The next morning, Lena woke up feeling surprisingly well-rested, the kind of sleep that felt more like an escape than a necessity. The soft light filtering through the heavy curtains painted the room in muted golds, giving everything a tranquil, almost surreal quality. She slowly stretched, the aches from the previous days still lingering in her limbs but fading away with each movement. The house, as it had been since her arrival, was unnervingly silent.
Curious, she made her way to the kitchen. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the wooden floors as she moved through the vast, empty halls. The smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air, rich and inviting. She didn't remember anyone brewing it, but it was comforting nonetheless. The kitchen was immaculate, the counters cleared, the sink empty—a place of serenity in stark contrast to the chaos that seemed to simmer beneath the surface of everything around her.
Lena poured herself a cup, the steam rising in soft tendrils, and inhaled deeply, the warmth of the liquid a welcome contrast to the chill still clinging to the house. Her gaze wandered over the spotless counters, then to the fridge, where a note was pinned to the door with a magnet.
"Breakfast is in the fridge. Help yourself."
She paused, momentarily taken aback. It was an odd gesture—one she hadn't expected. No one had bothered to wake her, nor had they rushed her out of bed like the brothers would've done. She had no explanation for it, and the lack of their usual domineering presence only added to her unease.
She opened the fridge and found the breakfast, neatly prepared and stored. A perfectly wrapped plate of eggs and toast, the smell of freshly cooked food mingling with the coffee in the air. It was all a little too... normal. Too domestic, given everything she'd endured. She sat down at the kitchen table, the ceramic chair cool against her skin as she unfolded the napkin and dug in slowly, her thoughts scattered.
As she ate, she couldn't help but wonder about their motivations. Why hadn't they woken her up? Why leave her alone? The more she thought about it, the clearer it became—this was a calculated kind of isolation. The brothers weren't the type to show any care or concern. This, however, was something different. They weren't concerned about her, they were confident in their control over her. Leaving her alone was a statement: they didn't need to be present to keep her caged. They were certain that even without being around constantly, they had enough power over her to keep her trapped in this quiet, suffocating space.
Even in silence, they held her captive. Even without constant presence, they were never far from her mind.
It made sense now. It made terrifying, awful sense.
The realization was too much for her to hold onto, and before she could fully process it, the weight of the moment overwhelmed her. Her breath caught, and her vision blurred—tears stinging her eyes, making everything melt into a haze of confusion and panic.
In a daze, she set the fork down, the gentle clink of it against the plate sounding impossibly loud in the heavy silence. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, but everything felt wrong. The room tilted and spun, and as she stared at the plate in front of her, it all became too much.
The cup of coffee, which had been so carefully balanced in her hand just moments ago, slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor with a sharp crack. The sound was deafening, splitting the quiet morning air like a gunshot. She watched, frozen, as the cup shattered into a thousand pieces, the ceramic scattering across the floor like shards of her rapidly disintegrating thoughts.
Her hand trembled as she tried to steady herself, but it was no use. Her vision blurred even more, her eyes misting over with confusion and tears. The world around her shifted, spinning faster than she could keep up with. The room seemed to close in on her, suffocating her with its silence and weight.
Lena's head dropped to the table with a dull thud, the cold wood pressing against her forehead as her body gave way to the wave of dizziness crashing through her. Everything went black at the edges of her consciousness.
She felt the coolness of the wood against her forehead, a brief, fleeting sensation of weightlessness, before everything seemed to tilt in the wrong direction.
Her mind was slipping, the edges of her consciousness beginning to fade into darkness. The sound of footsteps grew louder, echoing through the room, and she tried to focus, tried to lift her head, but her body refused to respond. She blinked slowly, her eyelids feeling like they weighed a thousand pounds. The world was spinning, disorienting and out of control.
Through the haze, she heard a voice. A voice she recognized, though it was too distant, too muffled to fully comprehend. The man from last night—the one who had been kind and charming, his demeanor so disarmingly polite. He was speaking, though she couldn't quite make out his words.
Another set of footsteps followed, and she felt strong hands grip her, lifting her from the table as though she weighed nothing. She couldn't protest, couldn't even try to push them away. Her head lolled back, and she closed her eyes, the light dimming around her.
And then, before the darkness took over completely, she heard him.
"Sleep tight, Little Shadow."
Damien's voice, smooth and dangerous, lingered in the air, and a chill ran down her spine.