Page 14 of Seen Knot Heard

Another week has slipped by, and my days have fallen into a pattern.

Breakfast at seven o’clock, lunch at noon, dinner at six in the evening, where I spend two hours in Louie’s company unless business calls him elsewhere.

“Good morning,” I say, my voice hoarse from disuse as I reach out to turn on the bedside lamp, giving the room more light.

Head down, she bustles over to the small table near the door. It had arrived on my second day here, and it’s not big enough to sit at, only large enough to hold my meals. Without acknowledging me, she sets out the dishes with quick efficiency. The idea of plain oatmeal and dry toast makes me want to lodge a protest, if only it would get me anywhere.

I had lived most of my adult life subsisting on prepackaged foods or delivery. But then Holden had spoiled me with freshbaked muffins and scones, pillowy scrambled eggs, buttery hash browns, and bacon cooked just to the level where the fat crisped.

Drool floods my mouth, and my stomach rumbles with hunger for food that’s not here.

I set my laptop aside and slip off the bed. “Please, have you heard anything about Grady’s condition? Is he recovering?”

Desperation bleeds into my words, needing to know if my friend is okay, for any news of the world outside. Not even my mother has returned to the penthouse after her first check-in, leaving me alone with staff that barely speaks to me, and, of course,Louie.

The maid straightens, an apologetic smile on her lips, but says nothing. Louie’s orders, no doubt. With a curt nod, she hurries out, shutting the door behind her. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoes through the room.

I sigh and ignore the unappealing breakfast to crawl back into bed and slide my laptop onto my lap. The cursor blinks on the half-finished page. I’ve been struggling to write, to lose myself in the imaginary world of my characters, but my mind keeps circling back to thoughts of my Alphas, shuffling through hurt, anger, and worry.

The longer I stay here, the more I question my time on Misty Pines. Did I romanticize everything? Was any of it real?

Then, of course, there’s Grady. Did he recover from the fall? How badly injured was his leg? Does he know I’m missing? Or is he in rehab, wondering why I don’t visit?

The thought of my friend feeling as abandoned as me brings on the sting of tears.

The laptop screen fades to black, the reflection staring back at me showing a sad woman with dark bruises under her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. Day by day, I lose a little more weight and the energy to keep fighting. It doesn’t help that my sleep has become spotty.

I can’t risk falling asleep at night, terrified that Louie will slip into the room and catch me defenseless. So I’ve been napping in the hours before lunch, when he’s occupied with work. It’s the only time I feel somewhat safe, however fleeting.

I flex my hand. On the plus side, my cast is looser, which makes it easier to hide the suppressants I stole from my mother. I don’t dare stash them in a drawer, not when Louie could order a search of my room at any moment.

With a sigh, I turn back to my writing, fingers poised over the keys. The words come haltingly, my characters’ fictional struggles blurring with my own harsh reality.

But this tenuous grasp on the world I’ve created is all I have. So I keep going, pouring my fears and fading hopes onto the screen, praying that somehow, I’ll escape this prison.

When the door unlocks again, I blink the burn from my eyes and check the clock on my laptop, surprised to find it’s already noon. Lost in my writing, I hadn’t realized how much time had passed. The food from earlier sits untouched, and I missed my opportunity to nap.

The door swings open, and the maid enters, carrying a tray laden with lunch. The scent of roasted chicken and herbs wafts through the room, and my stomach wakes up with interest.

As she replaces the dishes from earlier, I glimpse the guard stationed in the hallway. There are two of them, working on alternating shifts. Their presence is a constant reminder that, even if I slip past the servant, there’s someone else to stop me.

I clear my throat, trying to inject a note of normalcy into the oppressive silence. “Thank you for bringing in the food. Sorry I didn’t eat breakfast today.”

The maid’s eyes dart to the open door, and she bows her head, busying herself with arranging the cutlery.

“It looks cold outside,” I try again. “I think it might rain.”

Her gaze flicks to the window, where gray light filters into the room, but she remains quiet. Not that my comments require answers. It makes me feel less alone to pretend our conversation is just one-sided instead of her flat-out refusal to answer.

“Have a good day,” I call out as she hurries from the room, and the guard closes the door with a definitive click.

I turn to the new food, the once-appetizing scents now nauseating. Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids, but I fight against it. Louie sometimes drops by after lunch, and I can’t risk him catching me by surprise. The thought of him finding me vulnerable sends a shudder of fear through me.

Instead, I return to my writing. The story had just started to go somewhere when I was interrupted.

It takes a while to pick up the plot threads, and I just start typing when the door opens again.

Startled from the creative groove I had sunk into, my stomach twists at the familiar scent of almonds and anise that precedes Louie into the room. I snap my laptop shut, hugging it close like a shield.

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