smile on her face, it was safe to assume they were pretty tight knit. He’d previously mentioned his mother taught him to cook. They were probably close as well.

  “She seems very loyal to you,” I ventured cautiously, choosing my words carefully as I fished for more information.

  A faint smile touched his lips. “Esther has always been the paradigm of a good sister.”

  His tone was tinged with a hint of fondness. “We’ve had a few challenges, but family has a way of enduring. Especially ours.”

  That last part seemed directed solely at me. It struck a chord that was coated in grime and dust. Family was a moot concept as far as I was concerned. The absence of my mother and father had left a void that I learned to navigate alone until I met Anya. She and I weren’t tethered by blood but shared experiences and love. God, I missed her. I wasn’t sure how many days I’d been gone, but I knew she had to be losing her mind without me.

  “I think I've managed just fine without one. I have someone that makes up for all that.”

  "You and Anya are as different as night and day."

  I blinked in surprise.

  I should’ve expected him to know about the person closest to me, but him saying her name so casually still caught me off guard.

  "Different?" I echoed, wondering where he was going with this and how to react. “Of course we’re different. Why does it sound like you think that’s a bad thing?”

  He leaned back in his chair with an irritating smile curving one side of his pretty mouth. "If I were to list every sordid detail about that girl, we’d be here for ages.”

  “Sordid? I’m sorry, I don’t think we’re talking about the same person.”

  “No? Anya doesn’t sleep with any man who has a flashy car and a bit of cash to spare ?”

  “Well, she—”

  “She doesn’t leave behind a trail of ruined marriages and broken hearts, yet somehow is always the victim and woman scorned?” He cut me off and continued, his voice carrying a mixture of amusement and no small amount of disgust.

  “You’re judging her, and you don’t even know her.”

  “Was anything I said wrong? Anya is a slut who pretends to be a whore.”

  “Is there a difference between those two words?” I questioned, beginning to get a sense of déjà vu from the last time we ate together.

  “Yes. One gets something in return. More than a cunt full of cum, anyway.”

  I curled my fingers and glared at him. He had a lot of nerve to say any of these things.

  “Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right—you just don’t want to hear this from me. A twist of misfortune is what brought you and Anya together. If not for that, you two wouldn’t have ever met.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do,” he retorted calmly, his tone matter of fact. "You are a goddess in your own right. Someone that should be worshipped from head to toe. So, so beautiful. Worth more than this entire world.”