Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
The cord hangs beside my bed, utterly untouched the weeks I’ve been here. Now, though, I stare at it. Dread creeps through me. It’s been days since I’ve seen anyone. After I returned to my room, Valen’s compulsion kept me inside for a long time. Or perhaps it was the fear of him, of what he could do to me with such violent ease.
Now, though, I can’t hide any longer. I eye the cord, the end frilly with golden threads, not sure if it’s a lifeline or a noose. I suppose it’s a bit of both. But at this point, I’m not left with any other options.
I haven’t had a period since I’ve been a captive. My body shut down from sheer stress and the lack of food. But now, one half of the equation has been solved. Eating regularly, I’m healthier now. Still gaunt, still stressed—but I have enough going for me that my cycle has returned. Great.
Staring at the pull cord doesn’t seem to be solving my issue. With a resigned sigh, I grip it, the silky rope soft against my palm, and give it a short pull.
Nothing happens. No alarm goes off. For some reason, I’m relieved. Maybe it doesn’t work. Or maybe whatever notification it gives is far enough away that I can’t even hear it. Either way, I sit and wait, my gaze glued to the door.
In the space of less than a minute, there’s a soft knock. “Doctor?” Melody calls. “May I come in?”
“Yes.” I tangle my fingers in my lap.
She steps in, her pale yellow dress particularly flattering on her figure. She’s a beautiful woman. I wonder how long she’s been with Valen. Does she hate having another woman here? I graze my fingers across my throat where he bit me. That wasn’t sexual, I tell myself. It was … a violation.
“Doctor?” she asks.
“Sorry.” I wrench out of my musings. “I, um, I’m—” I glance down.
“I understand.”
I meet her eyes. “But I didn’t say anything.”
“Vampires have an acute sense of smell.” She has the courtesy to look away. “I should’ve already thought of this. It’s been so long since I’ve had a menses that it truly didn’t occur to me. My apologies. I’ll bring what you need within the hour. Is that all right?”
At a loss for words, I simply nod.
Then, as she opens the door, I blurt, “You were human?”
She stops, going preternaturally still. “Yes.” The word comes out softly, like the lightest puff of warm breath.
“So humans can be turned,” I say it more to myself than to her. “That’s what Gorsky is hoping for. But—” A sharp pain slices through my temple. “—vampires are born, too. Right?”
“Yes. It’s rare, but it’s possible.” She steps into the hall, the conversation clearly ended on her part.
She leaves, closing the door silently as always.
The first conversation shouldn’t have been difficult. A woman’s cycle is a common knowledge, a biological fact. Even so, her mentioning the scent thing—I cover my face with my hands. It’s like I’m thirteen again, hiding in a bathroom stall as I feverishly phone Juno. She saved me that day. A knot grows in my throat. I swallow it down and shut away any thoughts of my sister. I can’t go there right now. Not when my hormones are putting me on the edge of a breakdown.
A cramp builds in my abdomen, and I curl up beneath the blankets. It hurts. But thinking hurts worse. So I focus on the physical, on the twisting sensation in my gut.
It can’t be ten minutes before the soft knock comes again. Melody enters and deposits several boxes in my bathroom. “I have a variety for you.” She returns to the door and waits. “Is there … anything else?”
“Yes.” I’ve been afraid to ask. Afraid of having the daydream cut short with a simple ‘no’. Because a no would be final. A no would break off another piece of me, a chunk I wouldn’t be able to recover.
“If I could get a notebook?” I hurriedly add, “And a pen. Or a pencil. Whatever. Just something I can—”
“Of course.” Her face brightens, and I swear she seems almost pleased that she can grant my request.
“Oh. Okay.” I kick myself for not asking a week ago as she leaves my room.
I find what could be a lifetime supply of period products in the bathroom and almost collapse from happiness when I spy a bottle of ibuprofen in the mix. Once I’m comfortable, I return to my bed to find a fresh notebook, leatherbound with nicer paper than I’m used to. A set of pencils in a black case sits on top.
With more joy than I’ve felt in a long time, I snatch up the pencils and paper and snuggle down into the blankets and pillows. The first sheet of empty paper is like an undiscovered continent. God, I used to spend hours on my journal, describing my work, drawing out cells or structures. I’d become a first-rate doodler, my mind wandering as my pencil kept moving.