Chapter One Hundred and Thirty

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I step out of the bathroom, bypassing the blow drier in favor of air drying my hair even though I'd normally never do that in winter. Then again, I'd normally never wake up in an unfamiliar house feeling like road kill, either.

I make my way back into the room with far more ease than I did exiting it, only to find my bed perfectly made up, graced with fresh silk sheets and a gazillion throw pillows, looking like something out of a magazine. The blinds are drawn, the entire space spotless, exuding the kind of luxury and comfort that I'd be willing to do pretty much anything to get if I didn't know its real price tag.

The only thing more impressive than the room is the fact that I didn't even hear Tilda come back in to clean it. I can't detect even the smallest inkling of her presence.

Talk about stealth.

My glasses are perched on the right bedside table, perfectly centered, the only object on it save for a crystalline lamp that is an exact replica of the one on the left. Relief and apprehension simultaneously wash over me at the sight of them, and I find myself beyond conflicted and more than a little wary by their presence after what I just saw. But the former temporarily supersedes the latter when I spot my duffel bag sitting on the chaise longue a few feet away.

I practically dash for it—well, as quickly as a person can with only semi-functional toes—relieved to finally see something I both recognize and don't have mixed emotions toward. I rummage through the old bag like a madwoman, my heart swelling with joy when I find my MP3 player.

Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!

I could really, really use some soothing music right about now.

I reach for it without even thinking, clutching the intimate object between my fingers as though I haven't seen it in years.

It certainly feels that way.

I scan the rest of the items, somewhat more as an afterthought, doing a quick mental check.

Phone. Hair ties. Keys. Toothbrush. Lotion. Ice Block. Shower sponge. Wallet. Charger. Night scarf. Birth control...

Jesus, I almost forgot about that!

In a bit of a frenzy, I grab the sealed case, popping it open and picking out a small, round tablet from the compartment labeled 'Saturday'. Swallowing a pill is the absolute last thing I want to do right now, but I'll be damned if I let a little discomfort stop me from ensuring that I don't—quite literally—become the bearer of Satan's spawn.

I take a deep breath and place it in my mouth, my jaw aching as it moves on reflex, my tongue and throat hurting like hell as they work against the unwelcome item even though they contended with something much larger just hours ago.

I physically shudder at the thought, forcing my attention back to the duffel bag in an effort to keep the shitty memory away.

But I frown when I realize my clothes aren't in here. Then, somberly, I remember what Frost said yesterday.

"You won't be needing any clothes while you're here."

He must have taken them out.

Rat bastard.

I whip my head around impulsively, hoping to catch Tilda before she leaves to see if she might know where my clothes are. I walk toward the door hesitantly, my steps slow and tentative, and it's not just because my toes feel like they're going to split in half.

I crack open the door timidly, peeking through the small opening, my eyes darting left and right in search of a tall figure, but I don't see anyone. Don't hear anyone. There's no trace of the Valkyrie. She must have left while I was taking my bath. Both relief and disappointment wash over me, but I suppose there's a good chance she wouldn't know even if I asked her. And if she did, she probably wouldn't tell me if Frost—most likely—instructed her not to.

Clearly, he was dead serious about what he said...not that that should come as a surprise.

Another sigh.

Well...at least I have the robe, and the literal security blanket will have to temporarily make up for my missing belongings.

But first things first.

I take my MP3 player with me, sliding my ear buds in as I make my way back to the bed, wanting nothing more in this moment than to get lost in a sea of music. I settle under the comforter, letting myself deflate against the myriad of plush pillows, unconcerned about the wet ends of my hair potentially ruining the expensive bedding. I hit play, and my eyes instantly drift closed when the glorious stream of classical music fills my ears, the familiar sets and sequences appearing like a warm, hearty embrace, providing much-needed support in a time of dire need—as usual.

For several moments, I don't think about anything; not where I am, not the reason for being where I am, what's happened, what's going to happen, or any of the other million things that I know I will have to contend with—much sooner than later. Because for now, I deliberately choose not to, for my own sanity, allowing the elating music to replace any and everything. My mood lifts instantly and, not for the first time, in spite of experiencing this very phenomenon time and time again, I'm in absolute awe of the power of music.

Structured beats and melodies alternate harmoniously, meshing with brilliant descants and subdued counterpoints. Major sequences and minor chords intersect effortlessly on an invisible, weightless highway, sweeping me off to a time and place that has no name. No beginning. No end. An anonymous, indescribable space-time continuum, controlled and defined only by sound. And the more I get lost in it, the more I find myself; the paradox that has unfailingly been my aid. My protection. My salvation.

***

I'm completing the third cycle of my entire collection of playlists when my stomach growls for the millionth time, so loudly that I can no longer ignore its cries for food. I'm literally starving at this point, and even though I'd love nothing more than to stay in my bedroom-bubble of warmth and go for round four, my physical need for survival gets the better of me, refusing to let me stall any longer.

With a sigh, I reluctantly sit up, reaching for my glasses even though I'm afraid of the clarity that they'll give me for whatever it is that comes next. I slide them on, the room turning crisp and vibrant, shapes and colors becoming sharper and richer, appearing before me in a whole new light.

Wow...

It looks even better than I realized, and I find myself stunned by the collective, harmonious beauty all over again.

I leave the music player on the bed, already missing it before we even part. I make my way downstairs, passing several hallways, turning too many corners, and descending a myriad of steps that I wish would just fucking end already, my increasing hunger driving me, becoming more and more unbearable by the second. Still, I keep going even when I'm certain I'll pass out, focused only on the thought of putting food that Tilda had promised awaits me in my belly so I don't end up dying from starvation when the whole point of being here is to get my life back on track.

Now, that would just plain suck.

I eventually find the dining room in spite of my foggy memory of its location—as well as my generally shitty sense of direction, my stomach just about ready to gnaw on itself when I arrive at the large double doors.

My footsteps slow on autopilot, coming to a halt just inches before the threshold. I hesitate for a moment, sheer embarrassment creeping its way back when I think about what happened in there last night. But my pause is short-lived, my primal need for food superseding my sense of self-respect. I take a long, deep breath, stepping inside the semi-familiar space and, in spite of the size of the table, or perhaps because of it, immediately spot the only seat with items laid out in front of it; the same one assigned to me yesterday—along with that goddamned reservation sign.

Oh, for fuck's sake!

I can't stifle the groan that leaves me at seeing it again, the string of letters making me both nauseous and ready to pull my hair out. The events that took place right next to it instantly elbow their way to the forefront of my mind, and fresh anger and frustration flood my already taxed system as I roll my eyes at the three bold words.

Reserved for sub.

I swallow as I make my way to them, feeling impossibly torn, my sense of dignity going to war with my basic need to survive. But, sure enough, survival trumps pride, and I somberly resign myself to the meal that has been set for me in spite of the baggage it brings.

My painful hunger pangs don't make it any less humiliating, though, and a renewed tsunami of shame sweeps over me when I notice that the mess from last night is gone, all the furniture and floors dry, spotless and polished; not a trace of fluids or broken rubber anywhere, not a single piece of evidence—either physical or intangible—to suggest that anything out of the ordinary took place here less than twenty-four hours ago.

My ears incinerate themselves to hell and back at the thought of someone else having to clean up my piss, as if I'm a clueless toddler or an untrained house pet.

God, I could die right now.

Still, I choose to slide into the chair, sitting timidly in my robe as I try not to think about what is was like being confined to it.

I lift a large, shiny dome cover, revealing a bowl of hot oatmeal and a side of blueberries on the platter underneath, along with a tall glass of orange juice. I instantly salivate at the display, inhaling the sweet vanilla and citrus aromas. But my forehead creases when my eyes zone in on a note on the edge of the tray, right next to a tiny saucer with two red pills on it.

I reach for it suspiciously, my heart pounding anew, already afraid of what it's going to say before I read it. I unfold the piece of paper with shaky fingers, almost dropping it from sheer anxiety.

Take these once you're done eating.

That's all it says. Nothing else. Not even who it's from—even though I know there's pretty much only one probability.

Frost.

The first thing that pops in my head is that he might be trying to drug me. The thought makes my blood freeze. Like an allergic reaction, I instantly erupt into an avalanche of goosebumps; the kind that tend to stay a while. Countless chills stab at my spine, rendering it stiff and useless. I stare at the capsules for several seconds, barely blinking, unable to ignore the obvious equation of conventional wisdom:

Red = Danger = You'd Better Fucking Stop!

And when a man like Frost is thrown into the mix, multiply that by a hundred.

However...while I can't dismiss the possibility of a roofie attempt, it does seem unlikely. I mean, he could have just put it in my food if he really wanted to. Plus...he was there when I was passed out last night—no drugs needed. But that's an issue itself. Not knowing what exactly happened in that time-frame and having absolutely no recollection of what he did or didn't do to me while I was unconscious poses its own set of problems. There are just too many unknown variables with this man to put anything past him. And, frankly, the vagueness of the note doesn't exactly inspire confidence in me. In fact, the only thing it does inspire is extreme suspicion, even though I can't come up with any logical reason he could have to drug me when my presence here is technically complicit. But, then again, logic is hardly ever straightforward or linear when it comes to the son of a bitch.

Whatever. I'm not taking them. End of story. I don't have the mental fortitude to go back and forth over this right now.

My attention moves back to the actual meal, and it dawns on me that the menu choice might be deliberate, made in consideration for the soreness of my jaw. Or I could just be reading into it too much. All the same, I'm grateful for the simplicity of the selection.

I grab the lone spoon next to the bowl and, in my eagerness, try to scarf a heaping spoonful of oatmeal down too fast. But the second I open my mouth, a sharp, unpleasant pain rips through my jaw, reminding me that it's not a good idea. So, despite the fact that I'm practically starving, I have to eat slow, and that feels like a different kind of punishment in itself. As if this is just the continuation of my torment from yesterday. A nourishing, much-needed gift from hell.

It just doesn't end, does it?

I'm only on my second spoon when, as if on cue, the devil suddenly appears before me.

***

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