Page 16 of Tangled Roses

I groan into the pillow, wishing it was a bad dream and yet it’s still there and probably always will be.

The one saving grace is I don’t have to see any of them. I’m a prisoner in a white cage and I’m more than happy about that.

Somehow, I drag myself to the shower and make certain to pull on a bathing suit because, for all I know, I could be the day’s entertainment and I’ll give them a peep show over my dead body.

Ordinarily, I would love being in a place like this. This is every dream I never knew I wanted and I intend on making the most of my time here. I must have lost my mind somewhere between now and yesterday because I haven’t even thought much of the fact a man wants to kill me.

It sounds surreal, unbelievable even, and yet this whole experience is that. If somebody had told me my life would change inside twenty-four hours, I’d think they were doing drugs.

As I ransack the fridge and set about making a delicious breakfast of muesli and fresh fruit with Greek yogurt, I am happy knowing the day will be spent exploring this mansion. The extensive library is beckoning me and I can’t wait to dive into mysterious lands full of magic and hot heroes. Not this weird world I’ve fallen unwittingly into.

Against my wishes, my mind wanders to the man holding me captive – Arman Romanov and I swear he invaded my dreams last night. He was with me, naked, his muscled chest hard against my trembling fingers.

I hate that I find the man attractive. He is possibly the most magnificent man I’ve ever seen and probably the angriest. His scowl could curdle milk, and his venomous words have already poisoned me against him. Is it because he’s Russian or just a jerk? Either way, he more than makes up for his personality by his looks and I can dream he acquires a personality transplant and becomes the man of my dreams.

By lunchtime, I’m already starved of conversation and as I cradle my phone in my hands, I hate that there is no one to call. It sucks being me because all my friends are in Idaho and since my grandmother’s death, they stopped calling. Death has a habit of making conversation difficult. They knew we were close and didn’t know what to say. The fact I was forced to leave meant they didn’t need to try and that hurts more than I care to admit.

It’s in this moment I face my truth.

I have no one.

I’m alone in a huge silent house with only my thoughts keeping me company, and I don’t like what they’re saying.

Suddenly, it hits me. The loneliness, the desperation, and the loss for the one person who put me first in life.

My grandmother.

She was the only one who ever did. She raised me and taught me to be kind. To rise above life’s challenges and to be the best person I can be.

But she’s not here now when I need her. When life is sucker punching me on repeat because it appears the only person who wants me right now is the man who wants me dead.

My tears splash onto my phone and remind me my life is shit. No job, no friends, and no family. Where do I go from here? It’s an impossible situation to build up from the bottom when you have no foundations. No blueprint to show you what to do and you must wing it and hope things work out in the end.

I am crushed, defeated and unsure where to go next and the room blurs before my weeping eyes as I hit rock bottom.

I’m so preoccupied I don’t register the noise. A low humming in the distance that only alerts me when it’s directly overhead. I glance up as I sense something approaching and my heart pounds because this could be dangerous.

What do I do?

Hit that button and wait for the bomb to go off or take my chances and welcome death with open arms.

I can’t even run to the window because the shutters are locked.

The phone shakes in my hand as I type out a message.

Someone is here. What do I do?

I get no reply.

I hear voices, loud voices, which makes me wonder if it’s the cops. Are they here to rescue me? Do I want them to?

Footsteps sound on the polished marble, and deep voices approach. Surely, if this is the man coming for me, he wouldn’t want to give me any warning.

As the voices approach, I clutch the phone in my hand, mindful I possess no weapons and curse my stupidity. I should have gone to the kitchen and stuffed every knife down my pants. They would be far more useful than chucking my phone at an attacker’s head.

I could call the cops. Why am I not calling the cops? Any normal sane person would.

As the voices hover outside, I watch with a weird fascination as the door handle turns and when it opens, Luka strides inside with all the arrogant swagger of a bastard.