Page 75 of Chained

"You told Vincent John did something, he didn't⁠—"

"Shh…You were exhausted. You wouldn't have known. I don't blame you, no one does, but John is dead. So let's not continue to talk about the ghosts of the manor. Okay, sweetie?" Her voice is so condescending, I feel like a small girl again.

I tilt my head in response, fingers twisting together. "I'll go get dressed." I don't know if it's a lie or if she's telling the truth. I know I ran, but did I? Did he really touch me? I don't know what's real and what isn't. All I do know is that I don't want to think about John, his eyes, or the crows that feasted on them anymore. His screams haunt me enough. I clutch the dress in my hands, moving quickly into the bathroom and laying my back against the wooden door. For a second, the small distance between us makes me feel safe.

I move to the sink, hands gripping the porcelain as I check my own reflection. My black curls are matted and tangled, beneath my eyes are dark, and the whites are red from exhaustion. I don't look like me, and worse, I'm starting to feel less like me, too. I let the sheer dress fall from my body and drag on the tight, silk black dress that he'd chosen for me to wear. I look down at the way it sits perfect on my hips, the dip at the neckline low enough to almost reveal my breasts. I try to pull it up to give myself some cover—but it's hopeless. He wants me like this—revealed and exposed. Part of me is full of fear, the hair on my body standing at the thought of his touch while somewhere deeper is compliance. A thought wanders uninvited—maybe if I give in, give myself to him, he'll search for Rosa. Or, better still, I'll buy enough time to convince him to let me go.

I don't stop thinking about it as I walk back into the room. It could be the answer to my problems, to just give myself to him and pray that one day he lowers his guard enough that I can take advantage of any small mistake. I almost scoff at the unlikelihood that a man like him even knows what a mistake is. He's a control freak, and not just in the way he likes to have complete and utter control over me, but in the way his suits always look the same. How his tie sits in perfect placement on his chest.

Still, I file away the thought. It might be the only hope I have left.

"You took your time." She stands quickly, moving to my side, her heels sinking into the thick carpet. "I was almost worried." There is no sincerity to her voice, no—her words drip with poison. I study her, the way she moves with a confidence most women dream of. It makes me wonder why she would want to stay here when she knows everything that happens in these walls. Maybe she enjoys it, too. Maybe she's as bad as them. The thought doesn't stay tucked away in my head for long, the words dangling from the tip of my tongue. And before I can swallow them, they spill out.

"Why do you stay here?" I regret the question instantly, my chest fluttering as she turns, locking her eyes with mine.

"Why wouldn't I? This is my home. Long before it was invaded by Vincent's whores." Her eyes fan up and down my body in disgust. "At least when Father had them here, he kept them hidden. Not parading them around like they're worth more than the chains that bind them." She turns and begins to fiddle with the small music box that sits on top of an oak dresser, snapping the lid open and closed. "Besides. It's not like I could leave, even if I wanted to." Her voice shakes for the slightest second, and I notice the way her fingers tremble against the lid in her hands.

"Why?" My own voice is quiet. I didn't even think about asking or about the answer I might receive. A part of me fears Melina—she is intimidating, her whole presence is—but another part deep down pities her.

"This was my home long before you whores took over. I'm a Reigns, I belong here more than the vermin Vincent likes to hide in every room." The sentence falls from her lips with ease, in an almost practiced way. "Besides, I have my own reasons for wanting to stay, my own people." She smiles briefly as whatever image pops into her head before quickly recovering.

I think back to Ace once more and his history with her, and for the slightest second, I feel something uneasy in my stomach. She turns, music box in hand, and moves closer to me, her fingers caressing the wood as she stops before me.

"Have you ever been in love, little dove? Not the kind where your heart stops every time you think of them or the way your face lights up when they enter the room, but the kind where you'd give them your soul if they asked? Where you'd let the people who brought you into this world delve deep into your core, settling every night between your thighs just to keep the one you love most safe?" She pauses, her eyes dropping to the music box. "Where you give the very best parts of yourself away just to make sure they survive."

I stay silent. I want to say yes. That I loved my sister, that I'd do anything to save her, but something tells me she doesn't quite mean that kind of love. Romantically, I've never loved anyone. I've never been loved, either.

"Yes." I swallow. Her eyes dart up, meeting mine. She doesn't need to know the full truth, it'll only be more ammunition that I refuse to give away.

"Then you know why you'll stay here, too. Even in the moments where you think you can't take anymore, when the voices that crawl from the deepest, darkest corners of your mind try to take hold, to convince you that even death would be better than the hell the manor brings. You'll stay."

"What happened to you?"

She scoffs, but the smile drops from her face, replaced with pain, hurt. She snaps the lid closed on the music box for the last time, slamming it back onto the dresser.

"This was my mother's. Another pathetic excuse of a woman who laid on her back and let a man do whatever he wanted. Forced her to give birth three times just to get herself killed. Left us in the clutches of a man who preferred the body of his daughter than the whores he snatched from the street." She turns in disgust, but I see it—her pain, matching my own.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, and it's true. I'd endured it for one night; who knows how long she'd lived this life.

"I don't need or want your fucking pity," she snaps, her face lighting up with a smile that makes my chest tighten. "Besides. I had the last laugh, if you could call it that, anyway."

I am surprised by how much she gives away, how with every admission it seems like she wants me to ask more. I don't know if it's a trap or whether it's pride. I didn't need to ask, she gave the answer willingly.

"You're probably wondering how? How could this pathetic girl get the last laugh on her father who'd spent years violating her? How could this girl still want to live within the walls that haunt her, that hold the memory of every fucking moment of her abuse?" She darts forward, her body trembling with excitement, the whites of her teeth showing through a smile, eyes wide.

"I'll tell you, little dove. It was the very man you fear most who saved me from the chains that claimed me." I can hear the euphoria in her voice, and the hairs on my neck stand as the warmth of her breath hits my face. "He found him in between my thighs for the last time as his hands wrapped around my throat. He could hear my sobs, my pleas, and before Father could even react, Vincent drove his dagger through his throat." She takes a deep breath, eyes rolling. "Oh the blood…it flowed over me like a waterfall. And in that moment, I felt free. Free from the chains that shackled me since birth, free to be whoever I wanted to be. To love, to leave."

"But you're still here…" I whisper as I try to fight the images she's invoked in my mind. It makes sense now, why he was so against talking about his father and why he put me in the same chambers that his mother once lived in. It was never as a gift or a showcase of elegance. It was because he wanted me to know that once you're here, there's no leaving. There's no escape, no matter how hard you fight. I guess that's why Melina's telling me this, too. I try to ignore the ache in my chest. She was just a little girl forced to be born into a world where abuse exists and made to live through it. I picture her as a child, dark hair and big green eyes. It hurts. How anyone could harm their own flesh and blood like that is a thought I'll never comprehend—but then I think back to Annabelle and Hailee. She isn't fighting to free them or trying in any way to stop the cycle from repeating, she's just here. Revelling in my misery and John's death.

Somehow that makes her more terrifying.

"Because this is my home, my heart. Everything I am and ever will be. You'll feel that way too, one day." She takes a step closer, eyes fixed on the curve of my mouth.

With each step, the beat of my heart matches in rhythm. Everything comes to a slow, even the sound of the ticking clock beside the bed. She slides her hand along the edge of my jaw, cupping my cheek as her thumb swipes away at a stray tear that I didn't know had escaped.

"Oh, little dove." She pauses, her lips spreading into a dark smile. She leans in slow, patient. Her lips gently press against my tear-stained cheek. "Your tears taste of fear, so divine and delicious."

My eyes go wide as she pulls away. The urge to scrub my cheek, to remove her from my face burns through me. Forcing me to take hold of my hands, to crush them together in place.