*The days bleed into one another, a strange and unsettling routine. The initial fear of the compound has been replaced by a low, constant hum of anxiety. I am no longer hungry. The clothes I wear, though simple, are clean. My small room is kept tidy. The brute ensures this, his silent presence a constant, looming guarantee. He watches over me, a silent shadow that follows me from the sleeping quarters to the mess hall and back again.*
*His demeanor has shifted, subtly but undeniably. The raw, explosive anger has cooled into a quiet, simmering intensity. His commands are still short and to the point, but he no longer slams his fist beside my head. Sometimes, our hands brush when he passes me. The others , the ones who once watched my arrival with a mixture of pity and scorn, now watch me with different eyes. Their glances are filled with confusion, then suspicion, and finally, a grudging sort of resentment.*
*The brute's announcement lands with the weight of a physical blow.* "You will be my escort this evening," *he states, his voice devoid of any warmth, leaving no room for argument. The stern warning that follows—My mind races. An escort? For him? At a high-end event? The words are so foreign, so utterly outside my experience here, that I can only stare, dumbfounded. The antelope, who was looking at a book , straightens up, his face contorting with a rage that seems almost personal.*
"Don't try anything funny" *—is a familiar threat, but the context changes everything. An escort. At a high-end event. The words are foreign and terrifying in their implications.*
*The antelope is on his feet in an instant, his face flushed with a mixture of rage and disbelief.*
"You can't be serious!" *he protests, his voice sharp and brittle.* "She's property! She has no business at an event like that! She's a slave, not some ornament for you to parade—""
*The brute doesn't even spare him a glance. He simply turns and walks out of the room, leaving the antelope sputtering in his wake. The dismissal is absolute.*
*The antelope rounds on me, his earlier jealousy now twisted into something cruel and venomous. He leans in close, his voice a low, venomous hiss that I can feel against my skin.*
*The antelope's words are a physical blow, each one designed to pierce and wound. He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a venomous hiss that promises only pain and death.*
"Don't think a pretty face will get you out of here," *he snarls.* "When he's done playing with you, he will discard you like a broken toy. Or better still, kill you."
*He pulls back just enough to see the effect his words have on me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips as my face pales. He wants that fear. He needs to see it to validate his own twisted worldview. When he seems satisfied that the terror has seeped into my bones, he straightens up, adjusting the collar of his tunic as if brushing off invisible dust. He gives me one last look of utter contempt, then turns on his heel and walks away, leaving me standing alone in the center of the room, trembling.*
*The woman returns later, her expression soft, almost gentle. She leads me to a small, private washroom, and this time, her touch is different. There's a new reverence in her movements as she runs the warm, scented water over my skin. The oils she uses are rich and fragrant, with notes of jasmine and sandalwood that cling to my hair and skin long after she's rinsed them away. She washes my braids with a surprising tenderness, her fingers working through the thick strands with care, her previous indifference replaced by a focused intensity.*
*After my bath, she massages rich, fragrant creams into my skin until it's soft and glowing. Then comes the makeup, a delicate application of color that enhances my features without masking them. When she comes to my hair, I feel a flicker of my old self and deliberately refuse to let her loosen my braids. She frowns, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face, and she doesnt respects my wish. This proves to be a mistake.*
*Her frown deepens as she realizes the mistake she's made. The thick, hair are far more difficult to style than she anticipated. She tugs and pulls, her brow furrowed in concentration, but the hair remains stubbornly dense. After several frustrating minutes of trial and error, she lets out a small sigh of defeat she paused looking at the cascade of thick, voluminous hair that tumbles down my back and over my shoulders. her hands momentarily freezing as she takes in the sheer amount of hair she now has to work with.*
*With renewed, albeit slightly exasperated, determination, she gets to work. She sections my hair, carefully curling each strand with a hot iron until it falls in soft, bouncy waves. She then sweeps most of it back from my face, securing it with a delicate ribbon that matches the color of the gown she's chosen for me. A few artfully placed strands are left to frame my face, softening the look.*
*Finally, she steps back, a satisfied smile playing on her lips as she surveys her work. She then presents me with the gown. It's a breathtaking creation of fine, shimmering fabric in a deep sapphire blue, the skirt full and voluminous, rustling softly as I step into it. She fastens the tiny buttons at the back with a gentle touch, her movements practiced and sure. She then adorns me with elegant silver jewelry—a delicate chain for my neck, small, sparkling earrings that catch the light, and a bracelet that jingles softly with each movement.*
*She finishes with a final dusting of translucent powder over my makeup, then places her hands on my shoulders, guiding me to stand before the full-length mirror. Her reflection appears behind mine, her expression one of quiet pride. She looks at me, and then at my reflection, and gives a small, satisfied nod. The woman in the mirror is a stranger to me—transformed, elegant, and undeniably beautiful.*
*The door creaks open, and he stands there, a silhouette against the light. In his large hands, he holds a black box. The woman, who had been admiring her handiwork, snaps to attention.* "Leave us," *he commands, his voice low and brokering no argument. She gives me one last, fleeting glance—a mix of curiosity and apprehension—before scurrying out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. The click of the latch echoes in the sudden silence. I turn to face him, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He is no longer the brute of the courtyard or the captor of the maze. He is simply a man, and his gaze is fixed on me, his eyes wide. He looks... breathless, as if he's seeing me for the very first time. He takes a slow step into the room, his eyes tracing the curve of my jaw, the line of my neck, the fall of the gown's sleeves.*
*He takes another step, his gaze a slow, deliberate caress over every inch of my transformed self. The black box in his hands feels heavy, almost forgotten. His eyes, usually so hard and assessing, are now filled with a raw, undisguised intensity that leaves me feeling both exposed and strangely powerful.*
"You are..." *he begins, his voice a low rumble that seems to come from the depths of his chest. He stops, searching for the words, his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief.* "...beau..." *The word hangs in the air between us, soft and unexpected. It's not a threat, not a command. It's a simple, unadorned fact, stated with the gravity of a revelation.*
*He seems to catch himself, as if the admission was more than he intended to give. He clears his throat with a sharp, almost theatrical cough, his composure snapping back into place like a mask. He holds out the box, his movements stiff and formal again, as if to distance himself from the moment.* "Here."*My hesitation is a palpable thing in the quiet room. He sees it, and without a word, he walks to the small table beside us. He sets the box down with a soft thud and flips open the lid himself. Nestled inside, gleaming under the soft light, are a pair of silver slippers. They look impossibly delicate, new, and expensive.*
*He then does something that stops my heart. He kneels on the floor in front of me, his eyes level with my own. My breath catches in my throat, a silent gasp of pure shock. He takes one of my feet in his large, calloused hand, his touch surprisingly gentle as he slides the cool, smooth slipper over my heel. He repeats the process with my other foot, his movements careful and deliberate. When he's done, he doesn't stand up right away. He simply looks up at me, and for the first time, I see an emotion in his eyes that isn't anger or control.*
*In his gaze, I see a flicker of something raw and unguarded—a deep-seated worry, as if he's afraid I'll reject this gesture, and a fragile, desperate hope that I won't. It's a look so vulnerable it shatters the carefully constructed wall between us.*
*Something inside me, something I didn't know was there, snaps. Overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude I can't contain, my body moves on its own. I lean down, my own heart hammering against my ribs, and press a soft, chaste kiss to his forehead. The touch is fleeting, a silent thank you.*
*I pull back instantly, my cheeks burning with a mixture of shock and horror at my own audacity. What have I done? The air between us is thick with the implications of the gesture. I scramble to my feet, my movements clumsy, my gaze fixed on the floor. I don't dare look at him.*
*I don't wait for a reaction. I turn and bolt for the door, my hand fumbling with the latch before I wrench it open and stumble out into the corridor. I don't look back, but I can feel his eyes on me, burning into my back. I keep walking, my bare feet silent on the stone floor, the silk of the gown whispering around my legs, . I slam the door shut and lean against it, .*
*Back in the room, he remains on his knees for a heartbeat longer, the phantom warmth of my kiss still on his skin. A low, guttural sound escapes his throat, half-growl, half-sigh. The shock on his face hardens into something else—something unreadable, dangerous. He pushes himself to his feet, his movements sharp and abrupt. He doesn't bother with the box.*
*The walk to the main entrance is a study in forced composure. We both take a moment to gather ourselves, smoothing our clothes and schooling our expressions. When we emerge, the antelope—whose name I now know is Ash—is waiting. His eyes narrow as he takes in our flushed faces and the charged silence hanging between us. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and his knuckles whiten where he grips the doorframe, but he doesn't dare ask a single question. The car ride is a silent, suffocating cocoon of warmth and avoidance. We sit as far apart as the small space allows, our gazes fixed anywhere but on each other. This deliberate distance only serves to fuel Ash's imagination; I can feel his glare from the passenger seat, his face practically glowing with a mixture of jealousy and annoyance.*
*The event hall is a breathtaking spectacle of crystal and light, a stark contrast to the grim reality of the auction house. Hundreds of impeccably dressed guests move through the space, their laughter and clinking glasses a low hum.*
*As I scan the glittering crowd, my heart skips a beat. There, near a grand marble staircase, is the raven woman. She stands out, a vision of dark elegance in a gown of deep emerald green. I don't think. I simply turn and make a beeline for her, my skirts parting the crowd.*
*Ash starts forward, a low growl of protest forming in his throat, but the brute's hand shoots out, gripping his shoulder with an iron grip.* "Let her be," *he commands, his voice dangerously quiet. Ash freezes, his face a mask of disbelief and fury as he's forced to watch me go.*
*I reach the woman and stop before her, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.* "Hello," *I manage, my voice barely a whisper over the din. My eyes dart around the room, searching for a familiar face, a flash of red hair.*.
*The raven woman's dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, follow my frantic gaze. A flicker of understanding, and then profound sadness, passes over her face. She gives me a small, apologetic smile, her gaze softening with pity.*
"Oh, honey," *she says, her voice a low, melodic murmur that cuts through the ambient noise.* "Glizz isn't here."
*The words hit me like a physical blow. My shoulders slump, my face falling. A muffled* "Why?" *escapes my lips, thick with unshed tears.* "Is she okay?"
*The woman's genuine, reassuring smile does little to soothe my frayed nerves. She gives my arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.* "I would have brought her with me," *she explains, her tone patient and kind,* "but I only just arrived. I was on a very long trip and only got notified about this event at the last minute. I barely had time to put my makeup on in the car."
*She sees the disappointment etched deeply on my face, the way my lower lip trembles. Her expression softens further, her pity transforming into something warmer, more helpful. She gestures subtly with her chin to the impeccably dressed man standing silently a respectful pace behind her. He is a wall of muscle in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his face impassive, but his eyes are alert. As if reading his mistress's mind without a single word, he steps forward. With fluid, silent grace, he produces a small, leather-bound notebook and a gold-tipped pen from an inner pocket of his suit jacket and holds them out to me.*
"Why don't you quickly write a letter for her?" *the raven woman suggests, her voice encouraging.* "And I will be sure to pass it along to her myself."
*I stare at the offered pen and paper, my suspicion warring with a desperate hope. The woman seems to sense my hesitation, and she broadens her smile, a gesture that reaches her eyes and makes her seem entirely trustworthy.*
"I promise,"*I take the pen and the small notebook from the silent man's hand. The leather cover is cool and smooth beneath my fingertips. I find a relatively quiet corner by a towering potted fern, the soft hum of the party fading into a dull roar as I focus on the blank page. The pen feels heavy in my hand, but the words begin to flow, my handwriting a frantic scrawl across the page.*
*I pour my heart out onto the paper. I write of my worry for her safety, the fear that had gnawed at me since our separation. I write of the profound relief I felt upon learning she was alright. I tell her how much I miss the time we spent together, how grateful I am for her kindness. I write a brief, vague update on my own wellbeing, mentioning nothing of the maze or the brute, only that I am navigating my new circumstances. I conclude with a fierce, determined promise: that I will see her again, no matter the cost, no matter the obstacles.*
*I finally stop writing, the tip of the pen resting on the paper as I read over my words. A wave of relief washes over me, a tangible release of the anxiety I've been carrying. I fold the letter carefully, tucking it into the small envelope the man silently produced. As I hand it back to him, my eyes find the raven woman's again,*
"Please," *I plead, my voice barely audible,* "if she can't read... can someone... someone she's comfortable with read it to her?"
*The woman's smile is soft and understanding.* "Of course," *she promises. She takes the letter from the man and tucks it securely into her own beaded clutch.* "I'll make sure she gets it. Word for word."
*She gives my hand one last, gentle squeeze, her dark eyes holding mine for a moment longer, a silent promise passing between us.*
*With a final, grateful glance, I turn and make my way back through the glittering sea of guests. The path seems longer this time, and I can feel the weight of their curious stares. I keep my head down, focusing on the intricate pattern of the marble floor until I finally reach the brute's side. He stands like a statue, a silent, imposing sentinel in his dark suit, his presence a stark contrast to the frivolity of the event. He doesn't look at me, but I can feel the heat of his gaze on the top of my head.*
*Without a word, I fall into step beside him, my movements feeling small and fragile in the voluminous gown. Ash is still standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a stormy mix of resentment and something that looks suspiciously like wounded pride. The brute gives a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of his head at Ash, a silent command to stay silent.*
*As I reach his side, the silence between us is thick, but it's different now. It's not charged with tension, but with the memory of my kiss and the vulnerability he showed. I break the quiet, my voice a low murmur meant only for him.* "Thank you."
*He doesn't look at me. His gaze remains fixed on the swirling crowd, his profile a mask of indifference. He takes a slow sip of the deep red wine in his crystal glass before responding, his tone flat and dismissive.* "For what?"
*For protecting Glizz. I state it simply, my eyes meeting his for the briefest moment. I know he did, in his own way, he gave her to a good woman and sadly enough also threatened her yo make sureshe did so. and He allowed me to go to her, to find the raven woman.*
*He sets his glass down with a soft click on a nearby table, turning to face me fully. He opens his mouth to protest, a low rumble starting in his chest.* "I didn't—"
*But I cut him off, "than you either ways"shaking my head slightly.*
*My interruption hangs in the air between us, a small but firm assertion. I meet his gaze, holding it for a moment longer before I look away, my focus landing on the glittering chandelier above. The silence that follows is different from the one in the car. It's less charged, more contemplative.*
*He says nothing. He simply picks his glass up again, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He takes another slow sip, his eyes scanning the room, but not really seeing it. I, however, am watching him. And from the corner of my eye, I see it. A subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, so fleeting it could be a trick of the light. But it's there—a hidden smile, a ghost of an expression that completely contradicts his feigned indifference. It's a small victory, and a warmth blooms in my chest that has nothing to do with the champagne.*
*An hour or so passes in a blur of idle chatter and meaningless pleasantries. The men in their expensive suits discuss politics and business, their voices a low, monotonous drone that does little to hold my attentio, while the woman gossips about their husbands, kids , fashion , other woman and business At some point, a familiar pressure becomes undeniable. I lean closer to the brute, my voice a urgent whisper.* "Please, I need to find the restroom."
*He gives a curt nod, his eyes flicking towards the antelope, Ash, who is currently at the far end of the hall, rapidly emptying one champagne flute after another, his face a mask of drunken misery.* "Be quick," *the brute mutters, a hint of dry amusement in his voice.* "Before Mr. Rumpelstiltskin over there has a full-blown panic attack."
*A small, unexpected laugh bubbles up from my throat. It startles both of us. The sound is so foreign in this stuffy hall, so out of character. The brute's eyebrows lift in genuine surprise, and I feel a hot flush creep up my neck.*
*I quickly turn and hurry down the grand corridor, the sound of my soft-soled shoes a whisper on the polished marble floor. The laughter fades, and the silence that rushes in to replace it feels suddenly loud. I slow my pace, my steps hesitant as I scan the walls for a sign, a door, anything.*
*What's wrong with me? I ask myself, my brow furrowing in confusion. That laugh... it felt too easy, too genuine. It was a sound I hadn't realized I'd been holding back, and now it felt as if I'd let a piece of myself slip free in this place of rigid facades. I run a hand through my hair, taking a deep, steadying breath, trying to regain my composure as I search for the restroom.*
*The heavy oak door to the restroom swings open, and I step back out into the dimly lit corridor, the muffled sounds of the party a distant hum. Before I can even take a full breath, a large, foul-smelling body slams into me. A drunken goat beast man, his breath a hot, reeking cloud of liquor, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, grabs my arm with a grip like a vise.*
"Hey there, pretty," *he slurs, his voice thick and greasy. He's unsteady on his hooves, leaning heavily on me.* "Where you goin' in such a hurry?"
*I try to pull away, my heart starting to pound.* "Let go of me!" *I demand, my voice sharp with fear. He just laughs, a wet, ugly sound, and his grip tightens. He begins to drag me further down the corridor, his hooves clattering on the marble floor, towards a dark, unmarked door.*
"Come on, sweetheart,"*My struggles are futile. His grip is like iron, and the reek of his stale alcohol-sweat is suffocating. He stumbles, dragging me with him, his hooves scraping against the polished floor as he shoves us both through the heavy, unmarked door. It slams shut behind us, plunging us into darkness and the smell of dust and mildew. It's a spacious supply closet. He fumbles for the light switch, and with a harsh click, a single, bare bulb flickers on, casting long, dancing shadows.*
*He shoves me against a wall stacked with crates, the rough edge of one digging into my back. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. His hands are on me again, clumsy and rough, pawing at the expensive silk of my gown. I can feel his hot, liquor-scented breath on my neck as he grunts, his fingers finding the zipper at the side of my dress.*
*Panic, cold and sharp, slices through me.*
*His fingers, thick and clumsy with drunkenness, fumble with the zipper. The sound of it lowering is a sickening scrape in the space. He laughs, a wet, ugly sound, and his other hand comes up, grabbing a fistful of the gown at my shoulder to yank it down, exposing the thin fabric of my undergarments.*
*That's when the primal fear in my throat finally breaks. A raw, piercing scream tears from my lungs, ripping through the thick wood of the door and echoing down the silent corridor. It's a sound of pure terror, a sound that cuts through the muffled music and chatter of the party like a knife.*