Page 34 of Arianna

Ugh, damn you.

This is not who you are…no man will conquer your thoughts, and God forbid your cold heart. A small and sometimes annoying voice inside my brain— the bitchy angel on one shoulder— reminds me. God knows most people have a wise angel and a reckless demon on their shoulders battling for control, but not me, no. The angel abandoned me a long time ago, or maybe it was never there. Just a bitchy conscience who guided me down dark and selfish paths every time.

Maybe it is all bullshit.

Slowing to a walk, I remove the earbuds and enter through the glass front doors, placing the brand-new iPhone Benjamin gave me yesterday on the foyer’s table. Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart from my run, I make my way to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

Every muscle in my body burns. I have been running every morning since I got here. There is not much to do since I have zero contact with the outside world, not that they forbid it. There is Wi-Fi, and my phone has internet access. I am not a prisoner here, and every day that passes, it is more obvious that the man has given me every opportunity to run, and yet, I have not.

I am not dumb, nor am I impulsive.

“Had a nice run?” A deep, rough voice sounds from behind me, startling me.

The Viking.

“Fuck.” I don’t startle easily, or I thought I didn’t, but lately, it has been happening a lot. I think the gigantic ass enjoys creeping up on me, trying to get a reaction from me. I get it. Some people don’t know how to handle someone who does not care to uphold social norms or does not care to speak as frequently as they would like them to, and I understand why he would find it intriguing. Normal people are dreadfully boring, and even in my callousness and silence, I am anything but.

“So, you do speak.” ‘Of course, I speak, halfwit’ is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold the vicious little monster back. Instead, I settle the bottle of water back on the refrigerator and close it before resting my back on it, facing my guard dog. “How are you this fine morning, princess?” He asks me how I am every morning, and I ignore him every time. I have nothing to say, so I don’t entertain him.

Then I feel guilty. As much as I want to blame the world, I do understand that he is just doing his job.

Trust me, I get it.

“Don’t call me that.” I hate it. Ice princess. Princess. I have heard it all before. From my father whenever he wanted to remind me of my duty. From his men every time they mocked me or belittled me. From the airhead kids at the academy when they tried to hurt me just because they thought they could.

How wrong were they…

The title of princess is beneath me, really.

“What should I call you then?” From the corner of my eye, I watch him take a sip of his orange juice and look at me from the rim of the glass with a small smile on his face.

“Call me by my name. I don’t care for anything else.” I snap at him.

This time the man chuckles. “Shit. You are so similar it is creepy-as-fuck. God knows the world doesn’t need another one of him.”

What is he going on about?

I must say that besides his daily pointless attempts at conversation, I don’t mind him all that much. He wakes up at dawn and hides away in the small home gym, takes calls from what I assume is his boss, and then spends most of the day working on his computer after feeding me.

He is a half-decent chef, as well.

Okay, I am being a petty bitch.

He is a great cook, and almost all the food he has prepared in the past three days I’ve never had in my life. We were not allowed.

Only boring, nutritious food for us, and nothing that might make us smile. God forbid our parents would allow even a small amount of joy in our lives.

Ignoring him, I walk around him and take a seat at the kitchen counter as I do every morning. It’s weird, but even though we don’t speak all that much, and the man has zero knowledge of my likes and dislikes, every morning I find a newspaper on top of the counter next to a small, white box filled with out-of-this-world, delicious baked goods.

Cake pops.

“Pops for Anna.” Mila’s sweet voice haunts me, and it takes everything in me not to throw the contents of the box away. It feels wrong.

“Hey, kid. Are you good?” A bowl of oatmeal with strawberries is placed in front me, pulling me away from the sad thoughts of my baby sister. My stomach rumbles so loud I am sure Benjamin can hear it, and that causes him to push the plate toward me. I don’t say a word; just take one of the strawberries not really feeling the oatmeal today. He sighs and takes a seat opposite to me. I raise the newspaper higher, blocking him from my view. Immature? Yes. Rude? Of course. Somehow, it makes me feel as if I have a little control, even as absurd as it appears. Then his phone rings, successfully taking his attention elsewhere.

While he talks on the phone, I focus on the newspaper’s politics sections. I flip the pages until I stop dead when the face of the man that is currently on the other end of Benjamin’s phone call.

The news article reads.

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