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Jane woke up to a heavy stillness, the kind of silence that wasn't peaceful but oppressive. Her body felt like it had been replaced overnight—every muscle sore, every bone aching, her skin tender where it had been struck. She moved slightly, and the pain pulsed through her like a fresh reminder.
She lay there staring at the ceiling, afraid to breathe too loudly, afraid that the sound of her own movement might summon him. Memories from yesterday clawed at her—hours of running through the maze, the burning in her legs, the rough hands dragging her back, and then… the punishment. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears still slid out silently.
The sharp click of the door handle jolted her upright. Fear flooded her chest. Her hands gripped the sheets, her breath hitched, and her eyes darted to the door like prey spotting its predator.
The door opened, but instead of the cold, towering frame of Alexander, a man in white stepped in. His presence was… different. Calm. Controlled. The white coat hung loosely over his shoulders, and a stethoscope glinted under the morning light.
"Miss Jane?" His voice was warm, steady. "I'm Doctor Clinton."
Her tense shoulders eased—only slightly—but she stayed silent, watching him like he might still be dangerous.
He moved closer, and when he saw the state of her skin—angry red marks, bruises blooming in dark colors—his face tightened with pity. "Good God…" he murmured, almost under his breath. "What happened to you?"
Jane's eyes burned, and her lips trembled. She didn't answer, but her body shook in tiny waves, like her fear had soaked so deep it couldn't be stopped.
"Alright," he said gently, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "Let me take care of those wounds."
He opened a small medical case, and the faint scent of antiseptic filled the air. As he dabbed the ointment over her raw skin, she flinched at the cold touch and the sting that followed.
"I'll be careful," Clinton reassured her. His voice was almost too kind for this house. "I'm a good friend of Alexander's. I'll… talk to him."
Jane let out a bitter, almost silent laugh. Talk to him? As if that monster listens to anyone. But she didn't say it.
"You're really beautiful, you know," Clinton said softly, almost like he was stating a fact he couldn't ignore.
Jane didn't look at him. She stared at the far wall instead, eyes unfocused. Of course she was beautiful—people had told her that her whole life. Tiny, reddish lips that looked as if they'd been painted by hand. Long, curly brown hair that cascaded in soft waves down her back. Her skin—naturally pale—looked even whiter now, fragile as porcelain, and soft enough that even a harsh glance seemed it might bruise her. And yet here she was, beauty marred by fresh welts, still somehow carrying the kind of grace that made people look twice.
When Clinton was done, he packed his things and left without another word, the quiet click of the door behind him sounding almost like a sigh.
Minutes later, the door opened again, but this time it wasn't a doctor's voice that met her. It was deep, commanding—one of Alexander's men.
"Miss, you need to remove your clothes. We have to bathe you."
Jane's eyes widened, and she clutched the blanket tighter around herself. "I'm grown. I can do this myself," she snapped, her voice trembling—not from anger but from humiliation.
They didn't move. "Orders," one of them said simply.
Her protests meant nothing here. The air was thick with the knowledge that her choices had no weight. Eventually, they moved her toward the large en suite bathroom, their movements not unkind but firm, leaving no space for refusal.
The bathwater steamed, and the scent of some expensive lavender soap filled the room. Yet each touch felt like sandpaper against her already sore skin. She winced, bit her lip, tried to block it out, but the pain seeped in anyway.
When it was over, they wrapped her in a thick robe and guided her downstairs. Her body still ached, but her mind was on high alert—each turn of the hallway making her heart leap in case he was there.
When she stepped into the dining room, her eyes darted to the head of the table. Empty.
The relief hit her like a wave. Alexander wasn't there. The monster had gone to work.
She lowered herself into a chair, the smell of fresh bread, coffee, and some rich breakfast dish filling the air. But as soon as her mind replayed yesterday—his voice ordering her punishment, the coldness in his eyes—her stomach twisted.
The silverware gleamed under the morning light. The plate in front of her held perfectly scrambled eggs, golden toast, and fresh fruit. She didn't touch it.
Her appetite had been replaced by a deep, gnawing dread. She wasn't sure when—or if—she'd ever feel hunger again in this place.
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