The Hunter's Wolf

An Icy Gaze

An Icy Gaze

I can't believe I slept.

Not that it is such a big deal or anything, except for the fact that I let my guard down when somebody entered the room, and delivered my breakfast in a fancy metal tray and a hemisphere lid to come along. I was left completely defenceless in the presence of these wolves, and they have seen me in my most vulnerable state.

Bad thoughts begin to fill my mind, no matter how hard I try to keep it positive.

As I stare onto the tray laid on the table by the bookshelves, my eyes meet my own reflection, only it looks entangled in a spiral and makes it as if I have a big nose, a globular and round face, and eyes like that of an alien.

They must have had taken dinner back, seeing as I was fast asleep.

My inner conscience debates with my stomach, where my traumatic of a mind is still wary of the dangerous additives they might have added in, but the wails of my stomach are begging for a feast, and without another fuss over it, my hand moves on its own, reaching for the metal lid and open it.

The dishes are extremely extravagant, a feast for the eyes and a certain delight for the palate : two soft scrambled eggs; dotted with cheddar cheese and lush bits of parsleys, three fat, juicy sausage patties, flecked with red and black pepper, and two Belgian waffles in their rich brown colour, drizzled with a mouth-watering Vermont-fresh maple syrup that percolates down onto each stair of the stacked flat pastry. On the side, an oven-fried red mashed potatoe is served, laced with bacon and green onion, along with ice cold Florida orange juice as a beverage, the glass shimmering with beads of icy water trickling down.

I am not one to judge, but I can tell from the aroma of the brunch that the chef is an elite, one that possesses a handful of skills.

The appetising décor tempt me to take a bite, so I grab for the fork silverware and takes a swipe of the scrambled egg, the texture delicate under the cut. When my mouth accepts the meal, from that point on I succumb into glorious heaven.

Savouring every full-flavored, exquisite tastes and luscious crispiness, I find myself lost in my own taste buds. I swallow my last bite in a big lump down my throat, and lick my lips, not a scrap left on the plates, and not a single drop in the glass of juice.

Then I feel a twinge within my chest.

It was brief, like a prick of a thorn, but the pain stays.

I begin to feel bad, and it does not take me long before I realize that I have been thinking about Bryon. I'm drowning myself in leisure, bathing myself in all these riches, while he is locked up underground in a nasty cage for who knows until when.

He is not a criminal, but a victim.

Without a second thought, my feet march towards the door, eager to meet him once more, the urge to tell him that I am doing just fine, and to hear his voice again an imperious avidity. The knob feels cold under my palm, then it stings, biting into the wound that opened as a cause for last night's incident. I take my hand back and twist the door with the other hand, only to remember that Stephen has locked me inside.

I mutter in my head and sigh. I need to think of an excuse, so they will open up the door for me. I knock on the wood a couple of times, then wait for a reply.

A muffled sound answers back after a couple of seconds, "What is it, Rose ?"

Stephen. As usual, since Steven is not the type to talk, so much as I have not even heard him say a word.

I try to think of an idea, anything that sounds convincing enough, and something comes up. "I've finished my breakfast," I tell him firstly, and my ears hear the shuffles of his clothes behind the door.