Saved: a dark romance Page 2

  I’d opened my window, looking at my usual view of the brick wall, which went up so high, it meant I didn’t have a view of anything but brick. I pushed as hard as I could and broke the window screen. It went crashing to the ground. I popped my head out to get more air.

  There was a space there between the building and the wall where a picnic table was. People often sat there speaking Spanish, sometimes playing cards or dominoes.

  Some of them saw me in the window sometimes, but always pretended they hadn’t. A smile or wave was never returned, but I always gave them when I met someone’s eyes.

  I’d requested a Spanish lesson book or dictionary twice, so that I could learn the language. But, that request went unfulfilled both times.

  “Holly!” I heard a deep and frantic voice call up. He was there, the master of the place, standing between the picnic table and the building. He was in a tuxedo. The white of his shirt seemed almost neon in the dark.

  The air was filled with the scent of smoke. The building I was in was engulfed at some level, it had to be bad with how strong that smell was and how much smoke I could see.

  “Come down, Holly!”

  He was standing there, looking up at me through the dark, through a thickening curtain of smoke. I was pretty sure it was him who answered the phone.

  He pushed the picnic table off to the side.

  “How?” I called; I was in an absolute panic.

  “I’ll catch you.” He held his arms up.

  “I’m scared,” I admitted, half out of the window, trying to figure the best way to jump without breaking my legs or my neck. I knew I didn’t have a lot of time.

  “I’ll catch you,” he repeated and in a way that made me sure he was being truthful. “Now, jump. Quick.”

  I had to jump without thinking on it. The crackling was louder, the smoke thicker, and I could now feel heat moving closer. The building was close to being engulfed. So, I jumped. As promised, he caught me.

  It wasn’t a soft landing, but he didn’t let me fall. He caught me in his arms with a bit of a grunt and he carried me across the property, directly to his house.

  It was probably the equivalent of half a city block away and I could’ve walked, but I didn’t say a word. Neither did he. He just carried me, in his arms, my arms around his neck, holding on. I was aware of the strength of him, the fact that I felt small and helpless in his arms. But I felt safe. Strangely safe.

  People were rushing past us, toward the building from multiple directions. Some had fire extinguishers and someone else had a large spool of hose that he was dragging.

  There were people everywhere, inside, outside. And many of them were dressed in formal wear, like there was a lavish party going on.

  A flurry of Spanish burst from his mouth as we entered the house and he started barking orders, taking me through a throng of people, a lot of people, inside a beautiful foyer that was very Spanish in style. Stone, brick, wrought iron, colorful tiles, high ceilings, directly up a gorgeous winding staircase with curve-topped windows. The steps had different tiled patterns between them, all the way up.

  He climbed those stairs, not putting me down, and then I was carried down a long hallway that branched off and down another long hallway again.

  He opened one of a set of ornate wooden doors that had been carved intricately, directly through a sitting room with a roaring fire in a big fireplace, through another set of double doors, and then I was in a large and lavish bedroom, where he put me on a bed and then stepped back, almost stumbling backwards, looking angry. He was more than angry. He thrust his hands through his hair.

  His eyes.

  Those eyes were fixed on me and they were on me in a way that felt like an invasion. And they were fascinating. Beautiful. Gunmetal gray with what appeared to be a bit of a slightly lighter or bluer shade around his pupils.

  His chest was rising and falling rapidly. He flexed his fingers. I wanted to move in closer, get a better look at his unique eyes; I had the urge to be back in his arms where I was safe, but I coughed a little and whatever spell had been cast was broken.

  He spun around and was gone, slamming the door. And then I heard more doors slamming.

  Not long later, he was back, with Dr. Jimena, who was in an evening gown with her hair up. She looked so much younger than when I usually saw her, in her scrubs, with her hair in a low ponytail.

  That night, she was dressed in a glittery red dress and wore enough jewelry to look like royalty. She had a cart with medical equipment on it.

  I felt okay, a little hoarse, but otherwise fine. But, he was barking orders at her in Spanish in a way that you’d think I was seriously hurt.

  She seemed unaffected by his tirade and focused on her task. She took my vitals and then put an oxygen mask on me.

  He took off his tuxedo jacket and threw it, looking pissed off.

  I don’t even think the oxygen was necessary, but he evidently did because he’d gone from shouting in Spanish, with his arms waving erratically, to quiet and just watchful once the mask was on my face. He loosened his bow tie and blew out a breath and then placed his hand against the door frame, as if to steady himself.

  “Okay, Holly. Stay there and just relax,” the doctor said to me and turned to face him.

  He started speaking Spanish to her again, the volume of his voice lowered, but his anger no less apparent. I could not take my eyes off him. Angry, handsome, filled with rage over this fire.

  After a moment, they both disappeared. It wasn’t long before they were back, coming into the room in the middle of a Spanish conversation. She took the mask off my face, and checked my vitals again. He stepped back into the sitting room but didn’t close the door. He was talking on the phone in Spanish.

  “Did everyone escape the fire?” I asked.

  She nodded, listening to my chest and then my back with her stethoscope.

  “You look beautiful,” I told her.

  She smiled, “Thank you, Holly.”

  I was about to ask more questions, but I saw him by the door, glancing at the smartphone in his hand and then he stormed out of the room and there was a commotion of shouting and crashing outside the bedroom, in the sitting room. She left the room again.

  When she came back, I was just sitting there, looking at my surroundings, taking in the room, which was beautiful, lavish. Big bed with ornate tall swirled spindles at each corner that shot straight up to the ceiling and attached to a wooden rack-like canopy, consisting of several dark bars running horizontally across it.

  My eyes had taken in the rest of the bed I was in and I saw that multiple silver rings were attached to each of the bars. I counted. Each bar had four rings. There were also silver rings on the bottom footboard as well. I looked behind me. There were rings on the headboard, too.

  The room was bright. The walls were white, other than the wall behind the headboard, which was a dark blue-gray stone. This room also had an enormous armoire that was blue-grey and red and very Spanish themed. There were long almost sheer grey drapes on large curve-topped windows. The windows were open and a breeze was making the drapes move.

  The smell of smoke was heavy in the air, coming in from outside. And maybe from me. This room had a small but beautiful wooden desk in the corner that held a laptop. I’d glanced at the laptop and chewed my lip.

  I’d been kept separated, locked up, only speaking to the doctor once a week and daily to the sweet housekeeper that spoke English and brought my meals and took my requests. Esmerelda acted almost maternal toward me.

  Other than this, I spoke with no one. I’d asked Esmerelda and Dr. Jimena both about intentions in the first few months, about timing, but they always pretended that I hadn’t asked. I stopped asking.

  “Esmerelda? What will happen to me?”

  “Look how pretty your hair is. Can I braid it?”

  And he didn’t want me to learn the language here, evidently.

  “Esmerelda, I have asked a few times about the Spanish lessons.
But they haven’t come.” I’d been told early on that anything I wanted, I should ask and she would ask the master.

  “He says no, chica. Sorry.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  “Nnnoooo…. That isn’t allowed.”

  “Dr. Jimena, who is it that’s keeping me here? Why?”

  “I have to go now, Holly. See you next time.”

  I got some version of a brush off each time.

  He.

  The Master.

  El Patron.

  El Maestro.

  Sir.

  Since doing a full physical and gynecological exam when I first arrived, Dr. Jimena checked on me once a week with a quick look in my mouth, my eyes, taking my blood pressure and my heartbeat. Listening to my chest. Asking questions about my health.

  She’d given me vaccinations of some sort, twice. She’d taken blood a half a dozen times. I got sick just that once with the tummy bug that’d meant I had to buzz her on the intercom. She’d come in three times a day for those few days to nurse me back to health.

  I’d gotten my dental check-ups and cleanings from an older man, a dentist who didn’t speak to me other than to say “Open. Spit” and that sort of thing. And that was how I started marking time, my dentist appointments. I got one a few weeks or so after I arrived, and I’d had three more, my last one a few months back.

  I got a hair trim once, in the early days after I got here, but my hair was now almost to my waist and I’d asked a few times for a trim in the past several months and was still waiting for someone to come and cut my hair. Or bring me scissors. I suspected the latter was unlikely. I’d used my Lady Bic to try to even out the ends a few times so that they didn’t look raggedy, but I really did need a proper trim.

  In that beautiful room, which I suspected was his room, I was in a short spaghetti strap cotton white nightgown with little blue embroidered flowers on the bodice. My feet were bare. My hair was loose. I remember sitting there shivering, not with cold, but with apprehension until the doctor and Esmerelda came back.

  They were talking in Spanish as they came in and then they switched to English.

  “They caught him,” Esmerelda told me.

  “Caught him? Who?”

  Dr. Jimena answered. “The man in the room next to you. He wasn’t in the room. Alessandro thought he fell asleep smoking. But he wasn’t in his room, he was in someone else’s room playing cards and then went outside when the alarms sounded.”

  Esmerelda chimed in, “He’s beaten him to within an inch of his life but he swears he wasn’t there smoking in the room next to you. I don’t know what will happen to him.”

  “Alessandro? Is that the master’s name?”

  Both of their expressions fell.

  He’d only been referred in the past as El Maestro, El Patron, The Master, ‘him’, ‘he’, some other word like that, words I assumed all referred to the man in charge.

  “You should sleep here, he says. But be good, okay? He’s just out there. Don’t go there. You need to go to the bathroom?” Dr. Jimena said and gestured toward a door.

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll be back with a glass of water, check on you in an hour to see that you’re okay. Stay here, whatever you do. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  They left, Dr. Jimena’s face awash in remorse, I guessed, for revealing his name.

  I put my head on the pillow. I inhaled. It smelled male. It smelled fresh and spicy. The aroma was soothing.

  I fell asleep easily. I didn’t wake when she brought me water, I guess, because it was there in the morning. I fell asleep thinking… Alessandro.

  I’d mouthed the name, my head on his pillow, smelling his scent, feeling the same as I’d felt when he’d carried me. After he caught me.

  I woke at some point, feeling like I wasn’t alone. I looked around. I was under the blankets. Did the doctor get me under? Did I do it half asleep? Or, did he do it? Silly, I thought.

  But there was a chair at the foot of the bed that wasn’t there before. Someone had been watching over me while I slept.

  The next morning, I opened my eyes and the chair was gone. I could hear what sounded like a frantic conversation between Jimena and Esmerelda, but I couldn’t understand them because they weren’t speaking English.

  Their conversation halted when they realized I was awake. They gave me big phony smiles that were accompanied by worry. I could feel it.

  “You’re moving to a guest room, Holly,” Esmerelda told me, cheerfully, “We’re having new things sent. Yours were all ruined. Sorry, chickadee.”

  I was sad about some of my drawings. I’d had an entire sketchbook of drawings, of pictures of my family, of people I missed, of places at home. Of him.

  “What caused that fire? Does anyone know? Was it smoking?” I asked.

  Dr. Jimena tried to make her face go blank. But Esmerelda couldn’t hide it. I knew that they knew the reason but didn’t want to say.

  “What about everyone who lived in that building?” I added.

  It was three storeys and there were at least five rooms on each floor. I’d always heard people coming and going.

  I was told that the staff were moved to temporary accommodations underground.

  “There’s a lot of beds down there,” Esmerelda said. I was horrified. The staff were down there with the sex slaves?

  This was two months ago. I’ve begun keeping track. A week or so ago, I was told I was moving again. And I thought I was leaving his house but I was surprised to be moved to the room right beside his bedroom. I’ve been there five days and at least three times I’ve woken up feeling like I wasn’t alone.

  But the third time, just the night before last night, I hadn’t fallen asleep yet when my suspicions were confirmed and he quietly came in and stood at the end of the bed.

  Alessandro.

  At first, I was gonna fake it. He moved up beside me and then I felt him lift a lock of my hair and twirl it. His presence didn’t feel ominous, so I opened my eyes and looked at him.

  “Hi,” I said in the dimness of the room coming from the hallway light.

  He didn’t answer me. He let go of my hair, backed out and closed the door and locked it.

  I don’t think he came back last night. And this has taken my impatience up another level. So, here I am today, trying to decide if I should try to make something happen.

  My New Room

  Holly

  I’m almost certain my new room has a two-way mirror in it.

  My sister was always paranoid about that in bathrooms and retail store change rooms and once told me she’d always do a fingernail test before changing her clothes to see if there was a gap between her finger and the reflection in the mirror. I don’t know if I did it right or not but there’s no gap and I think that means that this is a two-way mirror.

  There’s another reason I think it’s a two-way mirror.

  When Esmerelda brought me in and moved my new personal things here, she told me to undress in the bathroom only.

  Why?

  I’ve been given new paints, new sketchbooks, new puzzles, more new clothes. Everything I lost in the fire was replaced, including my Disney movie collection. But these are all DVDs. And I don’t have as many of them, but I’m told the rest are coming.

  My room is almost completely white. White furniture, white bed linens. A very light beige carpet. There’s a white art desk that’s fully stocked. Big comfy reading chair in the corner, a wide windowsill that I can sit in, too. There’s a white vanity table on the wall opposite my bed, but the mirror is strange, built-in to the wall. And for me to be told to not undress in here makes me think that he can see me through this mirror. The other side of that wall is his bedroom. And that’s why I did the gap test.

  I asked Esmerelda this morning how long I would be staying. She shrugged.

  I leaned over and whispered, “The other girls still in the underground? Has he kept any of them safe like me?”

  She gas
ped and pulled back and waved her finger at me, “Don’t ever ask such things. You’re safer if you don’t even think of such things.”

  I deflated. I knew there were still girls here. I saw them arrive not long ago.

  And I know he’s here today. I saw him arrive last night while I looked out the window. In a suit, breeze blowing his hair, his eyes traveling up to my window and piercing my heart. And I’m sure he’s still here because Esmerelda always has a different attitude when he’s here versus when he’s gone. She’s more relaxed when he’s not here. She’s all business, extra professional today.

  He's dark and dangerous. Everything about the fact that he runs this place says villain, but I can't help but think that maybe there's a hero somewhere deep inside.

  He's kept me apart from the others for a long time. No one is allowed to touch me. Few are allowed to even set eyes on me.

  And after being in his arms, sleeping in his bed, smelling him, seeing how he saved me himself and now being here? After him visiting me at night when I’m asleep?

  I need to make something happen.

  It’s probably a bad idea but maybe I’ll break the rule about undressing in here. I don’t know what will happen, maybe nothing, but if I’m right about the mirror?

  I just feel like I need to make something happen.

  Something. Anything.

  Stupid? Absolutely.

  I’ve been following the rules. There haven’t been many but I’ve behaved myself completely since arriving. I knew it was wise. I saw things on my journey here and when I first arrived that let me know that the best thing to do was to behave and assess what was happening around me so that I could find a way to stay safe.

  But I’ve got no patience, now.

  I’ve been here such a long time. And since the fire, it feels like something has shifted and now I feel some weird zig zag of excitement then dread. Both. And it’s as if it has woken something in me that demands to know what’s next.

  I’m anxious, I’m jittery. I can’t describe the odd sensation of feeling like I’m being watched but it’s no longer enough to be safe.