Chapter 12 My Space
Aiyana's P.O.V
I didn’t know what I expected from Jerome after the frantic escape, but it definitely wasn’t this.
A compound that looked like a fortress carved out of secrecy. Taller walls, heavier gates, silent watchtowers. It didn’t feel like a hideout; it felt like a kingdom in shadow.
I definitely underestimated the man as I myself have not really been around so much money so it made sense that I couldn't quite grasp that instead of a little shack for us to hide, we were in a literal castle.
The jeep rolled through the gate, tyres crunching gravel. I swallowed the rising knot in my throat, hearing my heartbeat louder than the engine.
When we stopped, he stepped out first, coming around to open my door himself, and for a moment, I just stared at him. Stunned because what kind of kidnapper opens the door and holds his hands out for his victim.
I shook off all logical thoughts as all it would do was make me confused and extra curious. Curious for answers I knew I wouldn't get.
None of it made sense, and yet, something in me felt safe.
Too safe.
My legs were unsteady as I stepped down from the car, my fingers unconsciously brushing his when he steadied me. I pulled away quickly, afraid of what that contact meant, for him, and for me.
Then I heard it.
Whips, cracking, sharp, and repeated with a speed that had me flinching.
Followed by stifled groans. It was human, pained, and a choking groan.
Curiosity had me looking in the direction of the sound where two men, two guards were strung up in front of a door, with their shirts torn away, back exposed, and skin brutalized.
Blood trailed down their spines, red stark against skin.
I froze.
My captors.
My guards.
The ones who once watched me, day and night, were now punished, and somehow I was sure it was because of me.
My stomach twisted violently at the sight of such raw flesh and blood, making me step forward without even thinking.
“What…what’s happening to them?” I ask but my voice was barely a whisper as that was all I could get out of the shock and pity I felt for them.
Jerome didn’t turn.
He removed his gloves slowly, like the brutality around us was nothing more than background noise.
“Failure.” he said simply. “They abandoned their post and left you unprotected.” His tone was calm, cold.
“In my world, that earns consequences.” He said with finality.
Consequences.
Not discipline.
Punishment.
The whip cracked again, and I flinched like the rope touched me instead of them.
“I…please.” the words slipped out before I could stop them. “Please stop. They’re bleeding. They’re…” I stuttered, not knowing the right words to use that would have him listening to me.
He finally met my eyes.
“You pity them? After what nearly happened in the first house?” He asked looking at me like I had lost my mind to feel pity for people that left me for dead to save themselves.
Yes. Because pain was pain. Because no one deserved to scream like that. Because I knew what helplessness tasted like metal and terror and suffocation.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”
He stared at me for a long minute, one that felt like hours, like judgment, like a silent battle between who he was and who I wished he wasn’t.
Then he lifted his hand.
No words.
Just a signal.
The whips immediately slowed. It became fewer and less vicious.
I exhaled, knees weak and almost buckling with relief.
He wasn’t merciful. Not truly, but he listened.
“Discipline.” He said softly, stepping closer, voice grazing the shell of my ear.
“Keeps us alive. I won't change that but I can give them less… because you asked me to.”
My heart beat too loudly. Too fast.
Was this twisted softness?
Or a cage lined with velvet so I wouldn’t try to escape?
He placed his hand lightly on my lower back, guiding me forward.
Not forceful, but firm, like he expected me to follow without question.
I did.
We walked into the building, deeper and deeper through hallways I didn’t know, light flickering overhead, guards bowing subtly as Jerome passed.
Some stared at me longer than they should.
A few with curiosity.
Others with confusion.
One or two with thinly veiled resentment probably because their friends were being tortured because of me.
Yes, they remembered who I was.
The girl locked in the dark.
The almost-victim who now I walked beside the man who owned every shadow in the room, of course they were bound to talk.
He opened a door, and everything inside me halted.
Because it wasn’t a cell.
It wasn't cold, or damp, or suffocating.
This room was… beautiful.
Warm lighting. Soft carpets. A bed too big for one person. Curtains of deep emerald and gold, the exact shades I loved most, though I never told anyone. Paintings filled the walls, abstract and emotional, like something from my dreams.
A small shelf with books.
A sweater folded over a chair, my size exactly.
My throat tightened painfully.
This wasn't a coincidence. It was like this room was prepared and waiting.
For me.
Jerome watched my reaction like it mattered. Like I mattered.
“You’ll sleep here,” he said quietly. “You don’t go anywhere without me or someone I trust, but you aren’t a prisoner here, Aiyana. This is… safer.”
Safer than alone.
Safer than with men who almost hurt me.
Safer, because he said so.
I stepped inside slowly, fingers brushing the bedspread, the curtains, the softness I had forgotten existed.
I hadn’t slept on something soft since…
I couldn’t remember.
My knees nearly gave way.
Jerome stood at the doorway, gaze unreadable.
“Do you like it?”
Like it?
This room was paradise compared to the darkness I lived in.
Compared to my entire life.
But the question tangled something inside me, hope fighting war with fear.
“I-I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Why do this? For me? Why protect me? Feed me what you eat? Bring me here?”
His jaw flexed. Something flickered in his eyes, something deep, almost vulnerable, almost human, but he didn’t answer.
Not directly.
He just said:
“Because you’re mine to protect.”
Mine.
A word heavy enough to chain me even without metal.
Then he left the door slightly open and added, voice lower:
“Dinner is in an hour. I’ll send for you.”
When he disappeared down the hall, silence filled the room like a warm blanket and a blade both pressing against my skin.
I sat on the bed. It was perfectly soft like he knew exactly what comfort I needed.
The kind I never had.
Did he really research me?
Or was this all coincidence?
The colors, the softness, the books I would’ve chosen myself?
It scared me how much I wanted to believe he cared, at the same time convince myself that he didn't.
How some broken part of me leaned toward the safety he offered.
For the first time in my life, I really didn’t know whether to feel grateful or terrified.