9. Raven

Chapter nine

Raven

The walls seem to be closing in on me as I wait. My heart thuds against my chest, my breath trapping occasionally in my throat. The anticipation is killing me.

I woke up today with a resolve. I’m done being stuck in this room. I’m done being locked up in a mansion like some fairytale princess.

Right now, I stand by the door, gripping my bedside lamp in a tight hold. I have been in this mansion long enough to figure out when my meals arrive. From what I know, the guard — whoever it is— comes in thrice.

Since there's no clock here, I use other sensory details to tell time. My first meal comes in the morning, around nine a.m. The second meal comes when the sun is at its brightest and hottest, around one p.m., give or take. And dinner comes in at night, around eight or nine p.m.

For three days, I’ve been thinking of ways to escape. Every plan I came up with was either unreasonable or simply too far-fetched. But last night, while in bed, I came up with one. The plan is simple— ambush him with the lamp, grab his gun, and make a run for it. So here I am, in the early hours of the afternoon, waiting to attack the guard who will bring my lunch.

Will I make it far, considering the other guards spread throughout the mansion and at the gates? I’m not sure, but with the weapon I’ll steal, I should be fine.

Well, at least I’m trying.

I hold my breath as the thought of firing a gun briefly crosses my mind, and I almost falter. I’ve never even held one in my hands before, let alone fired one, but a girl's got to survive.

I’ve seen people do it in movies. It's simple… turn off the safety and pull the trigger thingy… I hope.

Tucking the uncertainties to the back of my mind, I plant my feet and ready myself. As time passes, I get second thoughts, but again, I discard them. Seconds drag into minutes, and then...I hear the familiar footfalls approach the door. I reposition my fingers on the lamp as a surge of adrenaline sweeps my body.

It’s time.

As soon as the door swings open, the guard’s burly figure fills the entrance, and I go for it. I raise the lamp and strike, whipping my hand hard against my target. To my dismay, it crashes onto his shoulder.

The tray of food in his hand scatters its contents all over the floor in a loud crash. My eyes widen at the mess as I hadn’t considered the noise, but I don’t relent and I raise my hand again to smash the lamp against his head this time. The guard, however, instantly regains his footing.

Being the genius that I am, I did not take into consideration the height difference between us. I’m five foot six, and this man is well over six feet. There is no way the lamp would have connected with his head.

My heart slashes in my chest as he grabs my wrist in a firm grip, pressing against my wrist before yanking the lamp off me.

Shit .

His face is angry, boiling even, when I look at it.

Pressing my second palm against his chest, I try to force myself out of his grip, but it’s no use. So much for my survival skills.

The ruckus garners the attention of the other guards, who look on in amusement as the guard pins me in my position. It may be funny to the onlookers, but it is unfortunate for me. I’ve failed yet again.

“You should not have done that,” the guard sneers and roughly flings me on the bed. He shuts the door behind him, and I hear the familiar click.

Huffing in exasperation, I bring a hand to roughly run my fingers down my hair. I failed so miserably.

So this is my life now—a rag doll thrown about wherever Ezra wishes. I instantly shake my head at the thought. This cannot be how I spend the rest of my life.

It's silent again as I let my eyes roam the floor. Marinated chicken breast, salad cream, shaved parmesan, and toasted bread are scattered around the scene. I move to rub my wrist when I notice that it's red and laced with prints from his fingers.

Ugh. What happens if I simply accept my fate? A voice in my head questions. After all, I’m not living badly at the moment. The bed is soft, the food is great, and the clothes… well, the clothes Ezra left for me are nicer than anything I’ve worn in years. Maybe it will not be as horrible as I think it to be.

Seriously, Raven? What about freedom? And everything else…

Not having freedom is the scariest.

Focus, Raven. I scold myself and shake my head to snap out of it.

What is wrong with you? You are not supposed to be settling in.

I’m still in my thoughts when the door opens, and a man in faded clothes comes in to clean the messed-up floor. I ignore his scrunched face and his inaudible whispers as I get up and head to the bathroom. It’s hopeless, anyway.

Trying to make friends with them doesn't work because they're all standoffish, and every person who walks in this room is very different from the last.

I reach the bathroom and take a moment to glance at it…like every time I visit. The tub is a shimmery white enormous basin, overlooking the massive mirror hanging opposite it on the wall. A few feet from the tub, there's a spacious shower stall with floor-to-ceiling glass doors. It's beautiful, I admit, something fit for a mansion.

A deep breath follows my movement as I bend to fill the basin with warm water. When the water is perfect, I pour in lavender-scented bath oil. This and other essentials were brought in a few days after my arrival.

The scent hits me immediately, soothing in a good way. A lady must have picked this scent; that is if there are ladies in this mansion.

After stripping my clothes, I slip into the water, letting out a sigh. The heat wraps around me, melting away the tension in my body. It eases the tightness in my muscles. I let myself relax for a moment and sink deeper into the warmth.

I’ve always had my bath this way, but this, despite my circumstances, feels good, strangely. Like the first break I’ve had in years after working long hours at the hospital. Like a spa day.

That's the only thought I let fill my mind as I slip into slumber. I don’t know how long I spend in the water, but when I wake up from my nap, the water is cold. I get out and throw on a pink nightgown.

Just as I shrug it on, the door bursts open, and Ezra strolls in. Deja vu hits me, memories of the previous day filtering into my head.

What's he doing here? And why the hell can’t he knock?

My questions remain unanswered as I let my eyes involuntarily trail down his body. As opposed to the usual suit or long-sleeved shirt I usually see him wear, he's wearing something else— something that makes my mouth water.

Ugh! I want to kill myself right now for having these thoughts.

But as much as I try to stop my stupid thoughts, it suddenly becomes hard for me to swallow as I take in his grey wife beater, which clings to every inch of his muscles. I can see his toned arms, circled with ink and laced with glints of sweat. The sweat seems to roll down his arms at the pulsing movement of his biceps.

Before I can think of why he's sweating, I'm distracted again, this time by the deep indents that mark the curve of his abs. Fuck. I can almost count them.

They start from his broad chest, spanning the space directly under his breast as they ripple down in a series of varying depths and lengths. My fingers instantly itch to trace those abs, but since I can't, I settle for using my eyes. I continue to eye fuck him, tracing the abs that mark his abdomen, until I reach two almost horizontal lines that go down into his pants.

His pants…that’s another reason to force a second large gulp through my throat. Ezra is wearing light grey joggers, almost the same shade as his singlet but a shade lighter. The fabric is thin, painfully so, that it reveals the heavy lines of his dic—

“Trying to escape again?”

When I look up at him, he’s raising an eyebrow, a hint of something indecipherable playing in his eyes. Amusement? Curiosity?

Forcing my eyes away from his gaze, I bring myself to reality before I answer his question.

“Escape? No… no. It was an accident.” Much to my dismay, my voice comes out on a weak breath.

Even though I'm aware he must have heard from his men already, I still lie.

A small sound of distaste leaves his lips at my response. I don’t look him in the eye. But out of the corner of my eyes, I see him fold his arms.

His muscles bulge at the movement, and I resist the urge to run my tongue against my lips. Why is he wearing a singlet and stupid thin joggers anyway? Gym?

And why the hell is he having this effect on me when I should be hating his guts?

“You and I both know it wasn’t,” he says. I don't know if it's just me, but his voice reduces to a mix of husk and rasp.

I can now feel the unmistakable heat of his stare. It courses through my body, biting like tiny sparks everywhere his gaze lands. I feel it more on my chest.

No, I feel it everywhere, especially in my core. My pussy pulses with beats of forbidden desires as I press my thighs together.

Oh, lord.

When I raise my eyes, his gaze narrows on my exposed thighs just as he grips the doorknob tightly. As I continue to stare at him, his eyes darken and pierce through my eyes with heated intensity. I suddenly can't breathe. It feels like all the air is zapped out of this room, and our breaths are the only source of air.

It does not help that his feet are moving, closing the distance between us. My breathing quickens when he reaches me. Our feet are now touching, and my heart is about to burst.

Slowly he dips his hand between our bodies. I feel the light brush of his fingers against my thighs. My senses go crazy, and I'm about to jump this man when his fingers wrap around my wrist, and he lifts it between us.

Like a veil is lifted off my face, I’m suddenly returned to my right senses, and for some reason, I quickly yank my wrist from his grip and take a few steps backward.

His lips pull back in a scowl. I can see the irritation filling his eyes. “Don’t test me,” he growls.

That’s a wrong statement because it only makes me want to test him even more.

“No,” I bite back. My voice comes out firm.

He raises a brow, confusion arching it to almost touch his hairline. I match his stare with an equally raised eyebrow, holding my wrist to my chest. If he thinks he has the audacity to come here…and …and make me feel things…and touch me…I won’t allow it.

“Your wrist,” he demands, with a threat, taking a step forward.

I take one back. “I’d like for you to leave.”

He ignores my warning and continues toward me. “Raven,” his tone is warning, but I don’t care. What does he care about my wrist anyway?

“What do you ca–” I don’t have time to finish the sentence when, in the blink of an eye, my back is pinned against the wall. There's nothing but a thread of space between us as my hands are also pinned above my head, bound by his loose grip.

I can feel his breathing on my forehead. There’s silence for the longest moment before his breathing starts to get heavy. Slowly, he unpins a wrist and lowers it to my eyes.

“Who did this to you?” he glances from my red wrists to my eyes. That’s the only thing he says, and I understand what he's asking. “And don’t think of playing games with me,” he adds in a strict, warning tone.

I contemplate it for a moment. His angry gaze is a warning, too, so I finally answer.

“T- the guard,” I clear my throat, not bothering to lie. He seems to understand.

His eyes turn even darker, and they're laced with something much more deadly. He holds my gaze and my wrist for a moment longer before he drops it and walks out without another word.

I stay still, rooted in my spot as I try to bring myself out of what just happened.

What just happened?

Whatever prior feeling I had slowly morphs into confusion as I stare at the closed door.

Suddenly, there are voices coming from outside—loud, tense. I whip my head in its direction, almost having whiplash. I scurry to the window. It is locked, so I press my face against the glass, desperate to see what is happening.

Outside, I spot five cartel members. One man in particular stands out, his bare torso bathed in cuts and splits. Streaks of blood trickle from the rips on his bald head. I squint, cupping my face in my hands for a clearer view.

The other men push the brawny man around. Their loud guffaws ring out, piercing the silence that envelops the yard. The battered man staggers in every direction, his twisted right ankle dragging in the sand.

My mind reels with questions and scenarios that would warrant such abuse on that man.

A few seconds pass before two of the assaulters kick the beaten cartel member down, finally putting an end to their tennis game. My stomach tightens when I realize from his face that he is literally crying? tears streaming down his face, his shoulders sagging in resignation.

What would make a grown man weep like this?

My answer suffices a beat later when Ezra saunters into frame, hands in his pockets. His face is hard, his frown deep and cold. Even from here, I can tell how irritated he is.

The don squats face-level with the weeping man. His head tilts to the side as his lips move–I figured he asked a question. The brawny man lowers his face, refusing to make eye contact with Ezra.

Ezra’s lips move again. This time he points to a backpack one of the assaulters held. Backpack guy empties the contents of the bag on the bald man. Guns–mostly revolvers–tumble out.

My eyes widen in realization? he stole from the cartel. From my sparse knowledge of the mafia, I know this act will not go unpunished.

As if to reiterate my thought, one of the men hands Ezra something. My blood runs cold when I see it’s a knife. I freeze, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Is this really happening again?

Ezra takes the knife like it is nothing, his movements calm. Too calm for what he's about to do next. I stop breathing when he steps toward the kneeling man, who’s now sobbing…shaking…pleading.

The man is terrified. Shit. I am terrified, too.

Without a word, Ezra leans down and slides the blade across the man’s neck.

Oh, my God!

I gasp, slapping my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound. The man crumples forward, blood pooling on the ground, and I feel like the air has been sucked out of my lungs.

I back away from the window, my legs shaky, my mind racing. Did I really just see that? Ezra just—he just killed him. How many more lives has this man taken as if he were collecting souvenirs?

Fear twists my gut and I’m once again reminded how serious of a situation this is. A killer has taken me hostage.

I take in large gulps of air to steady my nerves and not spiral into another breakdown. Something needs to be done. And I need to be quick as hell about it.

This is not a place where I can be comfortable.

I need to leave. And fast.