Page 21 of Purchased

He leads me through the place, pointing out what he thinks are items of note. I look with wide eyes and stay quiet and that is something that appears to make him think I am interested.

Armand is rich and powerful. He has always been rich and powerful. There are paintings of him as a child with his parents, a dark-haired boy with big silver-gray eyes. There is not so much as a photo of me in existence that I am aware of.

Blissfully unaware of the effect this display of wealth, privilege, and familial attachment is having on me, he sweeps me upstairs where I am confronted with a massive bedroom complete with the wardrobe he spoke about in the train. Gown after gown awaits, along with an array of jewelry that comprises a treasure trove in its own right.

Apparently I am going to spend the rest of my life either naked or at a ball. This is the way one outfits a fairytale princess.

“What do you think?”

“It’s all very nice, thank you.” I choke out the words, not wanting to seem ungrateful, but ingratitude is the least of my emotions. The real feeling is something closer to rage. Why do I have a tiara today, when yesterday I was locked in a closet so I could not run before being sold?

“It is overwhelming, I imagine. Don’t worry. You’ll have maids to help you dress if you like.”

“Oh, good. I was worried I’d have to dress myself.”

I try not to be sarcastic, but it seeps through, earning me a concerned look from Armand.

“You’re tired,” he says, unable to even consider the notion a young woman might be anything less than wildly impressed by being festooned with finery.

I’m living the dream, but I know that it overlays the misery of the rest of my life, and the reality of the world outside these walls. It can’t be real, and if it is, it shouldn’t be.

“Yes,” I say. “I think I am.”

I try to force a smile. It doesn’t feel natural, but it seems to satisfy him.

“Do you want to eat, or nap, or…”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I’ll have some food brought to the bedroom,” he says. “And we can talk.”

“What are we going to talk about?”

“Everything,” he says.

Nothing, I think to myself.

* * *

“You knew you were a wolf when you were young. You told the people at the orphanage, and they punished you, but you knew. Does that mean you have memories of being part of a pack?”

A bowl of grapes sits between us. I am not hungry. The question alone makes me nauseous.

I stare at him blankly. He might own me, but he does not own the access to my memories.

He pauses, then tries again.

“Last night, on the train, you took your wolf form. So you know how to shift.”

I can’t deny that, but I also don’t need to confirm it, so I stay silent.

“How old are you exactly, Beatrix?”

“They tell me I’m almost nineteen.”

“And how long have you been shifting?”

I shrug. I don’t like being asked questions at the best of times, and being interrogated puts me in a very bad mood. Who is he to simply demand knowledge from me? My secrets are the only things I have, and I have learned over painful years to keep them to myself.

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