remembered his eyes, ablaze with fury when she’d refused to do her kitchen duty. His distant gaze when he’d recited Whitman’s work to her, declaring he no longer had a heart. Something in his past must have triggered him to grow violent and cold – though that last bit wasn’t always as obvious. Lana’s face grew hot as she remembered Bruce’s strong hands on her ass. His kiss had been anything but cold.
As she trudged to the cluster of trees in Bruce’s enormous back yard, Lana softly hummed a song her mother had taught her when she was a little girl. Being British, Giselle Chapham-Ivanova had always spoken English to her daughter, so Lana was perfectly bilingual. Though she always dreamed in Russian for some reason, the language she most loved to sing in was English.
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,” she sang in a fragile voice. “But I must sing my baby to sleep – and all these secrets I vowed to keep, will drag me under way too deep.” Only recently had it occurred to Lana that this wasn’t exactly a peaceful lullaby suitable to sing to a child, but it didn’t matter. Her mother’s songs were hauntingly beautiful, self-composed melodies, deeply appealing to the darker, Russian part of Lana’s soul.
God, she missed her mom. What she wouldn’t give to bring her back to life. And now she wasn’t even able to listen to her voice anymore – the recording of her mother saying ‘good morning, sweetheart’ to her in Russian, acting as her wake-up call every morning. If only she were just a tiny bit more courageous, she’d beg Bruce to transfer the sound file to some harmless device she could use as an alarm clock.
Once Lana sat down near the pond with the parts of a freshly picked orange in one hand and her poetry book in the other, she could feel the peace and quiet of the woods seeping into her veins. Chester was amazing for allowing her to sit all by herself. Parking herself here among the trees magically calmed her. For the first time since her abduction, she was able to fully relax. As her gaze danced over the printed pages of Bruce’s old-fashioned book, Lana tried to breathe in and out as deeply and slowly as possible. Everything would be all right. Tori and Alen might find a way to track her location. And if not, her dad would get her out of here. He would give in to Bruce’s demands and she’d be released. And then, her father would explain to her what the story was with those Promethean mine workers. There were no slaves. Her dad was not some kind of crook.
She sat there until the shadows of the trees turned long. Just as Lana left the patch of woodland, the force field came down abruptly, plunging the entire garden into utter darkness. “Oh God,” she gasped, blinking dazedly, then closing her eyes to adjust to the dark. When she opened them again, she could see the winking light of a table lamp peeking through the curtains of the living room. Stumbling through the tall grass, Lana made her way back to the mansion, suddenly grateful that the soft light of her prison looked so inviting.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologized as she slid the patio door open and stepped through. Chester, Shou and Hikaru were sitting on the two big leather couches, eating sushi and watching an old American movie on TV.
Shou looked up with a smile. “No worries. It’s not like it got cold or anything.”
Lana bit back a laugh. “True.”
“You needed some alone time,” Hikaru added, shooting a look at the slim paperback in her hand. “Don’t get stains on that book, by the way. Bruce loves his library.”
“He – he said it was okay for me to read it,” Lana faltered, anxiously turning the book around in her hand to see if there were any orange stains on the cover. “I’ve been careful.” Her eyes darted to Chester. “Should I put it back on the shelf?”
He firmly shook his head. “No. Bruce liked you reading that book.”
“Is he back yet, by the way?”
“No,”
As she trudged to the cluster of trees in Bruce’s enormous back yard, Lana softly hummed a song her mother had taught her when she was a little girl. Being British, Giselle Chapham-Ivanova had always spoken English to her daughter, so Lana was perfectly bilingual. Though she always dreamed in Russian for some reason, the language she most loved to sing in was English.
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,” she sang in a fragile voice. “But I must sing my baby to sleep – and all these secrets I vowed to keep, will drag me under way too deep.” Only recently had it occurred to Lana that this wasn’t exactly a peaceful lullaby suitable to sing to a child, but it didn’t matter. Her mother’s songs were hauntingly beautiful, self-composed melodies, deeply appealing to the darker, Russian part of Lana’s soul.
God, she missed her mom. What she wouldn’t give to bring her back to life. And now she wasn’t even able to listen to her voice anymore – the recording of her mother saying ‘good morning, sweetheart’ to her in Russian, acting as her wake-up call every morning. If only she were just a tiny bit more courageous, she’d beg Bruce to transfer the sound file to some harmless device she could use as an alarm clock.
Once Lana sat down near the pond with the parts of a freshly picked orange in one hand and her poetry book in the other, she could feel the peace and quiet of the woods seeping into her veins. Chester was amazing for allowing her to sit all by herself. Parking herself here among the trees magically calmed her. For the first time since her abduction, she was able to fully relax. As her gaze danced over the printed pages of Bruce’s old-fashioned book, Lana tried to breathe in and out as deeply and slowly as possible. Everything would be all right. Tori and Alen might find a way to track her location. And if not, her dad would get her out of here. He would give in to Bruce’s demands and she’d be released. And then, her father would explain to her what the story was with those Promethean mine workers. There were no slaves. Her dad was not some kind of crook.
She sat there until the shadows of the trees turned long. Just as Lana left the patch of woodland, the force field came down abruptly, plunging the entire garden into utter darkness. “Oh God,” she gasped, blinking dazedly, then closing her eyes to adjust to the dark. When she opened them again, she could see the winking light of a table lamp peeking through the curtains of the living room. Stumbling through the tall grass, Lana made her way back to the mansion, suddenly grateful that the soft light of her prison looked so inviting.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologized as she slid the patio door open and stepped through. Chester, Shou and Hikaru were sitting on the two big leather couches, eating sushi and watching an old American movie on TV.
Shou looked up with a smile. “No worries. It’s not like it got cold or anything.”
Lana bit back a laugh. “True.”
“You needed some alone time,” Hikaru added, shooting a look at the slim paperback in her hand. “Don’t get stains on that book, by the way. Bruce loves his library.”
“He – he said it was okay for me to read it,” Lana faltered, anxiously turning the book around in her hand to see if there were any orange stains on the cover. “I’ve been careful.” Her eyes darted to Chester. “Should I put it back on the shelf?”
He firmly shook his head. “No. Bruce liked you reading that book.”
“Is he back yet, by the way?”
“No,”
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