At the top of the stairs, I almost lose my nerve.

I may look the part. I'm clean and polished, and the silk of my black dress is so delicate and form-fitting, it doesn't leave much to the imagination. The "V" of the neckline dips more than halfway to my belly button, and the leg slit is almost hip-high. I've pinned up my blow-dried hair into a twist that looks harder to accomplish than it was. I finished off my "bad girl" ensemble with the only lipstick shade that was provided—a deep rose red.

As per Ishmael's suggestion, I took my time getting ready. No amount of time, though, could prepare me for the actuality of the stairs. It's decadently carpeted in a Persian red, and I'm wearing spiked heels.

Or what might be waiting for me at the bottom...

I haven't even seen many shows or movies like this, where the girl is transformed, in one manner or another, and tries to lead her male "adversary" toward an end that is most desirable or advantageous. We're not talking about a chaste kiss or a marriage in this case. This is next level. In my house growing up, I wasn't even permitted to watch this stuff. Sure, I took a few risks, at friend's houses or with boys, in secret. Minor league stuff, but I usually paid a steep price for it anyway. He always knew or suspected the worst.

My stepfather was wrong about me more often than not, but if there are a few nails in a board and you take a thousand blind swings with a hammer, you're bound to hit the mark.

I don't even know what I'm realistically hoping to achieve here. My old guidelines are useless, and "punishment" seems unavoidable. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. No matter what I choose, if the choice is even mine, do I really think this Ishmael will just let me go, after all this time?

On the third to last step, my anxiety, ill health, and low blood sugar get the better of my typically good coordination. My heel gets stuck in the carpet and the banister is too far out of my reach. I should hit the bottom of the stairs with a thud, but strong, well-dressed, previously imperceptible arms are there to catch me. It was all a blur of light and movement.

At the speed of, like, sound, and with the skill of a ballroom dancer, he sweeps me into a cradle hold, like it was meant to happen.

I wish my dress settled as gracefully as my body did. A spaghetti strap slips from my shoulder. I scoop it up as fast as I can, but if his eyes are anything like his legs and arms, he's caught a glimpse of pink flesh, more than just my burning cheeks. I don't even bother to correct the slit of my dress. Most of the extra fabric—and there isn't much—is trapped between me and his arm, and my leg is fully exposed.

"You've made quite the entrance. It would take more time and effort to forget than seems fair." His ghoulishly dark gaze sweeps down me, lingering on my thigh for a touch longer than the rest. His arched eyebrow seems intrigued in the way you'd expect of a voracious male. His eyes are harder to read. If he is capable of regret, there may be a hint of it. Even if that's the case, there could be any number of reasons for it, and there's no guarantee that any of his intentions are "good."

"You make it sound like I won't get another chance." He could probably run in circles around the head game I'm attempting to play, but still, what do I have to lose?

"Although I am sure my reputation precedes me, I am Ishmael, the master of this house." Almost as if he's a gentleman and this is too much, too soon, even for him, he sets me on my feet before I'm mentally prepared for it. "We only get one first impression, I'm afraid," he says, responding to my comment. "Let us feast and give thanks for the triumphs we attain while the occasion endures."

With my hand tucked around his arm, he escorts me through the foyer, beneath a crystal chandelier, dimly lit, and into a fire-lit sitting room, like we're the host and hostess, about to entertain a roomful of guests.

But the room is empty...

He guides me into the leather armchair closest to the fire. "Dinner will be just a moment," he informs me, making direct eye contact.

I should smile and gaze back, but I lose all my nerve and fall out of character, the one I hoped to portray—beautiful, confident, worldly. I shudder out a nod instead, a skittish, ignorant child in his domain. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.

He smiles knowingly, like he can hear me.

Can he?

Maybe he can smell my fear or see it plainly on my face.

After a slight, gracious nod, he withdraws from the room like he's completely carefree.

And I'm left with my own company.

How should I position my crossed legs, left or right? I don't want to show too much or look like I'm trying to hide in an open sleeping bag that's too small.

It's so hot by the fire.

Then why am I trembling, like I'm naked in the Arctic?

"He'll pretend he's nice . . . to you. But beware, he isn't." These are the only specific words of warning I've heard in regard to Ishmael, the master. The source being Shilo, who I'm left to assume I can trust?

The elaborate bay window behind me has exactly sixty panes of glass. Night is well underway, and the trees are so tall, I can barely see the sky.

I can just make out the antique front door if I twist my torso over the arm of my chair. It's wide, solid, hand-carved wood, and has more than one lock and bolt. Perhaps I'm not being kept in by any extreme measures, but I can't know that for sure unless I go over there and try it. Something I'm not brave enough to do.

Even if I get the door open, the wind is whistling. I have no real clothes or shoes. And would it even matter? I've seen this guy move...

He might be a tame predator in the presence of a young woman, but he'd expect submission and fine behavior.

There's classical music coming from what must be the kitchen, a few rooms away. I only know enough to say it's "old," like centuries old, if not more. Ishmael is humming along, like he's heard it a thousand times. A pan has been sizzling the whole time. A smell wafts in. I wish my host had a noticeable shortcoming, but so far, he doesn't. He sounds like a professional singer, and he could be a gourmet chef. Butter, meat, herbs . . . dear lord. My stomach may twist itself into knots that break soon.

Ugh. I can't wait. It hurts too much, and it keeps me here, behaving like a good little doll. Since he's leaving me alone, out of his sight, he never had a moment of doubt. I won't run.

I can't.

It's infuriating and nauseating, but it's my reality.

I may have to barge into the kitchen and beg him to let me help, just so I can sneak something into my mouth before I perish. But he appears at the doorless threshold before I find the nerve.

When he re-offers his arm, I take it, without hesitation. I won't give him any trouble until I have food in my stomach. Or a really good reason.

The dining room is cozier than I envisioned, like we're in a country cabin. Gothic is the theme of the house, and it still has a strong presence, but the rich reds and browns soften it a bit. The antler chandelier has matching sconces and candelabras that are all aflame. In different company, it would be intimate and romantic, a vibe that a couple or small family could share with five to eight of their closest friends or family.

Ishmael seats me at one end with a full plate of food that looks as good as it smells. He takes the seat at the other end with just a fat red wine glass in hand. Placing my cloth napkin on my lap, I wait for his permission to eat.

In no particular hurry, he swirls around the contents of his glass. I don't think it's red wine. It's hard to tell for sure in this lighting, but it just doesn't flow right.

There is red wine in my glass—I think—but that doesn't mean he poured himself a glass from the same open bottle.

"Please," he then tells me, leaning casually into the side of his chair. He pushes out the adjacent chair with his feet and places his crossed feet upon it. Then he winces through a sip of his "drink" as if it were too strong. "Don't wait on my account."

At that, my decorum goes out the front door and I'm not in any state to join it. I cut right into the juicy piece of steak. The first bite practically melts in my mouth. I don't think I even chew it. It's probably filet minion, but in truth, I have no clue. I taught myself to cook, mostly baked goods, because my stepfather likes boring, bland, inexpensive food from boxes or the freezer, and my mother has no skill or imagination in the kitchen, or elsewhere, really, either. It was a match made in "heaven." I suppose that makes me and Ishmael . . . thanks to the brand on my side and my sudden inclination to ingest anything he serves . . . the work of the devil.

I swig down three gulps of wine and get right back to my plate. Although the bread and vegetables look divine too, I can't abandon the steak while it's still piping hot.

"You're quite the carnivore," he comments, his tone amused, like I'm a zoo animal and my eating habits in captivity are quite the curiosity.

I shrug a bare shoulder and reach for the wine glass again. I attempt to swallow a cumbersome mouthful of meat with another gulp. "All this trouble, and you're not going to eat with me?"

The red wine tastes okay, so it's probably expensive, and I can already feel it. My stomach was that empty, I guess. I should slow down, but it's my only drink. And the only pain killer or mood elevator I've been given in this whole ordeal. I drink more of it down and Ishmael's quick to get up and top off my dwindling portion.

Upon the return to his seat, he sets his glass in the center of his empty placemat and steeples his fingers behind it. "I am eating with you." He winks at me, like he's letting me in on a secret. "This is just my appetizer." He reluctantly swallows another sip. "However, it is the equivalent of a long-open pinot noir," he chides, like it's bargain basement crap, and I'm supposed to appreciate that when I'm not even of age yet. "Oxidized to vinegar, I'm afraid. I can certainly do better."

The bite of meat going down drops like a ball of lead, despite how good it tasted.

A silence settles between us that is heavier still.

He's watching me, like he's expecting me to have questions. He may even entertain some of them by talking in circles around the truth, to see if I'm sharp and accurate enough to hit the bullseye. What are you?

If it's blood he's drinking, I'm not an idiot and have a guess. He's a vampire . . . and I'm his main course.

There's suddenly the patter of footsteps coming from the stairs, and someone bursts into the room in a storm cloud of contempt. I appreciate the interruption once I realize it's not Prue or Ivy.

The girl is tall and thin, in her mid-twenties or so. With that "blank canvas" look, all dark features and very light skin, she'd probably look stunning with a stylist and makeup artist. But as she is, in her comfy, unflattering "house clothes" and slightly mussed hair, she's fairly plain, and her petulance doesn't exactly brighten her features.

Ishmael looks about as displeased to see her as she is, him. He even rolls his eyes when she comes almost intimately close to him. And she makes no effort to keep her voice down. "You didn't want to invite me to your little dinner party?" Subsequently, I'm acknowledged with an evil eye that could wilt flowers. "I wonder why that is?"

Ishmael reaches for his glass and swirls it idly. "You said you weren't hungry."

"That was two hours ago," she grumbles in reply.

Meanwhile, my steak is gone, and I've moved on to my vegetables. Trying to stay quiet, I use my knife as minimally as possible. When the girl follows Ishmael's gaze over to me again—where his attention tends to flock, regardless of her interference—I have a stalk of asparagus sticking out of the side of my mouth. I try to make light of this uncomfortable moment by sucking it in and giving them both a closed mouth smile and wave. Then I finish chewing and dig my fork back into what's left—my whipped potatoes.

Yes, I am still here. Yes, I am listening. I WILL clear my plate, unaffected by your opinion of me. And NO, I will NOT share.

"Samantha, where are my manners?" Ishmael addresses me rather than her. "I'd like to introduce you to Rosemary, my stepdaughter," he intones, like it's an insult, an exaggeration, or perhaps, a falsehood.

I detect a note of sexual tension, possession, and territorialism that I'm unfortunately wise enough to recognize, better than most. Whether it's mutual, acted upon or not, it's clear they're not blood.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," I say as pleasurably as possible. I'm well aware that it will bother her more that way.

And it appears I succeed. Judging by the way her pointed nose flares, I'm about as displeasing to her as the leftover fat on Ishmael's frying pan.

"We've met," Rosemary grinds out, not bothering with any pleasantries of her own.

"We have?" I ask, squinting at her face, genuinely confused.

She looks familiar and all, as much as I can tell without my glasses. She's undoubtedly related to Prue and Ivy. But meeting her is not something I can recall.

Ishmael checks his watch, and shifts in his seat, lounging a bit more casually, legs on the closest chair again and elbows on the armrests. "It seems, Rosemary, you're about as memorable to our guest as your presence is desirable at this time."

She belatedly gasps at the insult. It's well after I was already muffling a laugh.

Ishmael glances over at me, clearly satisfied with me, himself, or both.

If he prefers my sincerity, I can certainly give him more of it, while I have his ears and eyes...

"If you've changed your mind about eating these days..." Underneath Rosemary's tightly crossed arms, Ishmael flicks open the side of her long, fuzzy sweater. "The kitchen is well stocked, and we both know you're not busy. With that in mind, have at it." With a sweep of the hand, he alludes to the door leading out of the dining room. "Though please keep it down. Samantha and I are in the middle of something."

Rosemary slices into me with one last icy glare, and then whooshes past Ishmael in another huff. "I hope you know she's still off limits." The door pushes open, like a saloon door, and swings shut. She's behind it before Ishmael can make his reply.

"Of course she's off limits," he says to no one in particular, completely unruffled. "What do you take me for...?"

He never finishes that statement. And I can't peel my eyes from my empty plate.

A monster?

That train of thought is thrown off course by the clash and bang of pots and pans. Rosemary's either that bad in the kitchen or she's doing it on purpose. Based on what little I've witnessed, both are possible, and the likelihood seems about equal.

"These girls are so spoiled," Ishmael feels the need to divulge over the ruckus. "They demand everything and pay for nothing, and still think they have the grounds to make a scene at the most inopportune of times. Did you ever give your father this much trouble?"

I take a tentative sip of wine, knowing how stupid and dangerous it is to give him any additional advantage. It can't be avoided, though. My mouth went dry over the course of their exchange—still off limits.

What does that even mean? And why doesn't he seem to care? I'm all dressed up, for what? Conversation?

"Uh, stepfather," I correct him. "And no. There were. . ." I hesitate. "Consequences. Even when I wasn't openly rebellious."

"Did he hurt you?" His tone is almost hypnotic. "Or shame you in the name of God?"

He knows more about me than he was previously letting on...

For a moment, I have the urge to answer him, with an honesty and depth I've never explored. Every horrid, humiliating detail I intended to take to the grave. That I've never put into words, even for myself. Then my anger and good sense snake their way back into my head, but it comes with a stab of pain to both of my temples.

"Does it matter whose name it's in? Was it any worse than what my ex-boyfriend. . . ?" Just as quickly as the pain came on, it lets up, and the timing is fortuitous. "Or better yet, what your henchmen and your family have put me through? The answer is no. So, you can save your psychiatrist bullshit for someone you actually intend to help." I drink to that and turn to stare out the elaborate window to my right, but it's no escape. There's nothing out there to see. And Ishmael's gaze has a certain burn to it. I can feel it, not at eye level but lower, right over my fluttering heart.

He's going to make me pay for that, in ways no one has ever had the prowess or appetite before.

I'm shocked at how long the silence goes on. My adrenaline boost dies out, and his intensity, though never quite the angry type, seems to diminish as well. His eyes wander to where his dear Rosemary is making all that noise. Her way of going about it is twisted and childish, but she actually wants his attention. I'm just using him for a decent meal, and the way he's been looking at me, perhaps that sentiment is mutual.

I may be just as much a pain in the ass, but I'm younger, human, and all shiny and new. I'm sure my blood tastes sweeter . . . than a witch's...

If I can help it, I won't give him the satisfaction. I remove my napkin from my lap and drop it on the table when I stand. "Do I have your permission to return to my room?"

"Please sit," he says to me, and despite the please, it's a command. It sounds like he's finally losing his cool. "We haven't had dessert yet."

I have to give Ishmael some credit. Most of the men in my close acquaintance would have had me subdued already, in some way or form. The same holds true for Prue. Ivy may use hurtful words first, but yeah, same idea. And Jael . . . he had this power over me, too. I thought it was love, but it was clearly something more toxic and dangerous, something worse than just lust, and I was so thoroughly destroyed by it.

"I'm full," I claim, even though I could eat like this for days and not feel guilty about it. My cheerleading days are over. My life is over. I may as well die with a full stomach. "And we have nothing more to say to each other."

"That's not for you to decide."

I count to five and it doesn't help. The heat and pressure—in the room, in me—they keep rising, and there's no peak in sight. "Nothing is mine to decide. It never has been. Care to explain that? Why this is my lot? Being told what to do with my own body . . . on a good day. And here, I don't even get that luxury. There's not even the illusion of choice. Things are done to me, or withheld indefinitely, like an explanation..." I peel up the bottom of my dress. I'm sure he's seen everything anyway. Modesty died with my abduction. He gets to see my bare, unbandaged brand, almost bellybutton high, at the dinner table. It was sticking to my dress, and once the fabric is removed, fresh blood and ooze bead up. I hope it makes him as sick as it makes me, but I doubt that's even possible. It's probably turning him on. "What did you do to me? And why don't I remember?"

His eyes flick away from the brand, faster than I anticipated. "I had no part in that." He sips his . . . blood, his gaze far from mine.

"No part . . . really?" I persist. "Master of this house. The eyes behind every camera, no doubt. And you think you can play that card?"

At first, he scoffs. Then his head swivels back in my direction, slowly and deliberately. It's the moment I know I'm in trouble. "I will explain my involvement, and what little I've been told. If you let me," he snaps back, his teeth clicking with every word.

"Floor's yours." I collapse back in my chair.

There's a delay before he answers, which isn't surprising, given the subject matter and how it might thwart his agenda.

And just as his mouth is about to open, with his sophisticated evasiveness—something that's supposed to keep me calm and compliant—Rosemary barges back into the room. After all that noise, she's holding only a sliced apple and a wedge of cheese on a small glass plate. "I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?" She looks smug. Her entrance appears to be well timed.

"Not really," I tell her. "Ishmael was about to tell me why I'm here, every nitty, gritty, gory detail. Care to join us? You can give us the bitch, I mean, witch perspective. My mistake. Slip of the tongue there. Do forgive me..."

She gapes at me for a good second or two and then swivels toward Ishmael. "Are you going to let her talk to me like that?"

Ishmael warns her to back off with a glare that I wouldn't even have the nerve to challenge. "Rosemary..." He pauses for a fake, composure-gathering smile. "This isn't a good time for your . . . demands."

"My demands?" she cries out, with actual tears in her eyes. "The things I do for you, and this is how I'm treated? I'm not even supposed to be here. It wasn't the plan."

He softens, chuckling again, like she's a cute child with a little bruise or hurt feelings. "Is that what this is about? Pennsylvania? You know that was your mother's decision."

"Her last-minute decision. It was really Ivy's doing, I'm sure."

"One of you has to stay here. And if Ivy wants her mother as her plus one, that's her prerogative."

"She's been acting like the center of the universe lately. Mother and even you . . . you've been enabling her! And you..." Rosemary rounds on me next. "You little..." She can't come up with a word that's nasty enough for my place in all this.

On a different day, maybe I'd feel bad for her. But today, I'm on a roll. I've practiced all the things I wish I could say to these maniacs, and now I'm just letting it all out, with few errors and very little hesitation. Or any regard for my own safety.

"What, whore?" I'm quick to offer. "You know it's called something else when you don't have a say, and no actual money is exchanged."

I don't think I'll be getting another dinner invitation anytime soon. Oh well. How unfortunate. Ishmael is a great cook, and the person who usually prepares my food would get fired from a prison.

"Enjoy your last supper, Sam," Rosemary snarls amid her departure.

"What do you mean?" I call after her, but if she hears me, she ignores it. Her angry footsteps fall into a rhythm on the stairs, and soon, they peter out. "Ishmael..." I turn to him instead. "What does she mean by that?"

He waves off the whole encounter as if it were meaningless. "Pay her no mind. She's usually much more agreeable. So sorry you had to see her at her worst. She's been slighted, I'm afraid, and in her eyes, you're a dash of salt in a wide, gaping—"

"I don't care!" I cut him off and shoot to my feet again, and this time, there's no talking me down. "I need to know. Am I going to die tomorrow?"

"That's not what she meant."

"Then how should I interpret her 'last supper' comment? Please. Enlighten me."

"Samantha..." With just that one word, he tells me to sit down, shut up, and listen.

I step from the table and turn my back on him. "If she was wrong or just being spiteful, you'd have a better answer."

In a tight dress, high heels, and two glasses of wine in my system, I try to follow in Rosemary's footsteps, matching her speed and determination. But she was wearing slippers and I'm getting caught up in the carpet again. And of course, I stumble. But I don't let it get to me. I won't stop. As humiliating as it may be, I'd crawl out of here if I have to.

"Sa–man–tha?" Ishmael trills again, and this time it's accompanied by a whole lot of pain, like there's a knife going into my forehead and both temples. "I have not given you permission to leave. You will yield to me this very moment, and you will revel in the peace I bestow."

The "kill shot" is like a spike to the back of my neck. I fall to my knees, groaning in anguish. I want to listen. I need to. Find peace.

Though I collapse to my stomach, I bear down and push through that urge to obey, even though it coils tension through my whole body to a point it feels like I'll rip myself to shreds.

Inch by inch, I drag myself across the carpet. Ishmael's slow footsteps are gaining on me. I feel each one rumble through me. And just as dramatically, they stop.

"How very interesting." With the tip of his fancy shoe, he flips me onto my back. "I've never seen a human quite so resistant to my charms. Maybe it's the devil in you."

My vision is failing me, but I clench everything, including my eyelids, and when I reopen them, the background is still a blur, but his face comes into focus. "You sound like my father," I seethe through a jaw that refuses to open.

Whatever he's doing to me, he ratchets it up until he's wincing and rubbing his temples. "He was just guessing. I'm almost positive I speak the truth."

I can't move anything but my lungs. By my third or fourth deep heave, I'm practically growling. "Someday I will end you," I snarl in a voice that isn't mine. I'm not sure I have any control over what's said, either. "Burn this fucking place to the ground. I will rollick in the flames and dance on your ashes..."

You never know with Ishmael. He is once again amused, and snickers out loud. "As much as I'd enjoy seeing you try, I'm going to win this round. I'm sorry, Samantha. I'll see you on the other side..."

Other side of what? I wonder. The thought fades quickly, though, just like the pain, just like the lights. I disconnect from all things good, and bad, and gray.

I am gone. Lost. And to be honest, I think I'm grateful.