Sold To The Monster: My Silent Nightmare

Kole.

She formed the name in her mind, a shield against the darkness.

Come back.

Eva Bowen ran her fingers along the edge of the Egyptian cotton sheet. She didn't just touch it; she inspected it with the sensitivity of a bomb disposal technician.

One wrinkle.

It was barely visible, a hairline fracture in the pristine white landscape of the master bed, but it was there.

She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the silent room. She pointed at the corner.

The new maid, a girl named Clara whose hands hadn't stopped shaking since orientation, looked at the bed and then back at Eva.

"It looks fine," Clara whispered, her voice cracking. "Please. My back is killing me. If we redo it again, we'll be late for the west wing."

Eva didn't blink. She shook her head once, a precise, mechanical movement. She raised a hand and pointed a slender finger toward the ceiling corner.

The red light of the camera blinked back at them. A silent, unblinking eye.

Clara followed the gesture. Her face paled, draining of what little color the Crawford estate hadn't already sucked out of her.

"I... I didn't see it," Clara stammered. She grabbed the corner of the sheet, her knuckles white.

Eva walked to the floor-to-ceiling window while the girl scrambled to fix the mistake. She adjusted the heavy velvet curtain, ensuring the gap was exactly two inches wide.

Through the thick, bulletproof glass, the iron gates of the Crawford Estate loomed in the distance. They were black teeth biting into the grey sky.

Five years.

Her hand drifted to her pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the old, dented pocket watch hidden deep inside her apron. The metal was warm against her hip.

One more day.

The contract review was tomorrow.

The vibration of heavy footsteps in the hallway reached her before the sound did. It traveled through the floorboards, up through the soles of her cheap service shoes, and settled as a cold knot in her stomach.

Eva stiffened. Her spine locked into a straight line. It was a physiological response she couldn't control, conditioned over eighteen hundred days of terror.

Clara was still fussing with the pillow, muttering under her breath about "psychotic standards."

Eva spun around. She brought a finger to her lips, her eyes widening, hardening into steel. Shut up.

The double doors flew open. They didn't just open; they slammed against the stoppers with a violence that made the crystal chandelier tremble.

Alek Crawford walked in.

He brought the winter air with him, clinging to his wool coat, mixed with the acrid scent of expensive cigars and old whiskey. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and imposing, taking up too much oxygen in the room.

Clara jumped. Her elbow knocked into the silver water bucket on the nightstand.

It happened in slow motion. The bucket tipped. The water sloshed out in a clear, devastating arc.

It landed on the cuff of Alek's bespoke charcoal trousers.

The room went vacuum-silent.

Alek stopped mid-stride. He looked down at his pant leg, the dark fabric turning black with moisture. He stared at it for a second, then two. When he looked up, his eyes were void of anything human.

Clara began to sob. It was a high, thin sound.

Eva moved. She dropped to her knees before her brain even processed the command. She pulled a cloth from her apron, her hands moving frantically to dab at the hem of his pants.

She had to draw the fire. If he focused on her, the girl might survive the shift.

Alek's hand shot out.

He grabbed Eva's wrist. His grip was a vice, his fingers digging into the delicate tendons until she felt them grinding against bone. He yanked her hand away from his leg.

"Get out," Alek said. His voice was low, a rumble of thunder that hadn't yet broken.

He wasn't looking at Eva. He was looking at Clara.

Two men in black suits appeared in the doorway. Alek jerked his chin toward the sobbing girl. They moved instantly, flanking her and guiding her out.

The doors clicked shut. The sound was final.

Eva was still on her knees. Alek didn't let go of her wrist. He pulled, forcing her to stand, dragging her into his personal space.

"Always the martyr," he sneered, looking down at her. "Do you think saving her makes you holy, Eva?"

Eva kept her head down. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. Silence. Just silence.

Alek released her wrist only to cup her chin. His fingers were rough, callous pads pressing into her jaw. He forced her head up.

"Look at me."

She tried to focus on his nose, his forehead, anywhere but the eyes. But he squeezed harder, bruising the skin.

She met his gaze. His irises were dark, swirling with a chaotic mix of exhaustion and cruelty.

"I see the fear," he whispered, leaning closer. "It's the only honest thing about you."

He let his hand slide down her throat. His thumb rested over her pulse point. Her heart hammered against his touch, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone.

"Tomorrow is the review," he said softly. "You think you're walking out of here?"

Eva stopped breathing. Her lungs burned for air, but she held it.

"Jed Bowen sold you for a seat in the Senate," Alek said, his voice dropping to a terrifying intimacy. "He sold you to cover his debts. Do you think a piece of paper matters to men like us?"

He felt her tremble. A corner of his mouth ticked up.

He released her abruptly. Eva stumbled back, her hip colliding with the mahogany bedpost. Pain radiated down her leg, sharp and hot.

Alek turned his back on her, walking toward the liquor cabinet.

"I'm going to take everything owed to me," he said to the glass decanter. "With interest."

Eva straightened her apron. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to clasp them together. She bowed toward his back, a perfect, submissive angle.

He didn't turn around. He just poured the amber liquid, the clink of glass on glass echoing like a gunshot.

Eva backed out of the room. She kept her eyes on the floor until she was in the hallway.

She pulled the heavy doors shut. Her legs gave out. She leaned against the wall, sliding down just an inch before catching herself. She gasped, sucking in air as if she had been underwater for minutes.

"Careful."

The voice was soft, refined.

Arthur Sterling, the head butler, stood a few feet away. He was holding a silver tray. His face was impassive, but his eyes held a flicker of something that might have been pity.

He reached into his pocket and extended a clean, white handkerchief.

"Wipe your face, Miss Bowen," Arthur said quietly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Eva took the cloth. She hadn't realized she was sweating. Cold dampness coated her forehead.

"Be careful tonight," Arthur added, stepping past her toward the master suite. " The mood is... volatile."

Eva clutched the handkerchief. She looked toward the window at the end of the hall. Rain was starting to lash against the glass, blurring the world outside.