Page 34 of Wild Devil

Two things in my grasp that Silas wants for whatever reason.

If only I knew what the hell that reason actually was.

TWELVE

FREY

Hours later, when Catherine finally leads me to a mirror, I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. Ignoring my discomfort, she gently rearranges the veil around my face, revealing the hollow panes of my throat, exposed by a gaping neckline.

“You look so beautiful,” she coos. “Oh, Frances, you are stunning!”

In a sense, she’s right. I look like a beautiful doll that’s been drug through hell and back. Her hair is dull and lifeless despite someone’s best attempts to coil it into a lovely bun at the nape of my neck. My makeup is minimal but doesn’t do much to add color to my sallow cheeks, and nothing can fully hide the bruises on my face or my swollen bottom lip.

My only comfort is the tiny strip of metal hidden within the hem of one of the long bell sleeves that swallow my arms, leaving my neck and chest as the only sections of bare skin.

Catherine does her best to fuss over me with a plastered smile, but I’m sure we both know the truth. I look like a lamb too battered to slaughter.

“I know the color is a bit unorthodox, but you make it work. You look a picture.”

“Do I?” I barely recognize my voice. Although the lips in the mirror move, I feel completely disconnected from the figure gazing back at me with her cold, dead eyes. She is the Frances who attempted to jump into another universe without Daze there to save her.

She lost herself in her grief, fell into the cold bay waters, and this is what was spat back out—a dead woman walking.

“I should go get dressed as well,” Catherine mutters, glancing at her wristwatch. “The others will be arriving soon.”

“Who?” I ask without tearing my gaze from my reflection. “Who else is coming?”

That is a new detail to this horrific arrangement—spectators. Which of my father’s deranged associates might be there? Silas?

“I’m not sure, but Colton is here, and I think he wanted to meet with you,” Catherine remarks softly. I can see the pain in her face and hear it in her voice. She may pretend to be oblivious, but even she can’t ignore the ominous darkness that looms over this entire house. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it in the air. I can taste it. The knot of dread and anxiety in my stomach tightens with each passing minute.

Despite my last words, I can’t ignore the part of me that wishes Daze would appear on the horizon. However, I know he wouldn’t carry me to safety without craving revenge if he saw my face now. He would burn this entire house down with his enemies still inside it.

Would that be such a bad thing?

There is no clear answer anymore. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible—but it’s a minor priority. Firstly, I need to rescue those people in the basement and, if possible, find out why they’re being held here at all. I can’t get the knowledge of their presence out of my head, or the smell. Despite wearing a priceless gown, I feel so helpless while they cower in squalor below.

But nothing compares to the fear I feel at what could be in store for them.

And for me.

When Catherine leaves the room, I pace the narrow space alone. On my tenth pass near the door, I halfheartedly test the lock, unsurprised to find it secured. Even with my sliver of razor blade, I feel exposed. Weak.

Or so the old Frances would be.

Daze taught me well and I scan the room with a renewed focus, finding anything I can use to aid in my escape. There’s a lamp on a nightstand in the corner. I unplug it and set it aside within easy reach—if push comes to shove, I can always use it as a weapon. Only then do I feel somewhat more secure.

Now, to gain a greater understanding of what could be taking place beyond this cage. I don’t hear footsteps or a guard approaching after pressing my ear to the door. From below, a distant commotion can be heard near the house’s front. Faint voices. Murmurs of conversation. My pulse begins to race as an unfamiliar baritone rumbles in the air. Could this be the arrival of those mysterious “others” that Catherine hinted at?

As I imagine what sort of people could associate with my father, I shudder. No one good.

Trying to make out any noise from below, I sink to my knees, desperate for more. Gradually, the sounds shift, forcing me to inch from the door to a distant corner of the room. Within seconds, I’m crouched near a vent in the floor at the back of the room, straining to pick up traces of that initial conversation. I can almost make out my father’s voice, but all I hear are…

Whimpers. There are three distinct voices, so soft I can barely hear them. They don’t seem to convey a sense of danger that would justify Catherine’s reluctance, though. Not my father’s cohorts, perhaps. In fact, I can still hear him, but his voice comes from the other direction of the house.

“Shhh,” I hear one of the figures seemingly below the vent whisper. Her voice is so clear that it seems like she’s in the room next to me. “They’re coming.”

I strain my ears for any approaching footsteps, but none reach this level, meaning…

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