Lily's eyes snapped open.
A gasp tore from her throat as she jerked upright, hands flying to her stomach, her ribs, searching for the damage.
The beating. Those men. She remembered the boots connecting with her sides, the fist that knocked the wind from her lungs.
Nothing.
Her fingers traced over smooth skin. Pale. Too pale. The color of skim milk or bone china held up to lamplight. No bruises purpled the surface. No cuts split the flesh. Perfect and unblemished, as if the violence had never touched her at all.
Wrong. Something felt profoundly wrong.
The scent hit her next. Lilac and sandalwood, heavy in the air like incense. Foreign. Not the familiar smell of her cramped apartment with its lingering turpentine and coffee stains.
Lily's gaze swept the room.
Four-poster bed. Expensive furniture. Walls painted a deep burgundy. Crown molding that belonged in a mansion, not a low income apartment.
Panic squeezed her chest.
She kicked at the sheets tangled around her legs. They both felt and looked smooth as well as expensive. Her naked skin slid against the fabric as she scrambled backwards. The mattress edge caught her off-balance and she pitched sideways, tumbling from the bed in a graceless heap.
Her shoulder connected with hardwood.
There was no pain.
The bedroom door swung open.
Lily shoved hair from her face, black strands sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes quickly darted up.
The man from the gallery.
Same tall frame. Same wealthy attire. Same unnervingly intense presence that had made her skin crawl when he'd studied her paintings.
"What the hell did you do to me?"
She snatched at the fallen sheets, dragging them against her nude body. The fabric bunched awkwardly but provided cover.
Amusement flickered across his features. Not cruel, just entertained. As if her panic was a mildly interesting development rather than a crisis.
He strode past her to the closet and pulled the doors wide. Garments hung in neat rows. Black mostly, with splashes of deep purple and crimson. Gothic cuts and modern lines.
Her aesthetic perfectly captured by someone who shouldn't know her preferences at all.
"I took the liberty of acquiring you a new wardrobe."
His accent was something similar to European, refined. It was hard for her to place it though, she had never been very experienced with languages outside of Creole, French, and English.
"Your previous clothing was ruined when you soiled them on the way here."
Her eyes darted away, staring hard at the polished wooden floor.
"I don't remember—"
She stopped as her mind came to a horrible conclusion.
"Did you drug me?"
A chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"No, my dear. Nothing so dastardly."
He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold.
"Get dressed. Meet me in the living room. I'll explain everything."
The door clicked shut.
Lily stared at the space he'd vacated. Polite. Formal. He'd given her privacy without her needing to demand it. The observation registered despite her mounting terror.
She dropped the sheet and grabbed clothes from the closet. Black long-sleeve shirt. Black skirt that fell to her knees. Boots with buckles that her fingers fumbled over twice before managing the clasps.
The mirror on the wall caught her reflection as she straightened.
Lily froze.
That face. Those features. Hers but not hers.
The pallor wasn't just shock or illness. Her skin had taken on a quality like marble, smooth and cool, almost like a wax statue.
She pressed fingers to her forehead.
Cold.
Not feverish. Not clammy with sweat. Just cold. The temperature of something that had been left in a refrigerator overnight.
Her reflection stared back with eyes that seemed too bright, too aware. Every instinct screamed that the woman in the mirror was different. Changed. Transformed into something she couldn't name but recognized on a primal level.
She didn't understand why or how, but everything was different now.
***
Lily stepped into the living room.
The space sprawled before her, all hardwood floors and tasteful furniture that probably cost more than she'd had ever made in her entire life.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, revealing a cityscape glittering below.
Tall buildings. Sprawling lights. Definitely not New Orleans.
The strange man sat in a leather chair near the window, motionless. His gaze fixed on the view outside, silhouette framed against the glass like a portrait from a gothic romance painting.
She crossed her arms and made a sharp, disgruntled noise in the back of her throat.
He turned. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes swept over her, head to toe, before a smile curved his mouth. Pleased. She had the unpleasant feeling that he was evaluating her with some kind of unknown criteria.
"Start talking. Right now. Before I call the police."
Empty threat. She'd searched the bedroom for her phone before leaving. Gone. That was another huge red flag for her. Her anxiety was whispering to her that she was going to be the headline of a new crime mystery episode.
He inclined his head, shifting in the chair to give her his full attention.
"What was the last thing you truly remember?"
"Being attacked."
The words came out clipped.
"Pain. Then nothing."
She held her ground, arms still crossed, weight balanced on her back foot. Ready to bolt if he made any sudden moves. Her eyes kept darting to the large door that promised freedom on the other side, if she could only reach it before he reached her.
His relaxed posture and understanding expression didn't ease the tension that tightened the muscles between her shoulder blades.
"Think harder."
His voice remained gentle, patient. Like a father trying to explain a lesson to his child.
"Really focus. What do you remember after the attack?"
"Is this some kind of trick?"
"Humor me."
Lily scowled but closed her eyes and focused.
The alley. Boots connecting with her ribs. Blood on her tongue. Then—
Nothing. A void. No memories bridged the gap between that moment and waking in his bed.
Her eyes snapped open.
"I can't remember because you did something to me."
She gestured sharply at the room.
"Why else would I wake up naked in a stranger's bed? Where the hell am I? This isn't New Orleans."
A chuckle escaped him. He raised both hands, palms out.
"Calm yourself. I have done nothing to violate your modesty. I would not dream of committing such a vile act."
He stood.
Too fast. One moment seated, the next on his feet. No transition between postures.
Lily jerked back a step, eyes wide in surprise.
He crossed the room, this time moving at a normal pace. Exaggerated. Theatrical. As if he'd slowed deliberately after her reaction.
The kitchen occupied an open space adjacent to the living room. He pulled open a pantry door and reached inside.
Then dragged out a man.
Large. Young. Hands bound with thick rope. A wad of cloth stuffed in his mouth, secured with more binding around his head. Tears streaked his face. His body shook as the stranger hauled him across the floor like a sack of grain.
The chair scraped against hardwood as the strange man picked him up, lifting him without any visible effort, and planted him on the seat.
"Perhaps this tasty morsel will jog your memory."
Recognition slammed into Lily.
The leader. The one who'd shoved her into the alley. The one who demanded her money then demanded other things before attacking her violently.
Horror crawled up her spine. Her legs locked, rooting her in place.
"What," her voice cracked, "what the hell is this?"
The bound man's eyes found hers. Wide. Pleading. Snot bubbled from his nose as he tried to scream around the gag. He didn't look tough anymore, just scared and pathetic. Lily was certain now, this strange man was a serial killer of some kind.
The stranger stood behind the chair, one pale hand resting on the leader's shoulder. Casual. As if this were a normal evening activity.
"I saved your life."
His tone remained conversational.
"Though that required certain...measures."
Lily's mind raced. This was insane. The police. She needed to get to a phone. Get help. Get out of here before this lunatic did whatever he planned to do to that man.
Before he did whatever he planned to do to her.
But her feet wouldn't move. And somewhere, in a part of her mind she didn't want to acknowledge, something stirred. Something that looked at the bound man and didn't feel fear or disgust.
Something that felt hungry.