“Help!” There was no door in the room to bang upon, the frantic Omega scrambling off the floor in search of a way out. All the walls were smooth, unchanging, and icy to the touch. “Please, anyone. HELP ME! I need to get back to my mother!”
She banged on the reflective surface, she begged.
Silence.
Growing colder by the second, her teeth began to chatter. Arms tight around her middle, she understood there were only two options: the odd sunken bed full of smelly bits of fur, or the exposed tub that had miraculously begun filling itself.
Twirling steam rose from the surface, beckoning her to step into the heated water and find comfort.
Eat, the Alpha had ordered. Then bathe, he had said.
Do these things or suffer another lesson.
Crying in earnest, her attention went to the table.
Legs heavy enough to be weighted with sand, carried her to it. Her naked rear set upon an embroidered cushion. It was a pretty chair, one that could have been stolen from one of the finer houses in her settlement. Morgaine would have preferred the polished wooden seats that her mother had provided in their simple cottage—just as she would have preferred the smell of fresh baked bread to the rich dishes lain out before her.
The tears had dried up as she looked over the spread, or maybe they had frozen on her cheeks. Even the panic seemed to have grown ice cold.
Numb, inside and out, she made herself reach out for the nearest piece of food. A bite of sweet sliced fruit hit her tongue, but all she could think of was blood and parts of a man that had drawn that blood.
Ugly parts.
Parts that she’d witnessed just moments ago spurting grotesque fluid on the face of that dead girl.
Morgaine threw up every bite.
Less concerned about her body’s rejection of the food, and more concerned about looming punishment, she forced her head up and looked around like a spooked animal for the predator she knew was hiding in the shadows.
Except this room had no shadows. That odd glowing light came from everywhere and illuminated everything.
Certain she would be punished for the mess she’d made, Morgaine gave up. It was as if something else controlled her limbs, some sort of self-preservation forcing her to act. She stood, took a beleaguered step forward, and then another one.
The toilet was there.
First she vomited into it. Then, glassy eyed, she’d sat on the rim and tried to pee.
She couldn’t squeeze out a drop.
The lights dimmed.
Urine splattered inside the bowl, as if a silent voice had commanded and her body had obeyed.
She staggered from her throne to the steaming tub.
Like the cushion and fur-filled sleeping pit, the tub was sunken into the ground and ornately decorated. An array of blue tiles, the patterns of flowers vining through the mosaic, warm soothing water...
Morgaine knew it was a lie.
Not one thing in this room had offered comfort in any measure: not the bed, not the food, not the strange toilet or this steaming pool.
The water began to swirl and offer up frothy bubbles.
Too cold to be properly startled, her only reaction was the insignificant widening of her eyes.
Rooms were supposed to have doors.
Tubs should not fill themselves.