Captive Beauty

He sways on his feet and rain is coming into the house, making the marble floor shine. I grip the neck of the bottle with one hand, the crystal tumbler in the other. He looks me over, eyes the bottle, and I notice the flashlight he’s holding in his hand. It’s like he only just realizes the door’s open behind him and turns to close it. He’s drunk, I know he is. And if I were smart, I’d take this moment to disappear up the stairs and into my room like I hadn’t been here at all, but I’m not that smart, so I continue to stand there until he turns around to face me again.

“It’s late,” he mutters, his voice a low, deep grumble. “What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Where has he been this time of night? In this rain? “What are you doing?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Where are your shoes?”

He looks down like he’s just realized he isn’t wearing any, then looks up at me, and for a split second, I see something strange. Something familiar. Vulnerable. Like all of a sudden, he’s a little kid. A lost little kid. But then he gives his head a shake, turns toward one of the closed doors of the house, digs into his pocket.

“Go to bed. Don’t wander the house at night.” He takes out a ring of keys.

“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” I say to his back.

He stops, but doesn’t turn. A moment later, I hear the key slide into the lock. “Maybe you should be.” He goes into the dark room. Doesn’t switch on a light. Doesn’t close the door. If he closed the door, perhaps I would have gone up to bed, like he said. But he doesn’t, and so I take a few steps toward it, curious about the room. Curious about him.

I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the darker room. I find him sitting on the leather couch, watch him bring a bottle of something to his lips. “You probably shouldn’t drink any more tonight,” I hazard, setting my own pilfered bottle and tumbler on the corner of the huge desk.

He looks up at me, his eyes bright and shining in the darkness, and purposefully takes another sip.

“Go to bed, Cilla.”

I walk to him, I don’t know why, but I do.

No, I know why. It’s what I saw in his eyes a few minutes ago. It’s like something in me recognizes it, recognizes that part of him. Feels somehow kindred to it.

I sit on the couch, not close enough to touch, and notice the muddy prints he’s left on the animal hide area rug beneath my feet.

“Where were you?” I ask.

He turns to me. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“So are you. Why were you outside without your shoes on? Without a coat?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

I look around at the dark walls. They seem to be papered in black and a bookshelf lines two of them. Two windows draped with heavy curtains take up the one behind his chair and there’s a painting I can’t quite make out between them. A laptop sits on top of the desk, and next to it, a cell phone.

When I face him, he’s watching me. “If you were smart, you’d run to your room, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Again. It’s disarming, but I shrug it off and study his eyes. “Would I be safe there?”

He thinks about this for a while before he finally replies. “No.”

His single word answer is deliberate and it makes a chill run along my spine. He’s being honest though. I think he’s always been honest with me.

We sit like this for what seems like an eternity until he closes his eyes and leans his head back.

“Does it mean you believe in ghosts?” he asks, confusing me.

“What?”

He turns his head, meets my gaze. “You said earlier you’re not afraid of ghosts. Does that mean you believe in them?”

“I…It’s just something I said.”

“You waste words.”

I’m upset by this, by his disapproval. He rises to his feet and stands over me, waiting for me to do the same, I presume. I get up. He sweeps his arm toward the door and I go. The keys hang in the lock, and the door remains open as we go upstairs, him following close behind me. When I get to my room, I reach for the doorknob, but he puts his hand over mine. He’s so close, I can smell him, the whiskey on his breath, the rain on his clothes, the man beneath. I turn my head a little. His is bowed, close, dark eyes burning into me.

“My room,” he grunts. “Tonight, you’ll sleep in my bed.”

This makes my belly flutter, my heart race. Why? Why does he want me in his bed? Him fucking me is messing with me already. Why does he want me in his bed too?