A Queen Among Darkness

Chapter Six: Valeria POV

Well, this bites. I just had to lunge at her. I still have no idea what compelled me to do that. I had my gun; I should have shot her. I didn’t have to kill her, I could have just gone for the knee, but no, some ass-backward instinct told me to jump and now I’m her prisoner. Talk about a role reversal. Though as far as prisons go, this isn’t a bad way to spend my time.

The room has a lovely modern gothic style to it, everything in shades of black from the textured wall to the carpet and the furniture. A stunning black leather framed bed with a matching ottoman and full-length padded leather headboard. There’s a stunning black vanity with gold accents and an ensuite. The dim lighting gives it a soothing atmosphere and the pops of white and grey give the room lift. It’s not my usual taste at all, but I honestly love it. It's dark yet inviting and incredibly elegant.

I take a quick look around and try the door to the right, but that only opens up to… holy s**t, can I have this bathroom?! It’s a gorgeous gothic-style bathroom, but very modern. Charcoal grey and black marbled tiles and walls, a black marble two-person sink with cabinet. Black toilet in a nook by the door, a large shower you step up to get into with a glass wall separating it from the black tiled bathtub. There’s soft lighting, plus white chandeliers. It’s incredible. This is the kind of bathroom where I’d happily light some candles and relax in a nice bubble bath, but now is not the time for relaxing. I note there are no windows in this bathroom, so I won’t be using it as an exit.

I close the door and make my way over to the bedroom window and try to pry it open. As I look out the window, I can tell the drop from this height isn’t too terrible and there are enough grooves on the house’s structure that I might be able to climb down safely. I try to slide the window up but the moment I do, some kind of force throws me back and I hit the carpeted floor hard, feeling the air get knocked out of my lungs.

“Okay… that hurt,” I groan as I roll onto my front and get up. Great, the stupid bruja locked me in using magic. I flop onto the bed – which is even more comfortable than my own bed – and start thinking of how I’m going to get out of here.

As I’m lying on the bed weighing up my options, images of how beaten and wounded Isolde was pop in my head. She’s lucky to be alive with everything my sick brother put her through. I rub my chest feeling an uncomfortable tightness there as I think about the state of her. I still don’t like her. Even if she is gorgeous and voluptuous, she’s still a bruja. That being said, she didn’t deserve to be tortured. She could have done the same to me out of revenge, she could have even killed me, but she didn’t. A bruja has more morals than my brother, how f****d up is that?

A sudden thought occurs to me. What if Isolde dies from her injuries and I’m trapped in here forever? No one will know where I am or how to find me. I’ll just be stuck here wasting away until I die. I can’t let that happen.

I get up and take a few more runs at the door, “LET ME OUT OF HERE!” I scream.

I lose track of time as I pound and kick and throw myself at the bedroom door but all I get for my efforts are aches and bruises that I’m sure will have formed by tomorrow. I even tried breaking the window, but that was no good. I’ve been at this for so many hours that now I’m just tired and drained, so I decide I should get some sleep, rest, and try again after.

I strip down to my bra and panties, climb into bed and close my eyes. I don’t find it hard to fall asleep, surprisingly. Between the exhaustion and how amazing this bed and these sheets are, it’s like falling asleep on a cloud.

***

I have no idea how long I slept, but I can tell it’s sunrise. Despite the fact I’m some freakshow’s prisoner, that was the best sleep I’ve ever had. Only downside was my dreams were filled with images of Isolde. They weren’t even nightmares. At one point I dreamt I went to her and helped patch up her wounds. Probably just my guilt for my brother’s actions working themselves out in my subconscious, I’m sure.

I climb out of bed and stretch out my body feeling several things pop and c***k and scream at me to get the f**k back into bed after all the hours I spent throwing myself at that door. But I am not one of those damsels in some thriller movie where the b***h gets locked in the tower and just accepts her fate. I will find a way out of this room. Even if I have to dig a hole through the floor, I’ll f*****g do it. Though the carpet will be a bit of a problem.

I grab my clothes and put them on – leaving my shoes off – then make a quick trip to the bathroom, then start stretching and warming up my body. Throwing myself and items from around the room at the door didn’t work, so time to try the next best option. Annoy her into letting me out. I pull over the ottoman, place it by the door, sit down, clear my throat, and get ready for a long day of yelling.

“OPEN THE f*****g DOOR!” I scream as I pound my fist against the door.

I dedicate the rest of my morning to pounding on the door while screaming various ways of saying ‘let me out’ when finally I hear the door handle jiggle. I get up and step back as the door swings open and standing in all her curvy glory is my captor. My mouth goes dry as I take in the sight of her. She’s wearing a knee-length royal blue satin nightgown with black lace trimming, a deep V-neck, spaghetti straps and slits that go right past her hips. Sweet mother of God, she has no right to look that sexy.

Wait, what am I saying? I need to get my head out of the gutter. This is not some random sexy woman, even though her breasts look spectacular in that nightgown. I wonder if they’re as soft as they look. No, no. Focus.

My eyes look past her beauty and focus now on all the hideous bruises and deep grotesque cuts that mar her olive skin which have now been bandaged. She’s leaning against the door frame, her eyes full of exhaustion with deep purple bags under her eyes and her hair damp as if she just showered. I feel that tightness in my chest again as I take in her injuries. I just can’t stomach looking at them. Stupid guilty conscience. I have nothing to be guilty for, I didn’t do this.

“Your pounding and screaming is giving me a headache,” she says tiredly; the sound of her voice making me tingle.

“Well, you could forgo the headache if you just let me out of here. You have no right to keep me locked up like this,” I huff.

She gives me a pointed look – that I have to admit is rather sexy – as she folds her arms over her chest, “So it’s okay for you to lock people in dark, dank cells but if anyone does it to you, that’s just inhumane,” she says sarcastically. The irony is not lost on me.

“Why are you even keeping me here? I’m of no use to you, and if you were going to kill me you’d have done it by now. You could just send me back home and be done with me,” I tell her. Though for some reason that thought makes me a little sad. What the hell is wrong with me? I haven’t been here long enough to develop Stockholm Syndrome yet.

“I have my reasons for keeping you here. Now come downstairs and you can have breakfast,” she says, walking away and leaving the door open.

Breakfast? She’s offering me breakfast? I feel like she’s doing this imprisonment thing all wrong. Five-star luxury room with ensuite and now breakfast? If we did that for our prisoners they’d never want to leave. Definitely leave scathing reviews about the torturous service though.

Nevertheless, at the mention of food, my stomach begins snarling, alerting me to its need for nourishment. For whatever reason, this woman doesn’t seem threatening, nor does she plan to kill me, so I think it would be safe to eat. I slowly make my way down the hall and down the stairs and look around. The house is stunning. It’s so cosy yet beautifully decorated. It has this antique charm but with a modern edge.

I wander a bit but eventually find my way to the kitchen. Beautiful hardwood floors, midnight-coloured cabinets with white marble countertops and splashbacks, and yet another chandelier. What is with this woman and chandeliers? There’s a large prep table in the middle of the room with a varnished, wood countertop and a place setting for two. Isolde walks over, still uneasy on her feet and serves up a delicious-smelling breakfast of French toast, eggs, and fresh fruit. It looks amazing.

“Juice?” She politely asks.

“I, um, yes please,” I answer in bewilderment as I slowly walk over and pull up a stool. I watch in stunned silence as she pours two glasses of orange juice and takes a seat beside me. Her wounds she didn’t manage to bandage look angry and yet she’s not making a peep. I can only imagine the pain she’s in and yet she made me breakfast. Me. One of the people responsible for her current state. Why is she being so nice to me?

“You can eat, it’s not poisoned,” she says, sipping her juice and digging into her breakfast.

“I believe you,” I say, and I’m shocked by how true that statement is. I have no reason to trust her, but I do. I should be expecting her to fatten me up and throw me in a cauldron, but instead, she’s being the perfect host. Minus the magical locks on my bedroom.

I dig into my breakfast and can’t help the moan that flies out of my mouth. This has to be the best French toast I have ever had! I start chowing down but feel eyes on me and see Isolde staring at me with a look I can’t quite figure out as her fork hovers in front of her mouth.

“What?” I ask.

She shakes her head, “N-nothing,” she says, her cheeks turning pink before resuming eating. That’s such a beautiful shade on her… nope, that thought needs to go away.

We fall into a comfortable silence as we both eat our breakfast, and I hate to say this, but this breakfast is a hundred times more pleasant than breakfast with my family. No fighting, no arguments, no objects being thrown. I wish I had breakfasts like this more often.

“Why did you jump the portal?” She suddenly asks.

“Are you going to tell me where we are?” I ask, deciding to answer her question with a question since I don’t actually have an answer to her question.

She sighs, “We’re in France. Forêt domaniale d'Orléans.”

“You live in a forest? How cliché,” I snort.

She narrows her eyes at me, “I stay hidden. There’s cloaking magic all around the property to keep it hidden from human and supernatural eyes.”

“So you’re a hermit?”

Now it’s her turn to snort, “Something like that.”

“Sounds lonely,” I try to say in a blasé tone, but I don’t think I succeeded.

“It keeps me alive. Now, are you going to answer my question?”

“I don’t know, okay? Some terrible instinct told me to do it. Not my finest moment,” I say with displeasure as I finish my juice. She just nods as if my answer was sufficient, though I don’t see how it could have been.

“I promise to let you go once I’m strong enough. I’m not trying to keep you here as a prisoner. Just give me a chance to heal and then you’re free to go.”

“Just like that?” I ask suspiciously.

“Well, I may have to say some words and then I’ll need you to say some words back and it may or may not cause you some crippling pain, but once that’s done you’re free to return to your life of murder and mayhem,” she says mockingly.

“Can we go back to the crippling pain part? Why will I be in crippling pain?”

“It’s a long story, but trust me, you’ll be grateful if it means being free of me,” she says with a hard edge to her voice. Her words cause a sharp sensation to move through my chest. I try to rub the pain away, but it doesn’t work. Why do I not like the idea of being free of her? Oh, I am definitely going loco. That or she’s bewitched me. Both are bad.

“Why are you doing all this? The guest room, the nice breakfast, the letting me go when you have the strength? If this is some new torture technique I don’t understand it.”

She turns her head towards me, the movement and her overall demeanour seeming rather languid. “Contrary to what you’ve been led to believe, I’m not the monster you think I am. In fact, you might be surprised to learn most of us aren’t.”

Before I can say anything, she waves her hand and I find myself back in my bedroom.

“Hey!” I shout, just as the door slams shut on its own. I run over and tug at the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. Great, she’s locked me in here again. I walk over to the bed and flop down.

Okay, let’s think rationally. She’s feeding me and I have access to a bathroom, so I’m not in bad living conditions. I just have to wait for her to get her energy back and then I get to go home. Though apparently, it’s going to hurt a little. I don’t know what that’s all about, but her terms aren’t unreasonable. So, I’ll be patient and wait for her to recover and then I am out of here… just, for some reason, I’m not so sure I want to be.