I didn’t want to focus on what time meant. The slow plod of time intertwined with the fast tick, tick, ticking of my final heartbeats.
My fingers hovered on the reply button. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
Instead, I opened my brother’s messages.
VtheMan: Threads, pick up your goddamn phone.
VtheMan: Threads. I’m warning you. You’re not happy. I sense it. I’m worried shitless and Tex is being a secretive arsehole. Call me immediately, sister. Or I’ll make your life a living hell.
VtheMan: Please, Nila. Talk to me. Put me out of my misery. I miss you. Love you so fucking much.
My teary gasp in the darkness pricked a few hounds’ ears. I wanted so much to reply. But I didn’t dare. I didn’t trust myself not to beg him to get me out of this. I was there of my own free will to protect him. I wouldn’t be protecting him if I was weak.
Tomorrow. I wouldn’t put up with any more flimsy talk of debts and centuries past. I wanted hard facts on why they could do this. And I wouldn’t stop until I knew everything.
Closing my messages, I opened up a picture of Vaughn and me that’d been taken right before the doors opened to the show last night. The tiny bit of strength I had left deserted me and I let go of my tight control.
I sobbed.
My heart expunged its grief through my eyes, drenching my cheeks, blurring the last photo I had of my brother —happy, nervous, dressed up in finery—with a waterfall of liquid. I cried until dehydration throbbed my head and my neck was sticky with salt.
A low battery reminder beeped. It was the hardest thing I’d done to shut down the picture of V and turn it off.
More tears trickled and a hound raised his head, looking at me with wise understanding. He inched forward on his belly, crossing the hay until his claws tugged at my blanket.
His canine concern produced another torrent of liquid, but I opened my arms, and with a wagging tail, he fitted himself around me like a living shield. His doggy heart thudded against mine as I hugged his silky coat.
I went from the Darling of Milan with needle pricks on her fingers to huddled on the floor with only hunting dogs for company.
A soppy tongue had licked my cheek, stealing the endless stream of tears. And that was when it happened. The change I’d told Kite about. The ending. The beginning. The freedom of just letting go.
All my life, I’d been stressed with making a name for myself, building my career, loving my brother, being a worthy daughter. Bills. Deadlines. Reputations. Expectations. It all balanced precariously on my shoulders, moulding me into a quiet workaholic.
But at four a.m., in the kennels of the man who meant to kill me, I let it all go.
In every tear I shed, I said goodbye to control. I waved farewell to everything that made me live, but had also suffocated me, too. I didn’t have photo shoots to worry about anymore. I didn’t have concerns on what to wear, where to be, how to act.
All of that had been stolen. And there was no point crying or fighting against it.
The moment I embraced the freedom of nothing, I stopped crying. My headache left, and I drifted to sleep wrapped in the four legs of my new best friend.
Squirrel nudged my hand, bringing me back to the present and the waiting message from Kite. The past struggled to let me go, but I blinked, dispelling my forlornness.
“He wants to know where I am. What should I tell him?” I asked my entourage of hounds.
Foxhounds to be exact. Their black, tan, and white coats became visible as the sun rose, glinting off the glossy health of their fur. Their silky ears slapped their pretty heads as they lopped around the enclosure, waking up as the sun grew brighter.
They didn’t give me an answer.
Needle&Thread: Where I am right now doesn’t matter because I’m in a fantasy with you. I’m in your bed. Naked. Wanting.
It was much better than the truth: I’d slept on hay in a barn with eleven dogs secured by a giant padlock.
I focused on the huge roller door. I’d checked last night to see if there was a way out, but of course, there wasn’t.
Kite007: You took a while to reply. Did you pleasure yourself?
Throwing myself back into Kite’s sexual world, I replied.
Needle&Thread: I’m coming now. Both hands are between my legs, twisting my clit, feeling how wet I am. I’m crying out your name over and over. The neighbours might hear me I’m so loud.
Rubbing the head of Squirrel, I smiled. “Don’t tell him I released my tension by crying myself to sleep with you in my arms.” Lowering my voice, I added, “And don’t tell him I’ve never had an orgasm.”
The dog cocked his head, an expression of confusion on his face.
Kite007: I like it when you talk dirty. Keep going. I have my cock in my hand and want you to make me come.
My heart sped up. Reclining against the hay bale, I bit my lip. I’d never made anyone come. The drunken night of losing my virginity didn’t count because we were both so intoxicated it was a miracle he found the right place to stick it in. After a few half-hearted thrusts, he’d rolled off me to throw up, and I’d pulled up my knickers. I’d been silently horrified at the blood on the sheets.
The copious amounts of alcohol had stolen any pain I might’ve felt when he penetrated me. It’d also stolen the rush of entering womanhood, swapping it with age-old regret.
The night definitely hadn’t been a success. Or the next day. Because no matter how hard V tried to hide my hangover from Tex, he couldn’t prevent me from vomiting on my dad’s shoes when he plucked me from my bed and took me to the doctor.
I groaned in remembered embarrassment. “He found out, you know.” I scratched Squirrel behind his large ear. “The doctor told him I’d been taken advantage of. We’d used protection but it didn’t stop the endless STI tests or pregnancy exams.” Another hound slinked closer, plopping next to me, looking for a scratch. “That was the last time I was alone with a man other than my dad or brother. Sad isn’t it?”
The new dog panted, looking as if I’d told the world’s best joke.
Maybe Tex prevented you from dating, so when they came for you it was only his heart you broke—not a husband or children.
The sudden thought stole my vision with horror.
Was the overprotectiveness to shield others? Had he kept me locked up like some princess in a tower, all to stop me being my mother?
He’d fallen in love with my mother.
They’d had children young.
They’d come for her.
I rubbed my chest, unable to stop the epiphany shedding my father in a new light. Was it selfish of him to protect me from living, knowing I was destined an early grave? Or merely a tragedy that he prevented others enduring heartbreak by loving me.