4

The rest of the furniture was also dark wood, and massive, substantial pieces I wouldn’t be able to move.

“Your bathroom is over there.” Francois made a stiff gesture to a door then watched me like he wanted me to open it.

When I did, I found a claw-foot tub that I’d never get in, cracked porcelain floor tiles and an antique-looking toilet and sink. The citrus scent overlay continued in here, and when I returned my focus to the bedroom, Francois was standing by an open door on the other side of the room.

“This is your closet.” He eyed me speculatively, his gaze clear for once. “I think the clothing should fit. Help yourself to anything you desire, ma petite.”

He waved his hand expansively again, the perfect gesture of generosity, but I shuddered as I glanced around, trying to keep my reactions furtive.

If I had to get out of this on my own, I needed a plan. So far, the path of least resistance wasn’t yielding results.

Floor-to-ceiling drapes were closed on the wall opposite, but presumably they covered a window—and a window meant a means of escape. I walked to them and glanced up at the dusty chandelier on the ceiling. A weak pool of light was almost directly below it, but shadows crowded the rest of the room.

“Do you mind if I let some light in?” Before Francois even replied, I pushed one of the drapes aside.

Shit. Oh, fuck. My lungs seized as I took in the bricked-up window the drapes concealed.

“Oh. We had a problem with Mother,” Francois murmured vaguely, and I nodded, forcing my lips to tighten into the parody of a smile.

“Can I rest now?” I needed to make him go away. I couldn’t even think with him still in the room, and I needed to figure out how to escape. I couldn’t depend on rescue.

Francois bowed stiffly. “Bien sûr, ma chèrie. Of course.” He reached for my hand again but turned it, his nose lingering over the inside of my wrist before he pressed a kiss there. “Your pulse beats for me. I’ll be back for you shortly. Sleep well, ma petite.”

After Francois let himself out, I waited. I could probably slip out of the room if I was quiet enough. But then the clunk from the lock twisting into place changed my plans.

I explored the whole room, but I was sealed in. Nothing was loose, and the furniture was all heavy. There wasn’t even anything in the closet but moth-eaten Victoriana dresses stained with grime and something the color of dried blood that I didn’t want to examine too closely in case it turned out to be exactly what I thought it was.

Eventually, exhaustion forced me to the bed, and I lay down and closed my eyes. At least the sheets smelled fresh.

 

   

“Ma petite.”

Someone was stroking my hair and I was fully alert before I even opened my eyes, but I remained still for a moment longer, preserving the illusion I was still asleep.

“Oh, ma petite,” Francois whispered. “Such perfection.”

When his finger trailed down my cheek, I jerked away, pulling back into a small huddle on the other side of the bed.

Francois stood next to where I’d been lying, arm still extended, his eyebrows drawn together in a confused frown. “Are you all right?”

I faked a yawn, concealing my mouth behind my hand. “Just…waking up.”

“You haven’t changed your clothes.” He sounded stern, like I’d displeased him.

“I was just so tired. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.” I refused to apologize for not changing my damn clothes into one of the fucking fancy dress costumes in his fantasy closet.

He tightened his mouth into a flat line and his eyes glowed red for a moment before he breathed in deeply and nodded.

Then he spun and walked to the closet and clattered the hangers along the old rail before finally turning back to me with a deep purple gown held in his outstretched hand. “This one, I think.”

The bodice was a mass of lace and frills, and the skirt was full and long.

“I’m comfortable in what I’m wearing.” I stood and gestured to myself. “See.”

“Angelique will wash them for you.” He nodded like he’d already decided and shook the dress at me again. “You must look like you belong at my side.”

“Where are we going?” I stalled for time, eyeing the door he’d left ajar behind him. Wearing the dress he’d selected would make it difficult to run.

He followed the direction of my gaze and pushed the door closed with a soft click before leaning against it, his pose disarmingly casual.

“Do we need to do this the hard way?” His eyes glinted for a moment, and memories of Victor flashed through my mind.

I shook my head and held out my hand to take the dress. “No. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

Francois nodded, apparently satisfied with my acquiescence, and bundled the dress into my arms. I stood in the closed bathroom, trying to work through the tangled knots of my thoughts. It wasn’t like I could do anything in this small room. I needed to see more of the house, map it out, take stock of my options. After taking another deep breath, I dressed, my hands only barely shaking as I struggled to close unfamiliar fasteners and tiny buttons.

When we left the room, Francois tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow, his face a mask of pride as he glanced at me. I fought not to recoil from his touch. I was playing the long game, and for that I needed Francois’s trust. I was in Francois’s house, but I needed to win.

He led me down the stairs, which should have been wide and sweeping and regal, but threadbare carpets covered each tread, and the banister had been stripped of any varnish over the years from the thousands of times hands had run over it. Shadows clung to every corner, and wall sconces only threw meager light on fabrics and furnishings that must once have been rich and sumptuous—scratched wooden antiques and balding red velvet drapes.