Page 32 of Daughter of a Monster

Mrs Bellamy enters and smiles widely. She is always pleased to see me, although it escapes me as to why. Still, I value her loyalty. There isn’t much I wouldn’t trust her with. She runs the place with impeccable efficiency. She never complains. Never asks for time off. And Ette loves her.

Lowering herself into the chair in front of my desk, she sighs deeply. “I saw your light was on.” Her eyes flick around my office as though wondering what I’m doing at this early hour of the morning. “Ette had another nightmare.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes, she’s fine now. I made her a hot chocolate and sat with her until she fell back asleep.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the extra time you put into the girl.”

Mrs Bellamy smiles. “She’s precious. I value the time I get to spend with her.”

I hear the unspoken accusation in her voice. I wish I could spend more time with Ette, but every time I look at her, all I’m reminded of is my failings. For years I’ve watched her grow without a mother to guide her. And it’s my fault. I didn’t protect her. I didn’t keep her safe.

I’m not sure when her mother stopped being a person in my mind and became a mission. I guess I view Ette in the same way. I’m afraid to get close to her because she reminds me of what I’ve lost, what I’ve failed. I can’t even bring myself to imagine what our lives would be like if Hope ever comes back. Would things return to the way they used to be? Would she be the same person she used to be? Would she even recognize her own daughter?

“Now,” Mrs Bellamy claps her hands, snapping me out of my reverie. “I need to know what you’re expecting for this month’s game. Alma is already onto the menu. The room has been cleaned to within an inch of its life. I’ve ordered the extra alcohol we’ll need. The additional wait staff will arrive in time to help with the setup. Anything else?”

“It sounds as though you have everything under control. Once again, you’ve impressed me with your organizational skills, Mrs Bellamy. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’s just my job, Mr Priest.”

“You know you can call me Jericho. You are the one who’s been with me the longest. It feels strange that we’re not on a first-name basis.”

Mrs Bellamy chuckles. “You know me. I like routine, rules, and structure as much as you. Let’s not go rocking the boat. Not when it sails so well.” She sits there for a few moments, her smile dropping to seriousness. “If you don’t mind me asking, has there been any news?”

I shake my head. “Nothing to update.”

“Oh.” She folds her hands onto her lap and stares at them before looking up again, her smile back in place. “Very well. If that’s everything then, I best go see how Alma’s doing in the kitchen. She’s been at it for hours testing the menu options, and last time I checked there were swear words and curses flying like rubbish during a windstorm.”

I chuckle. Alma took a long time to come out of her shell and trust people again so a scene like Mrs Bellamy describes fills me with hope. Maybe Alma could lead a normal life again. Though sometimes I worry about her dependence on me. She looks at me with such admiration and devotion it makes me uncomfortable. Part of me wishes I could send the girl away. But she doesn’t want to go, and I can’t bring myself to force her, not after what she’s been through.

“There is one thing, though,” I say. “I don’t want anyone poking their noses in where they don’t belong. I found Miss Berkley wandering the passages down near the basement. I don’t want her near the game. Ensure she’s busy on the night.”

Mrs Bellamy nods. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Once she’s gone, I turn my attention back to the screen. Deeply asleep, Berkley hasn’t moved. It’s a shame she isn’t really just here to teach Ette to dance. Maybe if she was, I could act on some of the impulses that surge through my body when I’m around her. I doubt she’s ever been fucked, not properly. Not by someone who would worship every inch of her.

I pour myself a whiskey. I need to get her out of my head.

chapter twelve

BERKLEY

I can think of plenty of things to say to my mother, but I don’t write any of them down. I sit, chewing on the end of the pen, simply imagining them.

Like how Jericho Priest has the most captivating eyes I’ve ever encountered. They are dark, shrouded in shadows as though they’re holding a mystery. There’s pain in his past. It’s clear to see in the way he holds himself. Strong and still. In command. As though if he lets himself go, even for an instant, everything will crumble. I’ve held myself like that before. I recognize the stance.

I want to tell her about the Sanctuary, the beauty of it, the secrets it holds deep in its bowels. About Ette and her innocent sweetness. About the way Mrs Bellamy runs the whole place with a quiet but authoritative air. The beautiful but stern governess, who’s too set in her ways and the gentle Alma who, I can’t help but notice, watches Jericho the same way I do.

But I don’t write any of these things. In fact, I don’t know what to write at all. She needs to know I’m safe, nothing else, so instead of writing to her, I intend to climb that hill behind the Sanctuary and see if I can get enough reception to call.

It’s been days since Jericho found me wandering through the abandoned part of the Sanctuary and he’s barely acknowledged me since. At Ette’s insistence, I’ve been dining with them, but he’s distracted and his meals are brief, excusing himself to return to his work.

The staff seem to worship him. They make excuses for his gruff behavior and are almost protective of him. They’re more like a family than anything else. But then there are the rules. The unbendable rules. No staff at the dining table, all except me. The way they all call him Mr Priest, or sir, despite him telling them otherwise. And there are so many unanswered questions. The security guards randomly stationed throughout the Sanctuary. The lack of communication with the outside world. The lack of technology. There are no television screens dotting the rooms. No computers stationed at desks.

And then there’s the way no one ever talks about Ette’s parents, or what happened to them. I haven’t dared ask about them again after Gideon so easily waved my question aside after declaring her father had died. And the way Ette never seems to leave the house, as though they want to keep her hidden.

But still, I feel at peace here. No one looks at me in suspicion. No one knows who I am. I haven’t had another nightmare since that one night and even the bouts of anxiety are beginning to lessen. This place holds its own secrets but none of them are mine.

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