by Ella James
Fury fills me.
“Mother.”
She turns. Her eyes roll over me, surprised, then not. She smiles, big and wide.
“Hansel. Look what I brought you.”
“Which one is she?” I ask hoarsely.
“This one is Leah.” She sounds proud, looks proud.
I nod slowly, even though inside of me, it’s storming. Shelly always said that Leah was the best and nicest.
I step closer and hold my arms out, trying to ignore how thin and frail they look. “Can I take her?”
Mother isn’t being gentle with her. I don’t like that.
“You think you can carry her?” Mother’s eyebrows arch.
“I know I can.” It’s true—I do. It’s like the world has started turning again. I can feel the gravity beneath my feet. My muscles strain against it.
Mother laughs and piles Leah into my arms. The smell of her—oh God. She smells like fruit and…girl. Her breasts beneath her shirt. Her creamy throat. Her mouth.
I start to walk slowly, my eyes moving from her to Mother when I sense that Mother is watching me eye-fuck her.
“You knocked her out?” I ask.
“She struggled.”
I nod once. I want to scream and slap Mother around. But I’m able to quell my temper because I know she’s mine now.
“I’ll keep her in line from now on,” I promise. I can train her right, so Mother is never angry with her. I can teach her to stay out of the way. I can feed her my food and write and draw for her.
Sickness writhes inside me one more time: a sense of loss for her, a biting prong of grief and rage that dies out quicker than it rises.
It’s bad that Mother got her, but she’s mine now.
“Gretel,” I murmur.
I look up to see Mother’s red grin. Her dancing eyes.
I look down the hallway, spotting my open door a dozen or more feet away. I look back down at the girl: Leah.
“Do you like her?” Mother asks me.
“Oh yeah. Yes,” I say, a little more flatly. “She makes a good Gretel.”
What I mean is I love her. What I mean is I would die for her. What I mean is I will never wake up in that cold bed, strung so thin I think that I might come apart.
I inhale one more time, so I can relish her sweet scent.
“Tell me what to do with her, and I’ll do it,” I lie.
Mother stops walking. Turns away. My eyes are still on my half-cracked door, just a few steps ahead, so I don’t notice at first that Mother is opening the door beside it. When I do, I stand there, clutching Leah, wondering who’s in this room and what we need with them.
Mother steps inside the door, and I follow blindly behind her. My eyes cling to Leah: to her eyes, her nose, her rosy cheeks.
“Go on,” Mother tells me. “Lay her down.”
Shock streaks through me as I look around the room. It’s much like mine, the walls painted with the same trees. The wall to the left painted with a house: the witch’s house. Mother is pointing to a cot just like mine, pushed against the back wall. It’s covered with a blue sheet where mine is brown.
I squeeze Leah to my chest as things around me tilt a little. “But— No, you said she could live with me.” My voice is thready; weak. I take a step back toward the door, wondering if I could run with her.
Mother throws her head back, laughing so loudly it echoes around the little room.
“You must be kidding, Hansel! Let her live with you? Why would you—”
“You said.” I whirl and lunge for the open door.
Mother moves so quickly, I don’t see her whip the can out. I don’t see her spray the Mace.
All I know is a sharp sting, then I can’t see. I clutch the girl’s shoulders and thighs, trying to think past the pain and keep my footing. And I do. I’m standing upright when she is wrenched out of my arms. My arms flail out, then up toward my eyes. Mother laughs. I hear the punch I land on Mother’s cheek.
Then I lose my balance. Meet the floor. I scramble to my hands and knees and she kicking my ribs. I wobble to my feet between two kicks, waving my arms so I don’t fall. I rush blindly in the direction of the cot.
Mother’s bony knuckles smash into my face. I stumble backwards.
I fall again, and Mother kicks my ribs so hard, I lose my breath. She drags me by my ankles, and I wave my arms, trying to grab at the doorway. My eyes burn, though. Every time I try to blink, my eyes burn like a bitch. One of my hands flies up to them reflexively. I writhe as my bare back glides over the rug. I feel a whoosh of momentum as she tosses me back. Then I hear a loud slam.
“Fuck!”
I roll over, crawling on my belly. I reach out in front of me and feel the smoothness of the door.
CHAPTER TWO
Leah
Present Time
I’m standing in the doorway of Mother’s house, taking in the massive entry hall, when my sixth sense starts to ring-a-ding-ding. I’m so overwhelmed, at first it’s lost in the storm of my emotions. My heart pounds as my gaze rolls over the stone floor. My eyes dart up and down the walls, now painted mauve and stripped of their pointless iron balconies. I’m taking in the nooks he’s made with couches, chairs, fireplaces, bookshelves. I’m checking for torches, and finding—with relief—that there are none: only round, glass wall sconces beaming light into the shadows. My gaze lifts to the ceiling, and I notice there are no chandeliers. Just sky lights.
“Wow.” He’s changed a lot of things, which is good because that makes it easier to be here. But the only way I know how much he’s changed is by contrasting this foyer I’m looking at with the one inside The Forest. The club really does look exactly like this place used to. “This still looks like The Forest,” I say, turning my head a little, but not looking fully over my shoulder at him. “I can see you painted here, but—”
That’s the moment that the subtle buzzing in my head begins to roar. He hasn’t moved; that’s not my clue. He dropped my hand a few moments ago, so he isn’t touching me.
I can just feel it.
Feel him.
Something’s wrong.
I turn slowly. “Luke?”
The word rolls from my lips before I see his face. When I do, my blood runs cold.
He looks…aghast. His face is twisted and his eyes are wide. He’s staring at the doorway I was just leaning through, as if his brain is running a couple of seconds behind. As if his brain is running years behind, and he’s just seen a ghost.
“Luke?” I close the small distance between us and wrap my hands around his forearms. “Luke—what’s wrong?”
Worry spreads out over a second. Two.
Then he blinks down at me.
He blinks again, more slowly, and his face loosens like a knot untied. Emotion flickers through his features. “Leah.” His voice is soft and deep. His eyes run up and down me, widening as if he’s just noticed I’m here. “Do you want to go?”
I shake my head. He still looks fragile, like something’s wrong, so I wrap my arms around his neck and press my body against his. My cheek hovers centimeters from his sweater as my hands rest lightly on his shoulders.
“I need to go inside,” I say softly. “Is that okay?”
“We can go in if you want to.”
I shut my eyes as my heart pounds. My feelings for him are like horses racing. The one that pulls ahead is need.
Maybe it’s self-destructive. Maybe it’s crazy. But I need him. Hansel. Luke. I don’t care what his name is. I don’t care that he’s a sex club owner, or that he’s hurt me more times than I can count since I saw him on the stage that night. I don’t care that being close to him makes me think of pills pills pills. Or that he loves someone named Shelly. I don’t care that after we leave this house and I return to life, I’ll be wrecked.
I can’t care right now, because it’s so hard, being back here, and I haven’t even stepped inside yet. He’s the only one who will ever understand. He’s the only one who can help me.
I lean my forehead against his chest as heavily as I dare and let my breath out. Wind shudders through the fan-like branches of the firs spread out around the house. It’s early afternoon, but the sunlight is anemic. Everything is cold.
As if he can feel the loneliness inside me, he brings his hand up to stroke my neck. His fingers are warm and rough on my cool skin.
“How do you come here, ever?” I whisper, looking up at him. “How do you do it by yourself?”
His gaze burns into mine. Then he lifts his eyes above my head. “There’s the groundskeeper,” he says quietly, his fingers still stroking. “I sent him home today.”
I move my hands off his shoulders. For a moment, they hover in the air. I should put them by my sides and take a step back. Instead, I step so close my breasts press against his chest and slide my arms around his waist. I can’t look at him as I settle my arms against his hips. “That’s not an answer.”
He’s so still and hard and warm against me. My insides recoil in fear of being pushed away. I’m so focused on him, waiting for his reaction to my sudden boldness, that I pick up on something almost unnoticeable: His fingertips, stroking my throat, are trembling. It’s so fine, I can barely feel it, but once I notice, I zero in on the sensation. My stomach twists into a knot.
So there’s my answer. What was I expecting? Of course it’s hard for him to come here.
I think about his need for pain, and I feel sick.
He says he comes here because he likes to leave, and I believe that—I want to feel the rush of choosing to come here and leaving of my own accord, too—but that can’t be it for him. My gaze lifts to his face: his guarded face. His eyes are on the doorway behind me, but he doesn’t have to look at me for me to read him. I can feel the depth of his emotions like a black hole tugging me in.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says. Beneath my arms, his body stiffens: a betrayal of his cool tone.
“Maybe you can do what you need to do, and we can leave together,” I try.
His hand strokes behind my neck, his fingertips pushing gently into my hair. He’s still looking everywhere but me.
I tighten my arms around him. “Thank you for bringing me here. I’m glad it’s you I’m with.”
His jaw locks; I can see his throat move as he swallows. He moves his hand off me and takes a step back, out of my arms.
He nods. “Sure.”
I look at him for a long moment, trying to read his mood—but I just can’t. I nod. “Okay, then.” I step toward the door, and just when I think I’m going to be doing this by myself, he closes the distance between us.
“Do you want me to hold your hand?” he asks in a low voice. His face is solemn. Concerned, I think.
As if his concern reminds me of the need for it, my pulse quickens. I hear my thin voice say, “Um…yeah. If you don’t mind.”
His hand folds around mine, and without another word, we are moving through the doorway.
My head aches, a stinging sensation, as if my brain is shrinking inside it. My temples pound with each small step, until we’re stopped there just inside the foyer: two pawns on a twisted chess board.
“I had an interior designer come and change things up,” he says. His fingers rearrange themselves around mine.
“It looks different,” I say.
There are more comments I could make, of course, but now that I’m standing here with him, my brain feels like it’s taken a vacation. I just want to see my prison cell and get out, but I can’t seem to verbalize that.
He doesn’t know, of course. I can tell he doesn’t know what I want and is trying to figure it out, because I feel his eyes on me constantly as we make our way through the foyer.
“I’ve taken two of the others through here,” he says as we start down the hall.
My feet stop moving. “Really?”
He nods. “Women.”
My heart flutters up into my throat. “What were their names?”
“Michelle Littlebird and Heidi Smith. They were known as Snow White and Rapunzel.”
I exhale. No ‘Shelly’. “When?”
His hand tightens around mine, and we start to walk again. “Michelle asked to come shortly after I bought the place. She works on a reservation north of here. Heidi was last year. Brought her husband with her.”
“God.” It sounds so bad, when I think about the others. I try to think back on what condition they were in when we were rescued—to compare, if I’m being honest; them or me, who had it worse?—but I can’t remember.
Luke’s hip bumps mine, and warmth spreads through me. It dissipates too quickly. The only part of me that’s warm is my hand, tucked inside his.
We pass the windows. I remember them. The curtains are different now, filmy, so I can see the mountains through the glass, but you can’t change the width of the hallway or the height of the walls. Somehow, I remember all of this. The crown molding near the ceiling is the same. I search the walls for torches, finding sconces again, and start to do my breathing exercises.
He must notice. I’m not looking at him, but his hand squeezes around mine.
I try to remember what the doors looked like. We haven’t come upon any yet, but I think we will soon. I think they were tall, going almost to the ceilings.
“They wanted to see their rooms, too,” he tells me.
He’s trying to make small talk, I guess. To make me feel at ease. But it’s a band aid. I can feel the tension in his shoulders. Feel the awkwardness of this. Now that we’re here, we’re not the man and woman who met at the club. We’re both…victims.
I wish he hadn’t acted the way he did before now. I wish I felt like I could open up to him. Before this hall, I did feel that way. I was willing to take a risk, I guess. Now I’m…not. Now I can’t do anything but count my inhalations and watch for the doors. And then we’re upon them. Tall, wood doors with brass knobs. Keypads used to be there, right beside them. I remember keypads.
God.
He’s still talking, I think, but my head is static-filled. My hand in his is cold. My feet are cold. My legs feel weaker with each step. Two doors we’ve passed by now. Three doors.
My feet stop.
He slides his gaze to mine.
Tears fill my eyes. They sting. The ceiling tilts above us slightly and I fight to tug air into my lungs.
“Hansel?” Wrong name. Same eyes. I can’t think straight, even with his strong hand squeezing mine. “I’m sorry,” I squeak. “I just—” I look away from him as my throat constricts. “This is harder than I thought, I guess.” Tears spill from my eyes, falling down my cheeks.
I have the time to think: I’m so embarrassed. The others re-visited their rooms. Why can’t I just push through?
Then his hands are on my face. His eyes are on my eyes. His hands are underneath my arms. He’s scooped me up, and he is almost sprinting down the hall, toward the foyer. I think dully how surprised I am by my own weakness. By how fast my heart is beating. Then I sag against him and shut my eyes.
My pounding heart slows almost as soon as he turns us back toward the foyer. By the time we’re halfway through it, I can breathe normally again. I slit my eyes open and look up at him.
He looks hard. Angry.
I don’t know why—I can’t read him very well, as anxious as I am myself—so I strain against his hold. “Hey, Luke. I’m okay now.”
His eyes meet mine.
“You can put me down, I think. I just…need a second.”
He tightens his grip on me and gives a small shake of his head. “You need to go.”
“I can’t.” I grab his bicep, trying to emphasize my point. “I have to see my room. It’s just…is there somewhere different? I just need to be somewhere in here I’ve never seen. I remember the crown molding and the windows and the keypads that were on the doors.” I remember the feel of the air here. It’s tugging me back in time. I’m not sure having him with me is helping with that.
“I’m sorry,” he whispe
rs.
“For the crown molding?” I smile weakly up at him. “Please don’t be. But seriously?” I sit up a little more and try to give him an earnest look. “I really want to go back down the hall. I just thought if I… We can do it now, I guess.”
He shakes his head, and then he’s whirling me around. We take off, and I am bounced by his long strides. He weaves between bookshelves and couches, passing a coffee table that seems to double as a sun dial, passing big houseplants that gleam in the pale sun streaming through the skylights. We reach another opening on the far left side of the room, wider than the one that leads into the hall, and I can smell a whiff of lemon.
This is the kitchen, I think. I remember the blueprint all the news channels were showing right after we were found.
A few more steps, and yes—we’re definitely moving through a kitchen. I cling to his neck, because he’s moving so fast, I’m kind of bouncing. I note a black and white color scheme, and some framed black and white photographs along one wall. One of them features hands. That makes my chest feel warm.
“Where are we going?” I murmur.
I look up at him, but he doesn’t look at me or answer.
Now we’re entering another hall. This one is narrower, and the walls, painted pale green, are bare. I look for doors, for art, for wall-mounted lamps or even floor lamps, but there is nothing. Not even a runner along the middle of the hall, I notice as I listen to the clomping of his footsteps.
We pass a door, to our right, and I feel a funny little tingle in my stomach. I close my eyes and try to remember the blueprint. The room where Mother was found was somewhere to the left of the kitchen… Obviously, he wouldn’t take me there.
I close my eyes again and try to relax. Maybe a tour of the whole place, starting on this side of the house, would help. Of course, there’s that room to avoid. Some kind of dressing room, I think it was. For a long time, I didn’t know many details at all, because my parents cut me off from the world after I got back. We moved to Georgia, and we didn’t have the Internet at home, or cable.
I open my eyes when he stops walking, and I see we’re at another door. His eyes flit over me before he pushes through it, and I’m stunned to find we’re in a gorgeous—lavish—bedroom. The walls are crimson, and the bedroom set is massive, claw-footed mahogany. The king-sized bed has a ceiling-tall headboard that looks hand-carved, and four posts that are almost as thick as tree trunks.
