Lake

I was up with the sun the next morning.

I’d fallen into a deep sleep almost immediately, but I woke soon after and hadn’t slept again.

By morning, I was exhausted, disoriented.

Or maybe it wasn’t the lack of sleep that left me disoriented. I had a number of options to choose from.

The fact that I had been kidnapped, the reality of which hit me like a sledgehammer.

The memory of that frigid room, one that I was out of and in that moment again resolved I would never return to.

What had happened after…

Of all the choices, that was the one I wanted to think about the least.

Shame, an emotion I was not unfamiliar with, rushed over me, leaving what felt like five thousand pinpricks in my scalp, my skin practically burning with the weight of it.

I should cut myself some slack, say that I was only doing what was necessary to survive, that anyone else in my position would have done the same thing.

True perhaps, but not the whole story.

Because I had enjoyed it.

There was no shame in pleasure, and if anyone deserved a moment of respite, I did. But to do that in these circumstances, knowing who he had taken me from, knowing what that said about him, was something that left me shaken.

Not sad about what I’d done, though, which was the main source of my current angst. The clarity of that realization made me want to sink through the floor. Not that doing so would change the truth of it.

It wouldn’t, and as much as I would have liked to, I couldn’t escape it either.

I threw back the heavy, luxurious covers, the cold air against my skin reminding me of my nudity and the reason for it.

I ignored that as best I could, and instead began to move, though there was practically nowhere to go.

I pulled back on the black silk nightgown, wishing for something else, practically anything else, to wear.

I didn’t linger on that thought, though, not wanting to face yet another thing that was completely out of my control.

I did another quick survey of the room, and this time went to the large window opposite the bed.

The drapes were heavy tapestry, and I tentatively pushed them aside, part of me afraid that I was breaking some unspoken rule.

The rest of me far too curious to care about that.

The window was large and covered by what looked to be shutters.

I recognized them.

They were the top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art window protection designed to be practically impenetrable. The modern equivalent of burglar bars.

And just as effective at keeping people in as they were at keeping them out.

My heart dropped a little, yet another realization coming over me.

What had happened yesterday, what I thought was yesterday, hadn’t changed my life at all.

A stranger had taken me from what should have been my home, and my position hadn’t changed one bit.

I still had no will, no voice, was at the mercy of someone who couldn’t care less what I wanted.

If anything, my circumstances had improved.

Yes, there was the nameless, sometimes menacing, always alluring man who had brought me here.

But how did that compare to what I had left?

It was better.

I knew that with the same crystal clarity that I knew that the night before had been a conscious choice.

I didn’t know the man’s agenda, and he definitely had an agenda, but what I knew was that he wasn’t Vlad.

And not being Vlad was quite an upgrade.

I clenched my teeth tight, looked through the blinds, and saw what appeared to be a sprawling lawn.

It was large, appeared at first glance to be well manicured, but other than that, it told me nothing.

It didn’t even give me a clue as to where we were.

I looked out, hoping I could spot a tree, listened, hoping that a bird’s song, some other sound of nature, might give me a hint.

But all I saw was grass, and all I heard was silence, occasionally punctuated by my breath.

The glass was probably soundproof anyway.

I tried not to be disheartened, told myself to keep my wits about me and let this play out. If nothing else, I knew I had the skills to navigate tricky situations, and if I kept my mouth closed and my eyes open, who knew what I might find?

“You know you can’t get out of that window, don’t you?”

I had felt that brush of awareness, so I wasn’t startled when the man spoke.

“I didn’t think I could.”

“So why are you looking out of it?” he asked.

“I’m a nature lover,” I replied.

“So that’s what you do in the morning?”

I froze then turned to look at him.

He was dressed in what I suspected was his usual attire. T-shirt, cargo pants. Boots.

It suited him, something I cursed myself for noticing, but something I noticed indeed.

I had known, or at least very much suspected that he had been watching me, but now I had confirmation.

I didn’t know what that information meant or if it would be to my benefit, but anything I could work with was something I would take.

“Yes. It’s peaceful, and I don’t have to worry about Vlad, not that early…”

At the mention of Vlad’s name, the man’s demeanor changed ever so slightly.

Most people probably wouldn’t even have noticed, but my survival was dependent on reading a person’s mood, so it was a skill that I had developed. And that skill was reminding me that the man both knew Vlad and despised him.

Not uncommon, but it proved to me that whatever this was, it was personal.

“I don’t guess that you’d let me take a cup of coffee and sit on the roof to watch the birds like I would do there,” I said.

“No, that’s not an option,” he replied.

“Oh well,” I said, the words not at all reflecting what I felt inside.

Those moments—sometimes fifteen minutes, sometimes, when I was feeling decadent, even longer—were the peace, the serenity that I sought and so often failed to find.

I would miss them.

“Here is food,” the man said.

It was then I noticed that he had set a big bottle of water, a cup of coffee, and a granola bar on the dresser.

“I guess it wouldn’t make any sense for me to wonder if those are poisoned,” I said.

“They aren’t. You don’t need to worry about poisoning,” he said.

“Thanks, I guess. I’ll strike poisoning off my list of concerns,” I said, walking toward the dresser.

I realized then that he could interpret, rightly, my comment as sarcasm. Probably not the smartest thing to do in this situation.

The apology started to bubble up automatically, but I pushed it down.

He had done this, and I had nothing to apologize for.

I was being stupid, petulant, when I had not a leg to stand on.

And yet I couldn’t make myself stop.

I was playing a dangerous game, one where my life was at stake, against a player who was very, very good, something I knew from the short time I had been in his presence. But I couldn’t stop myself.

“You’re angry,” he said.

“What would give you that idea?” I responded, my words clipped, as nasty as I dared to make them.

“Why?” he said.

I had been in the process of twisting the cap off the bottle of water, but I froze and whirled to face him.

He looked at me passively, mildly curious, but not much else.

Seeing him like that, feeling my reaction to him, the one that had been there since he had stepped into the room, the one that shamed me still, broke something in me.

“Why?” I said.

Before I even knew what was happening, I had hurled the bottle at him.

He avoided it easily, and it fell to the floor, the water spilling out.

“I hope you weren’t thirsty,” he said.

There wasn’t malice in his voice, but hearing his words reminded me that I was indeed thirsty, almost desperately so.

Don’t move, Lake.

That had been a terrible mistake.

I didn’t even allow myself to contemplate what would have happened to me if I had done such a thing to Vlad. But the man didn’t seem inclined to respond.

I was grateful for that, and that gratitude only intensified the deep sense of shame that I had woken up with this morning.

“Explain something to me,” the man said.

I had been staring at the bottle, lost in my own thoughts as I watched the water pour and then dribble out to be absorbed in the heavy rug.

But I lifted my eyes to the man then, met his and saw the curiosity in them.

And the judgment.

“What do you want to know?” I said, my voice coming out in a defeated-sounding sigh that I hated almost as much as I hated myself.

“The circumstances are not ideal, but I haven’t treated you poorly. Yet you’re angry with me. He treated you worse than an animal, yet you stayed,” he said.

If anger were fuel, I would have been blasting into outer space.

I stared at him, my mind trying to comprehend whether he had actually asked what it seemed like he had.

I studied him, saw that he had indeed asked, and was apparently expecting an answer.

My mind swirled, practically paralyzed by the responses that were buzzing through it.

But most of all, I was in disbelief.

He had kidnapped me, and he was judging me?

It was almost beyond belief, and more than anything I wanted to tell him so, wanted to scream at him that he had no right to judge me, that he knew nothing of what I had gone through, why I did what I did.

I imagined doing so, how good it would feel to release the torrent of abuse that was rising up, consequences be damned.

And I was on the verge of doing so.

It wasn’t like I had a lot left to lose.

The room was silent, the moment thick with tension, ripe with the words I wanted to say.

But like I always did, I swallowed those words back. Pushed them down deep, along with my emotions, my pride.

“Thank you for the granola bar,” I said.

But even as I spoke, I set the package on the dresser, my appetite gone.

Besides, I probably would have choked on the bar if I had tried to eat it.

So instead, I would let myself choke on the words, on the feelings behind the words.

I looked away from the man, uncaring that he watched me, and climbed back into bed.