Bloom: A Dark Romance (The Order, 1)

by Nikki Rae

  He let me stand there and take it all in, breathe the thick scent of plants and dirt, as he walked over to the corner and brought out tools like trowels and more gardening gloves. Two of each. Did he want me to help?

  “I’ve been away for a while and I never trust Marius with my plants,” he said. “They’ve only been watered and not much more.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “You are allowed to speak freely unless I say otherwise.”

  I gaped at him, unsure of what he wanted.

  He sighed slightly, slipping on a pair of gloves while he set the other down on an overturned pot. “Conversation,” he clarified. “I know they teach you how to have them.” He was stepping into the rose bush, trimming away dead leaves and overgrown branches.

  They had; he was right. I tried to think of something that would start things off. “This…” I struggled to find the right words as my eyes scanned the room. “All of these plants,” I said, “you grow them yourself?”

  Without turning away from what he was doing, he said, “Qui.” After a beat, it seemed he realized that in order for this to work, he had to speak too. He added, “Marius keeps urging me to hire a gardener or ten, but I like the work.”

  I watched as he picked up a broom leaning against the wall of windows and began sweeping up what he had torn down. Then, he brought a wheelbarrow around and began pitching handfuls of the debris into it. Not wanting to just stand there and perhaps wanting to show him that I was “moving on” the same as him, I bent to pick up the gloves he had left out and asked, “May I help, sir?”

  He stopped and showed me a tight smile as he thought. “Follow the wheelbarrow, but keep to the tile. Don’t step in the dirt; you have no shoes.”

  I nodded and put the gloves on anyway despite how I wouldn’t be touching anything dirty.

  We were quiet again as he piled dead leaves and vines into the basin, the only sound the shuffling of twigs and other matter and once in a while the squeak of wheels.

  “Continue,” he said when he was finished, moving on to the next bush. I rolled the wheelbarrow a few short steps to where he was in response. I wanted to say something so it looked like I was at least trying to do what he wanted, but I could think of nothing to say. What did one say to the man who had paid to have her?

  “It’s really beautiful here.” It was weak, but it was all I had.

  Master Lyon paused to take off his shirt again, wiping his brow with it before tossing it onto the tile a short distance from me and resuming his work, now bending to pluck dead leaves and petals from the growth beneath him. I noticed how careful he was, making sure he didn’t step on any of the plants he tended. Part of me—a small, insignificant part—wondered if he would ever be that careful with me. But I wouldn’t entertain the thought. I pushed it to the back of my mind where thoughts like that lived in the shadows.

  “You can come here any time you like,” he said, and my eyes widened in surprise. “Just so you are aware, the windows are made of bullet proof glass and there are cameras everywhere.”

  I hadn’t expected anything less from someone who would purchase an escapee. “How do you bring the plants outside in the summer?” I changed the subject.

  He paused again, picking up the broom the same as before and sweeping the discarded parts into a pile. “The plants stay here all year,” he said. “There is no reason to bring them outside.”

  I could feel my eyebrows drawing together. “You keep them inside even when it’s warm?”

  He finished putting more leaves into the wheelbarrow and finally turned to face me. “There are things that could harm them out there if I did.”

  I suddenly felt stupid. I had almost forgotten where we were—it was easy with so much beauty surrounding us. We were in the middle of the wilderness. The only things that could grow out there were wild and untamed. Neatly trimmed, delicate things would never survive.

  Master Lyon took off his gloves and tossed them aside. He glanced out the windows at the rapidly setting sun. “Dinner should be ready soon,” he said.

  I followed his actions and took my gloves off too, placing them on top of his.

  “I need to shower,” he continued. “You can follow me if you don’t want to be stuck in your room.” He seemed to realize something and added, “Not to the shower. Somewhere else.”

  I tried not to make my sigh of relief obvious. He liked making me uncomfortable. It entertained him. I wouldn’t give it to him if I could help it.

  Blinking a few times, he stared at me before I forced myself to respond. “Yes, sir. I would like to see.” Even as I said it, I regretted the words.

  EIGHT

  Out of the many scenarios my mind could conjure, a library wasn’t one of them. It was one of the rooms across the hall from mine, small yet packed with books. At my open--mouthed expression, he explained that there was a larger one downstairs, but I could only ever visit with him there and we would see it some other time. As it was, I was overwhelmed with what I did see. I couldn’t imagine more. He left me alone in the room to explore, locking me in like it was for my own good. I tried not to dwell on it as I sat in a deep maroon armchair and scanned the shelves, searching for familiar titles while taking in ones I didn’t recognize. I had no idea as to what time it was or how close “soon” was to dinner at seven, but ultimately, there was no other way to occupy my time—there were no windows or doors I could try to leave from and even if there were, there had to be cameras lurking somewhere.

  By the time there was a knock on the door, I had read three novels. I had always been a fast reader, but I figured my need for escape accelerated this ability.

  Mr. B came in fully dressed in butler attire: black pants and a tail coat, white shirt and black tie tucked into a black vest. “I’ve come to escort you to your room to change for dinner,” he informed me.

  I closed the book I was reading and stood, suddenly starving and eager to eat.

  “You can borrow it, if you like,” he said. “And any others you may want to read.” He smiled a little. I wanted to believe this man was genuinely kind, that he was trying to make me comfortable, but I couldn’t lie to myself in order to feel slightly better.

  “This one is fine,” I said, holding the hardbound book close to my chest. “Thank you.”

  He smiled again, nodding and gesturing to the door. We left the small, comfortable room and went across the hall to my room. I had no idea as to what I would wear since the clothes I had already been brought didn’t fit and there was nothing else hanging in the closet or in the drawers except the robes.

  Mr. B opened the door to my room and let me go ahead of him. Just as I turned to thank him—to be polite—Master Lyon barged through the closing door carrying a black garment bag. “There has been a change,” he said. “This is better suited.” He only spoke to Mr. B and it made it easier to forget his kindness from moments before.

  “Very well, Monsieur Lyon,” Mr. B answered, stepping into the room, hanging the bag on a hook in the bathroom, and leaving with the master of the house. I could hear their footsteps on the stairs through the door and I waited until they had completely disappeared before I allowed myself to breathe.

  I didn’t want to think of why there was this “sudden change” or why I had to change my clothing because of it, but I didn’t really have any other option but to wear whatever was in the bag. I could just go down to dinner in the clothes I was already wearing, but what good would it do? He would only beat me again. It would only send me backwards in getting him to trust me, which I needed if I ever wanted to leave. So I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the black bag hanging near the sink. I carefully unzipped the garment bag and was not surprised at what lay before me.

  It was a pretty dusty rose color made of fine lace or tulle. The capped sleeves had been purposefully cut in jagged pleats and the neckline was a deep V-shape that would probably end around my belly button. The back was more lace in intricate patterns and from there, it was completely beaded in diamonds
and silver as if it was meant to be armor. It sparkled in the light of the room, but I knew what this really was: a Showing dress. I had seen many and refused to wear even more. They were meant to adorn their wearers in beauty, covering only the necessary areas while hinting at what lay underneath. They were usually reserved for when a Suitor was presenting a girl with a dowry and preferred the glamorous dresses over the robes—when a sick man wanted to buy a young girl—but it wasn’t completely unheard of to wear them just for someone’s enjoyment. These men had paid a great deal of money for a girl and they also spent a great deal of money dressing her in expensive dresses like the perfect doll.

  But that didn’t seem right.

  Not wanting to stall longer than necessary, I slipped it from its velvet hanger and started to dress. I had seen the men who liked to parade their wealth. Although I had only known my new Owner a short while, he didn’t seem the type. He wore simple clothes and no jewelry. He built his own fires and tended to his own plants. The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I became. My mind could only draw one conclusion: he wanted to show off his new pretty toy.

  Just as I had pulled the fabric over my head, there was another knock at the door, jolting me from my thoughts. “Are you ready, ma petite?” It was him this time, not Mr. B. My stomach turned. Something was definitely up. I could feel it in my trembling fingers.

  Before I could answer, he was coming into the room, uncaring of whether I wanted him there or not. I didn’t want to leave the safety of my bathroom, my comfortable and more conservative clothing at my feet.

  “Tu êtes belle,” he said from behind me. You look beautiful. It didn’t sound enthusiastic; it was just a fact.

  I smoothed the surprisingly rough fabric over my skin, trying and failing to conceal most of my body. I was surprised at how it felt; surely something so expensive should have been softer. It felt like I wasn’t wearing anything at all from the waist up, whereas the bottom half was weighted down by the multitude of diamonds and tiny beads. My nipples were hard from the chill of fear and goose bumps played on my skin everywhere else. I crossed my arms over his chest to conceal the most obvious point of interest so he wouldn’t think it was caused by something else. Then, I finally turned around.

  He was arranging some things on the dresser that I couldn’t quite see because of his frame blocking my view. When he faced me, something that looked similar to the strip of leather he had beaten me with was in his hands. Instinctively, I took a step back, hand on the doorframe of the bathroom and ready to lock myself inside if I needed to.

  “Be still, Doe,” he gently scolded. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He motioned me to come closer and I cautiously followed the silent instruction. “Put your arms behind your back.” I complied, waiting for the inevitable.

  He took my wrists and wrapped the length of leather around them. Then he used what felt like a slightly thinner strap and secured it to the restraints, which lay against my backside and made me want to vomit.

  “Almost done,” he said, stepping around me and pulling something that sounded heavy from the surface of the dresser. It was a large metal ring. A collar.

  I gulped when I saw it in his hands and how he moved closer with it. Some girls were courted—basically the whole purchasing process drawn out while the Suitor prepared for them—and wore similar things during that time. It was a mark of Ownership used only so others knew they were taken. But why would I need to wear one if it was just us and Mr. B? Someone else was definitely here.

  My throat closed up and I couldn’t swallow. I didn’t want to think of what all of this could possibly mean.

  He was behind me again, gathering my hair from my neck in a surprisingly gently way which was a sharp contrast to the heavy, cold metal ring as he latched it around my throat. I could immediately feel it tugging on the stitches on my neck despite how the collar wasn’t touching them. He set my hair free so he could pick up the longer strip of leather, which made my arms rise behind my back in an almost painful way as he attached it to the collar. The way he had tied it all made my chest stick out and if I moved my head or hands too much, the collar loosened or tightened against my throat.

  When he came back around to stand in front of me, he put his hands on either shoulder, inspecting his work. “Is anything hurting you?” he asked like it mattered. Still, I considered the question. The restraints were definitely secure—there was no way I could break out of them on my own—but nothing was painful.

  “No, sir.” My voice came out choked and I didn’t have it in me to repeat the answer.

  He stared at me a few moments longer, eyes scanning my body for any sign that I was lying. “Et ça?” What about this? His fingers grazed the healing wound ay my throat, the stitches he had corrected.

  I shook my head. “It just itches, sir.”

  He gave a slight nod as he dropped his hand. There was a pause between us that was too short to determine what it meant. Was it a natural hesitation as he thought or was he unsure about something?

  “I’m afraid dinner will be a little delayed,” he said, straightening his stance and placing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He had changed his clothes after his shower, now wearing a new forest green shirt that covered the black parts of his arm and brown pants. His hair was tied in a knot at the back of his head, but I could tell it was damp. He smelled fresh and not at all like the earth anymore.

  As I stood there, completely unable to move with my arms behind my back, I tried to stand as tall as him. I wanted him to finish. I wouldn’t be scared. I wouldn’t show him I was scared.

  “What kind of delay, sir?” I asked, remembering I was allowed to speak freely unless he told me otherwise.

  Master Lyon showed a small smirk that indicated he was happy with my more than two word answers. He moved some hair from beneath the collar that had somehow gotten caught. “One where you need to listen to me,” he answered, shoving his hands into his pockets again and leaving my skin warm where he had touched and cold everywhere else. “When we go downstairs, it’s important you obey me.”

  “I thought it was always important I obey you, sir,” I countered.

  He sighed, ignoring my comment. “That’s enough talking for now.” There was an edge to his voice. “You will not speak until I say otherwise. Do you understand?”

  I was about to answer but thought better of it and only nodded.

  “And you must obey me—do as I say. Understood?”

  I nodded again.

  He stared directly into my eyes as he moved closer; I had to force myself to stand my ground and not inch away. “If you do not choose to obey,” he said in a calm, even tone, “the next punishment will prevent you from walking for a week.” He backed away so we were a small distance apart again. “Is that understood?”

  As if they were sentient things, the welts on my thighs began to throb at his words, painfully aware of the beads sticking to my skin. I nodded for the third time, my pulse in my ears.

  He gave me a tight smile. “Good.” Grabbing my shoulder, he guided me out of my room and towards the stairs. We were silent the entire way down, my bare feet and his polished shoes sounding on the marble. When we were at the bottom, he led me through the curved archway towards the lounge area where the fireplace was located.

  “Have a seat,” he said as we rounded the white sofa. There was a fire already lit and it overheated my skin almost immediately. I was already used to being cold. When I moved to the cushions, he shook his head, stopping me by the shoulder. “Not on the furniture.” He said it as if I was being a disobedient puppy and it only made the pain in my stomach more intense. “Kneel on the floor.”

  It wasn’t an uncommon request. Many Owners enjoyed having their girls kneel as a sign of belonging to them. My last Owner preferred I be as close to a dog as possible, so I had immense experience on not being allowed to sit in chairs or at tables. Still, my new master asking this of me made something in my chest ache. It was unexpected and I wasn’t
sure why.

  I stared up at him as he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for me to comply. I didn’t have much choice. I could refuse and be beaten worse than before. If I obeyed, I would be showing him that I was willing to learn; I would be building that trust I desperately needed.

  So I did as he asked. Taking a few steps on my own in front of the sofa, I bent my knees and slowly made my way to the ground. It was hard to balance with my arms behind my back, and I was grateful the sofa was close enough to break the fall if I teetered backwards. Thankfully, no such thing happened and I was on my knees, stretching the beaded section of the dress over my legs and making my fresh marks sting.

  Once I was as he wanted, my new Owner sat on the sofa so he was beside me, his leg touching my shoulder. I didn’t dare move away. “Good,” he said, placing a hand on top of my hair. “I know it must be uncomfortable for you, but it won’t be for long.”

  I didn’t have a response, and even if I did, I wasn’t allowed to speak. So we sat in silence, the only sound the fire before us. I noticed now that the room was dimmer than the rest of the house, only two lamps on rather than the overhead light. It was more…intimate than I had expected, and I had to close my eyes to keep the room from spinning. Why would he bring me here, in this dress, like this? Why only ask me to not speak and kneel now?

  Before I could think more about it, Mr. B was entering the room with a man I had never seen before. He was tall and had blond hair, much younger than my Owner but older than me. If I had to guess, he would have been around twenty-five. He wore a blue suit and pants, a white shirt with matching blue dots underneath. When he smiled, his eyeteeth were slightly crooked and pointed, but that wasn’t what made my stomach turn.

  Monsieur Lyon rose to greet his guest, leaving me on the floor. “Please have a seat,” he said in the most pleasant tone I’d heard him use. It sounded fake, patronizing to me, but the new man didn’t seem to hear it.