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Breathless

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TW: Abuse/violence/torture themes

Chapter 33: Breathless (Anastasia's POV)

A cold dampness lingered in the air, the chill in the room sending shivers down my spine before I was even completely conscious. 

Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake played in the distance as dull noise, the music slowly rising in volume as the haunting melody echoed ominously in the empty space that seemed to surround me. The piece crumbled to its end before Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saëns took its place. 

This piece was just as familiar to me as the last one from all the ballet classes I'd attended and observed over the years. As the song started to slow down to its gentle ending, my mind and body started to awaken. 

Squinting at first, my eyes opened, and the first thing I saw was the dark ceiling towering over me in the dimly lit room. The first thing I felt was the harsh and rigid mattress below me, completely different from the one I'd wake up on in my own bedroom each morning. The shackles around my ankles hit me next, the metal cold and icy as it bit my skin. 

A dull throb began aching against my skull as I grew fully conscious, slowly sitting up. Pain tore through my head and spine, and fear began pooling in the pits of my stomach. 

As I sat up and scanned the place, I first noticed the twin-sized bed I was on. A thin white sheet with pink flowers painted across it covered the mattress with a matching and clean duvet covering me up to my waist.

At the opposite end of the room was an identical bed with Francesca sitting awake, curled up into a corner, clutching her knees against her chest. Her eyes met mine sharply just as I opened my mouth to call out to her, and her finger shot up to her mouth, silencing me sternly. 

My eyes traveled from one corner of the room to another before stopping in the middle. The music played incessantly, and it only made my head pound more. 

A canvas on a wooden stand blocked my view, and the stranger behind it remained hidden. I only caught glimpses of him as he swayed and danced with the paintbrush nestled between his fingers. 

My breaths grew shallow as the realization of what had happened crashed over me, and fragments from last night played in my mind. 

Francesca and I had run off into the yard during the party we were attending with our parents. It wasn't unusual for us to run off with some of the other kids and play around in ballrooms and gardens. That night, it was just the two of us. Just us until that man showed up. 

Everything happened so quickly that we hardly had time to call for help, and our screams, although we yelled at the top of our lungs, were too soft to reach the crowd inside. 

Another classical melody echoing in the room ended, and with it, his paintbrush finally came down. "Ah," he sighed loudly, reaching for the rag dangling on the back of his discarded chair. 

I caught a glimpse of him wiping his hands off before he side-stepped the canvas and turned to face Francesca. 

"What do you think, Francesca? Do you like my painting?" he asked her calmly. 

She nodded wordlessly. I could see her body trembling from across the room. 

Then he turned to look over his shoulder, and his eyes met mine. The smile that danced on his lips unsettled me. "Looks like my Little Dove is finally awake." Tossing the rag to the ground, he began making his way over, each step he took making him seem more like a predator. 

Instinctively, I scooted as far back on the bed as possible, eventually hitting the wooden headboard. 

Sighing again, he dropped to sit by my legs and reached for me after letting out a small chuckle. 

The smallest whimper escaped me as I curled up into myself. 

Before he could lay a hand on me, I heard Francesca shout, "Don't touch her!" 

My eyes frantically shifted between the two of them. 

Amusement etched on his face, he turned to glance at her. "Did you say something, honey?" he asked her, his voice patronizing. 

"I said, don't touch my sister!" Francesca yelled louder, shifting onto her knees. 

Rolling his eyes at her response, he turned his attention back to me and reached out to tuck my hair over my ears. 

I flinched and bit down on my lip as tears streamed down my face. My heart was pounding in my chest; it was getting harder to breathe with the fumes of paint coating the walls of that room, and the only thought in the mind of six-year-old me was how desperately I wanted to go home and how terrified I was. 

"I always knew I'd like you better, Anastasia," he said to me, "you're quiet. Just how I like them. Your sister, on the other hand..." He clicked his tongue. "Tsk. She talks too much. That mouth will get her in trouble one day, you know. Tell her to shut up." 

I stared at him, my vision blurred from the tears pooling in my eyes. 

"Tell her!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, completely rattling me from the inside out. 

I jumped and screamed in pure fear, clutching the covers tighter, the only barrier between us. "Franny, don't!" I cried, my head dropping forward. 

"Ana, I'm right here, okay!" Francesca called out. "I won't let him hurt you, I promise!" 

Irritation swelled in his eyes, and his jaw ticked as he began to rise. 

I'd grabbed onto his sleeve in one desperate, futile attempt to keep him away from Francesca. "Please," I began sobbing, "I'm sorry." 

"Oh, Little Dove," he sighed, sitting back down and placing a hand on the back of my head, slowly raking his fingers through my hair. "Why should you apologize? Your sister's been a bad girl. It'll get worse if I don't punish her." 

"Please," I begged again, "please. I want Mom," I cried. "I just want Dad." 

He shook his head. "That can't happen, Little Dove." He tipped my chin up slowly, and the monster I saw in those eyes was one I'd never forget. "I'm going to keep you here as mine forever." 

Standing up, he made his way over to Francesca with rage and fury bubbling from within him. Each step he took made my heart drop even more, and when he finally reached her, my heart stopped completely. 

"Please!" I yelled, watching in horror as he grabbed her by the hair, making her scream out in agony and sob. 

Francesca's screams and shouts bled into mine as he brought out a pocket knife and snapped the blade open, cutting her sharply across the arm. I was terrified, and I felt the tremble down to my bones as I feared for Francesca's life and my own. 

With her blood dripping off his fingers, he turned around and said to me, "Not you, Little Dove. I'd never hurt you this way." He moved to leave another slash on Francesca's arm despite both of our screams in terror when, all of a sudden, a loud crash came from the small wooden door located a few feet beside my bed. 

I gasped and held my breath altogether, watching the man as he cursed loudly, tightening his grip on the knife. "I'll fucking kill that boy!" he shouted in rage before crossing the room in quick, wide strides. Only seconds before he reached it, I saw the door was left ajar barely an inch, and inside, I saw a boy. 

Dark hair, hollowed-out gray eyes, and bruises and blood all over his bare upper half. The door slammed shut behind him, and seconds later, the deafening screams of that boy were all we could hear. 

When he walked back out almost an hour later, he didn't touch Francesca or me. His rage had simmered. Briefly, he stopped to look at me. "I'm sure you have questions, but my answers are those you're too young to understand, Anastasia." 

Ignoring Francesca's warning, as she shook her head, I said, "You know my name." 

And the man smiled, "Of course I do." 

"I don't know yours," I whispered shakily, "what do I call you?" 

With blood still tainting his hands, he touched my cheek. "You can call me Isaiah." 

After walking out of the room that night, he didn't return for what felt like several hours, perhaps, it was the next day when he finally did with three plates full of breakfast. 

From that day on, we saw him only twice a day, once every morning and once every night. Every morning, he'd come to me with a smile, brush my hair, and dress me in new dresses for each day. 

But every night, he'd come to paint with a set of knives waiting to be used on us, sitting beside his paintbrushes. A blade never once touched me, it was always Francesca. 

Days passed, they must have turned into weeks, and with each day, there was another scar, another wound on Francesca's body. I never heard a sound from that door beside me in the daytime either, only at night. 

Whenever Francesca and I screamed in pain or fear, a loud crash would echo from that room, and Isaiah's rage and attention would shift to whoever was behind that door. On most nights, that took the attention off of us. 

On some nights, he focused only on Francesca and me. 

And then one morning, I'd woken up... but Francesca hadn't. The blood pooling around her body grew more visible with the hours, and it wasn't until I'd seen the knives impaling her chest and abdomen that I'd completely lost it and broken down. 

"I never thought I would make it out of there," I whispered, taking a deep breath as I turned to face Dante, looking away from the city's nighttime skyline. 

The day had bled into the night, but we hadn't gone anywhere. We still stood on the rooftop. When Dante said those words earlier in the day, my entire world had stopped. 

I was there. 

I wanted to know it all, every single thing. How could I have missed this? After all this time, I knew him enough to know he must have had his reasons. So many questions were tearing me up, and it felt like we were running out of time. 

I'd asked him for the truth, and I could see that he was trying to give it to me, but within seconds of starting the conversation, Dante grew breathless. I recognized the same panic in his eyes when he spoke of his past, and I knew that in his mind, he had fallen back into the depths of darkness I'd been drowning in for years. 

I wanted to hear his story, and he wanted to tell me, but he couldn't do it. He needed a little nudge, support, and a hand to hold. So I told him my story first. 

Reliving my past as I explained everything to him wasn't easy. It made me feel vulnerable, it made me feel weak. Knowing that the demons from my past still haunted me made me feel pathetic. But I would tolerate that if it meant truly getting to know Dante. 

With his elbows resting on the railing, he sighed deeply and let his head fall forward. "Fuck, Anastasia," he breathed out, turning to me. 

I inclined my body to face his. "Talk to me, Dante," I pleaded. "I've poured my entire life out to you. You already knew pieces of me I never gave you, but I still have nothing from you. I wish I could give you the time you need, but we don't have time to spare. 

"If we're going to figure this out, you need to tell me what happened. From the beginning to the end. Was it you? The boy he kept... Were you the one locked in that closet?" 

He didn't have to say it, I knew the answer when I looked at him and my heart completely shattered for him. "Anastasia—" 

"The scars," I breathed out, "did he do that to you? Like he would to Francesca?" 

He couldn't meet my eyes. 

"God," I sighed, throwing my head back. 

Why them? Why hurt them and not me? 

"Anastasia, please let me take you home," Dante said. 

"But I—" 

"I promised you honesty, and I am a man of my word. Let's go home first, please." 

I knew how difficult it must have been for him. Maybe he wasn't urging me for my sake, maybe he just wanted to go home. Somewhere he felt safe, someplace he trusted. 

"Let's go home," I agreed, taking his hand in mine. 

"Fuck," his chest caved with relief as he pulled me into him, wrapping his arms around me tightly. 

My hands settled on his back as I rubbed up and down slowly, hoping to soothe him. "Let's go home," I repeated softly.

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Chapter 33

Guys, honestly, this book is unraveling in a way where even I've lost track and control of it lmao

Thank God I planned the plot in advance, or this would've been so confusing, but dw it will all make sense in the end

also, don't ask where the classical music idea came from...
It came from me. I listen to classical music while writing sometimes, and that drop from Swan Lake just gave me the idea, okay 😭😭

don't act like it wouldn't be hot if one of our men did that... maybe we can save that idea for Kai... 👀

next ch: death

time to FINALLY hear Dante's side of the story