Isaac hauled the girl up to the third story of his chateau, talking to her gently to let her know he's there. With every step, she seems to gain more consciousness: her facial expression changing or her head beginning to move as though she's dreaming.

He places her on the bed of a guest bedroom, afraid she might be uncomfortable if laid in his. The thought of her waking up, disoriented and scared, in a man's bed makes his teeth grind together—even if that man is him. She doesn't know him yet, and he'll have to respect that in order to make her comfortable here.

Her head begins rocking side to side as her legs peddle aimlessly. Her expression scrunches into a pained grimace, as though she's experiencing a nightmare. Isaac holds her delicate hand, small compared to his, offering it a gentle squeeze to prove his presence; to prove to her that he had never once left her.

"Wake up," he says to her, the sight of her increasingly restless actions spiking his anxiety. "Open your eyes and the bad things will go away."

His heart begins to race as he feels her hand return his squeeze. Any moment now. Any moment now and she'll wake up and he'll finally get to see the color of her eyes and the demeanor held within them. She could be upfront and feisty, or she could be soft spoken and sweet, or maybe somewhere in between and she would end up being sly in her own way. He can only make up scenarios in his head in which he guesses what her personality will be like, what her eyes will look like.

He had found her as the sun was just beginning to rise, and now it's at the height of the morning. For all of those hours—nearly four now—he had wondered who she is. Now it's finally time for him to find out.

He stares at her closed eyelids, whispering comforting words in hopes of coaxing her into consciousness.

Only when her body goes still, as though the nightmare is over, do her eyelashes flutter awake.

Blue. Ocean blue with a hint of grey. That's the color of her eyes.

They scan the room in front of her, flicking from object to object, until they land on Isaac and she realizes she's grasping his hand. Those ocean blue eyes widen and she jerks away from him, severing any contact whilst her back slams against the headboard.

"No, no, no, it's okay," Isaac reassures, his words rushed. He holds up both of his hands near his shoulders, showing that he means her no harm. "I don't want to hurt you. You're safe, alright? Do you know what happened to you? I found you lying unconscious in the forest."

He leaves out the small fact that she was naked when he found her. He doesn't want her to feel self conscious that he had seen her like that. It wasn't her fault or his, after all. It was just the situation as it presented itself.

"You were taken to the infirmary," he continues, "You're in perfect health. Nothing is wrong, but I need you to tell me as much as you can so we can find out how this happened."

He notices her studying him, all the way from his inky black hair to where the bed cuts off her view at his thighs. He feels his muscles tightening everywhere her gaze travels and, as a subconscious reaction, he gradually stands up taller from an already impressive height, making his shoulders appear wider and his chest broader.

He wonders if his body passes her test. If his appearance makes her feel safe in his presence or if it makes her feel the opposite. Instantly, he knows he'll do anything to make the former true.

| | |

The girl evaluates the person standing in front of her, speaking to her in a calm, gentle tone of voice. As if she were a child.

He looks like he could hurt her if he wanted to. Badly. He stands at, what she would estimate, to be past 190 centimeters at least—193 to be more exact. His shoulders look as though they could carry the weight of the world atop them without straining, and his arms are well defined with mounds of muscle beneath the skin.

If he could carry the weight of the world, she would surely be nothing to him; she would be an insignificant weight among that world, like dandelion pollen traveling on the wind.

"Can you tell me who did this to you?" He asks. A guttural sound like a growl starts to rise in his chest, but he quickly smothers it out.

She's listening to his claims, but they aren't making any sense. He said he found her lying in the forest and he wants to know what happened before that.

With a panic rising in the pit of her stomach, she realizes she doesn't know. She doesn't remember being in a forest or even going to sleep. She doesn't remember anything.

All she knows is that she's sitting in a bed, staring at a man she doesn't know, whose making claims she can't validate and asking questions she can't answer.

She draws her knees up to her chest, pressing closer into the headboard.

"You can talk to me," he presses, his voice quiet like a whisper, "Please?"

She shakes her head, touching the tip of a finger to her mouth.

"You can't speak?"

She nods.

"You're mute?"

She nods again.

She watches as his face begins twisting, his expressions fighting each other to decide which presents itself. A frown tinges at his lips, but evaporates just as quickly. Something flashes across his dark eyes, something that fleets before she can identify it. Finally, his expression goes blank.

"Were you born this way?" He asks.

She shrugs. His brow furrows.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Waking up here. But that isn't the answer he wants: she doesn't have that one. So she shakes her head, replying negatory.

"Can you tell me your name?" His voice is tender and warm and patient with her. It makes her want to tell him everything he's asking. She wants to cooperate for him, but there isn't much she can honestly contribute.

When no name surfaces in her mind, when her thoughts are blank and inconclusive, she only blinks at him.

He seems to understand.

"You don't remember anything, do you, beautiful?"

Her breathing escalates at the term of endearment. She feels the flustering heat rushing to her face, swarming her cheeks like bees in a hive.

Beautiful? She thinks, unsure if she heard correctly. I'm... beautiful?

Trying to recompose herself, she shakes her head again to answer him, but judging by the look on his face, he's already noticed the change in hers. He's smirking, with one end of his mouth tilted up in a way that just exudes confidence.

She hugs her knees tighter, looking away. Her heart is beating ten times faster, pounding in her throat.

Then, unexpectedly, a long rumble comes from her stomach, roaring and blatant. It could've been heard from anywhere in the room, which only makes her throat tighten more.

He chuckles, a pleasant sound to her ears, though an embarrassing one given the circumstance.

"You're hungry," he states, holding out his hand to her. Even it's defined, with the skin over the bones being thin and the veins from it visible for a ways up the inside of his wrist.

"Come on," he offers, "We'll get you something to eat."

She wants to refuse. She wants to be alone so that she can calm down and be embarrassed in her own presence rather than his. Yet the gurgling in her stomach is persistent. She's starving to the point that it almost burns, but still she's hesitant.

She doesn't know this man. She doesn't know anything about him. But mean people can't be nice, can they? And he seems nice enough. A mean person wouldn't smile at her like he is, or even call her beautiful. Would they? No, she decides. They wouldn't.

She places her hand in his and he steadies her as she climbs off of the bed. It makes her face flush even deeper when his fingers wrap around her knuckles, holding her entirely and unquestionably. It makes her feel safe, to have her hand in his, held so firmly yet gently; to be guided across the room by him when her head barely reaches his shoulder and she could very well hide in his shadow; to know that he thinks she's beautiful enough to call her so.

-

Too much too soon? ...maybe.

(Also I know the chapters are short and not much has happened so far and it's probably getting a bit bland but bare with me, it's coming I promise eeeeee.)

Thanks for reading! 🐾