Glass: Chapter 16

I hate them.

I hate them all. Silas. Rafe. Even Kit, for being fucking related to them.

And Clara. I fucking detest her.

At this point, the hate is all that’s keeping me upright.

I jerk my head out of the hearth. I’m covered in dirt from head to toe trying to clean it out, and I stare down at the pile of washing that’s just thumped down next to me. “Machine’s right over there, Clara.”

“Oh,” she purrs. “But Silas specifically said that you were to do it.”

I grit my teeth. Of course he did. “Right.”

“And the light fixtures need cleaning in the hall,” Clara adds, sliding onto the kitchen stool. I swivel to face her.

“Feel free to get started on that at any point.” My voice is brittle, and she pulls out a fucking nail file as though she’s on holiday, and not at work.

“Silas said—,”

“I don’t give a fuck what Silas said,” I hiss into the stone. Silas can throw himself off a cliff for all I care right now. Not that I’d have the energy to celebrate it.

I’d still manage to wave a little flag though. Even if it killed me.

Fuck, even my fingernails hurt.

How is that possible?

Sighing, I rinse out the cloth in the bucket next to me. The hearth is done.

Now I just have the washing. The beds. The windows.

Oh, and apparently the damn light fittings, too.

Maybe then I can eat. And sleep.

“Isn’t it time for you to leave?” I ask Clara tartly. Thank fuck she doesn’t live in the house. It’s been dark for hours. She should have left already.

She bats her long fucking eyelashes at me. “Rafe asked me to stay for dinner.”

The words take a minute to process. And then I spin, picking up the washing and walking out, ignoring her words completely.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t.

I don’t know why it even hurts, that he would ask her to stay. Not when he makes my life hell in every other way he possibly can.

I’m very aware of just how much these men don’t give a flying fuck about me anymore. The more time I spend here, the more I wonder if they ever did at all. I was clearly a fucking deluded fifteen-year-old girl.

After putting the washing on, I scrub as much of the dirt from my arms and hands as I can before gingerly picking up the clean bedding.

I did not plan this well. But since I don’t care if they get a little filth with their sleeping arrangements, I’m not particularly careful as I make my way upstairs. I have to pause for a rest in the hallway, and I use it as an excuse to admire the gleaming floors. Courtesy of me.

Although I have no doubt they’ll be covered in something vile again by the time morning comes. Rafe is very dedicated to his work. Hasn’t missed a day yet.

By the time I make it upstairs to his bedroom, I’m huffing. I’ve had no time to sit and have lunch. Or dinner. Again.

And I’m so focused on the growling in my stomach that I don’t pay any attention before barging in, assuming that he’ll already be downstairs, waiting for his undoubtedly delicious dinner. With Clara.

“Dickhead,” I hiss to myself.

And then I stop, pulling myself up a few steps into the room as the door swings closed behind me. Staring, as Rafe turns around with a jerk, his eyes flaring in surprise.

Water makes its way down his chest as he rubs the towel over his hair, pausing as he takes me in. My eyes drop down without my fucking permission, taking in the golden expanse of skin, lightly dusted with hair. The tattoo winding down his right side.

Lower.

Choking, I slap my hands over my traitorous eyes and spin around as he curses, wrapping the towel around his waist.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” His voice is a snap behind me. Too close.

“Bedding,” I choke out in explanation. I toss the pile to the floor behind me blindly and reach for the door handle. “I’ll come back.”

Later. Much later.

In fact, he can change his own fucking bed, Silas and his orders be damned.

But a hand wraps around my wrist, circling it gently and stopping me from leaving. With a nudge, he turns me around. Rafe leans over me, his green eyes piercing as he scans my face. I swallow.

“Anastasia.” His voice is a purr. “It’s damn rude to walk into other people’s bedrooms without asking, you know.”

I take a breath. And then another, trying to force the citrusy scent of him from my lungs as he presses into me.

“I wouldn’t know,” I breathe quietly. “Since I don’t actually have a bedroom.”

His lips lift. “Maybe you’d like to share one. I’m sure we can work something out.”

It takes a second for the words to sink in. For them to wash over me like freezing cold water, dousing the heat flickering to life in my abdomen.

My breath catches, and Rafe’s eyes widen. “I didn’t mean—,”

I shove him back. “Yes, you did.”

“Wait.” He grabs my hand again. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

The back of my throat burns. I can’t even look at him.

“So you didn’t just insinuate that I could fuck you for a decent night’s sleep?”

He pales, the golden hue of his skin turning waxy. “Fuck, Stasi. I was just—.”

“Just playing,” I force out through cold lips. “Is that it?”

For once, he doesn’t seem to have any words. Instead, he watches me. Too closely. My eyes prick as I turn away, towards the door. He doesn’t stop me this time.

“If I get on my knees and suck,” I say quietly, “Can I swap it for some proper food? Because I’m getting really sick of porridge and broth.”

He sucks in a breath as though I’ve hit him.

Except I’m the one who’s just been slapped. With a cold, hard dose of reality.

The tears blur my vision, my head buzzing as I slip out, leaving the bedding behind on the floor.

Ellen barely glances up as I walk into the kitchen. The tears are already dry on my cheeks as I head over to check on the washing. “You haven’t had dinner yet.”

“I’m not hungry.” I’ve lost any sense of appetite, thanks to Rafe.

I’m just their entertainment. Someone to poke at, like a bear in a cage. And when they get bored – which they will, eventually – they’ll just throw me away. Back to my shitty prison cell, with Parrish.

It hurts. My chest hurts. And I’m so damn cold, all of a sudden.

Ellen glances at me, concern flickering. I’m always hungry. I learned a long time ago not to turn down food. But the thought of eating right now makes my stomach flip.

But she doesn’t press. “Can you help me carry the plates up?”

I hesitate. The last thing I want to do is go anywhere near the dining room.

But that’s it, isn’t it?

I don’t get a choice.

Silently, I pick up the plates and follow her. The cold is expanding in my stomach, heavy and numbing. Blissfully numbing. And I embrace it, opening myself up to let it fill me, starting with my feet and working upwards.

I don’t want to feel anymore. What’s the point?

I feel Rafe’s eyes on my face as soon as I walk in. His hair is scraped back, damp and styled as he sits next to a beaming Clara. She titters, leaning in and making sure she presses her breasts into his arm as she whispers something in his ear.

And yet I don’t feel anything.

I look away, accidentally locking eyes with Kit. The violet darkens, a frown crossing his face as he examines me. “Stasi? Are you… alright?”

Everyone goes silent as his words carry across the room. Even Ellen twists to look at me, frowning. “Anastasia?”

“Nothing,” I say tonelessly. I set his plate down in front of him. “I’m fine.”

Rafe leans forward. “Anastasia.”

I slide my eyes to him. “Can I get you something?”

He flinches. Clara’s smile drops away from her face as her eyes move between us. Silas straightens. “Somebody explain what’s going on.”

“Nothing,” I repeat again.

Silas focuses on my face, and he pauses. His deep blue eyes flicker over me. Once, twice. Again. “Are you sure?”

I don’t know what they’re seeing on my face, but I try my best to wipe it away, wanting them all to stop looking.

Maybe an apology will help. “Sorry.”

Rafe jerks. Silas frowns. “What are you sorry for?”

Existing.

Instead, I shrug. I stay silent and stare at the floor, as Ellen serves the food to the silent table. She places a hand on my arm, and I jump, looking up from the ground.

“Come on,” she says. Her voice softer than it normally is. “Let’s get you something to eat, shall we? Breakfast was a long time ago. You’ll feel better.”

“She hasn’t had lunch?” Silas’s voice.

Ellen straightens. Her voice carries, unusually cutting. “When would she have time?”

I should be surprised that she’s standing up for me, but I can’t seem to muster anything beyond the creeping numbness invading my body. I follow her down to the kitchen, where she cuts up a piece of the pie she’s just served upstairs.

I stare down at it. “I’m not allowed to eat that.”

Even my voice sounds dull. Ellen puts her hands on the table. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” I pick up the fork, but my appetite is non-existent, even with something that isn’t broth in front of me.

And I didn’t even have to get on my knees for it.

I push the plate away. “I should get back to work.”

But Ellen’s hand lands on my shoulder.

“No more work tonight, Stasi,” she says gently. “How about a shower? Head on up and I’ll make you a hot drink.”

But I shake my head, sliding off the chair. “No, thank you. I’ll… finish this later.”

And I go back to work.