🥀Raven and Wolf🥀

Chapter 4- Smile

  I don't wake to my alarm clock. I don't wake to the sun. No, I'm woken by a hand shaking my shoulder and a voice urging me to get up.

And I do so, with a jolt that almost has me hitting the man responsible for my rude awakening. I see Saint standing over me before I remember why he's there. I'm about to admonish him when my brain does make that final connection.

I take my father in, he's in another suit, black this time. And everything about him is immaculately styled. But the one thing that has changed since I last saw him is that there's now a wild look in his eyes.

I get up, not needing to be ordered around. I put on a robe that falls to my mid-thighs, something to keep we warm aside from the silk short and tank-top sleep set I fell asleep in. He leads me out into the kitchen area, where he's now put the box. Now, atop the island counter, sits every last Polaroid. I don't go over to them, not too keen on the idea of reliving the horror I felt last night, but I can see something interesting from where I stand; some of the photos have red paint written across the pictures.

Saint looks exasperated when motioning to the ordeal on my counter. "I've already called both your brothers and I have a team on standby. We have to lock the place down, Ghost."

My body locks up involuntarily at his words... No, no, no. He cannot do that. "What?!" I yell, for the first time in years. "And why the hell do you need to do that?"

He looks at my dryly. "We've just established that there's been someone actively following and watching you for... at least a year... And you're asking me why?" He picks up a single Polaroid, one that features me shopping at the local mini-mart, the letter S written across the face of the plastic.

I take the picture from his hand, setting it among the rest of them. Saint, whenever he got here, looked through the pictures that my messenger has left. He also found something that I didn't: if you line them up correctly, the letters spell out the words smile for the camera.

I shiver. "How long did this take you? Sorting them out like this?"

I can see him staring at me from my periphery. "I got here around three. And I finished about thirty minutes ago."

I look at the clock attached to the stove: 5:30.

I sit down on the nearest stool, threading my hands through my hair. Saint goes about doing something while I look over the mess before me. Some pictures are of me at work, taken from one of the booths, others are of me running errands. One particular one is of me running at the park I usually run at. That one scares me the most. How many times has this person followed me while I ran? When I was completely alone with no one to even hear me scream?

Before I can think on it too long, a mug is set in front of me, milky coffee filling it to the brim. I thank Saint quietly, earning a pat on the head before he goes off.

I follow him, set on changing his mind about putting the safe house into full lock down mode.

I said before that this house is a gilded prison, and I entirely stand by that sentiment, but the fact of the matter is that this isn't the worst prison I've been subjected to. Before it was this safe house, it was a penthouse. A penthouse that I regularly have nightmares about, one that became the sole reason for my suffering. A place I wasn't even allowed to walk out the front door of without a small army or a member of my family. I can't go back to that. I may have survived the first time, but I'm certain I won't survive it again.

I absent-mindedly sooth a finger over the small lines on the inside of my bicep. I'm forced into a memory of one time when my blade dug too deep and I had to crawl to Saint's room, where a suture kit is kept, and stitch myself up.