The figure is large. Do they know I’m awake? They sense it because my breathing has changed from the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. What do I do? How long have they been watching me? Oh shit, what should I do? I’m frozen with fear. Do I say something, do I run, what? I lie still and glance at the foot of the bed to see the silhouette, but my heart stops—the silhouette isn’t there. My eyes dart around. Shit, where are they? I sit up and look to the closet to see if Ashlea is okay.

I feel the blade across my throat and then hear a deep, familiar voice, authoritative and quiet. “Lie back down, you little wench.

I lie back. I can’t even muster the voice to speak, to cry out for Ashlea. He straddles me with the blade still at my throat. I can feel the point lightly piercing my skin and the warmth of a small stream of blood running down to the back of my neck, pooling on the sheet beneath. He murmurs, “Servants… I will show you what it’s really like. Don’t you dare think of moving if you want to live.”

Aggressively, he pulls the sheets down to my knees. Where is my sister? I lie back silent and still, obeying him. I refuse to cry or close my eyes. My ears start to ring, and the smell of metal fills my nostrils. Stay awake, I urge myself.

“What’s wrong, little pet? Is this not what you had in mind?” He laughs, amused by my fear. His weight is too much for me to struggle against. Even if I tried, it might anger him more. His blade is at my throat. Then there’s a sound, like a rock hitting a thick board of wood; he falls over me. The blade is still in his hand, and the point lifts out of my skin slightly as it falls, lightly severing the surface of my throat. I am frozen until I see my sister.

“Hang in there!” Ashlea demands, rolling him off me. The intruder is out cold.

“Get up,” Ashlea urges. She sits me up on the bed, then holds my hands as she leads me off the bed. I can barely hear her through the ringing in my ears.

“Come,” Ashlea says, wrapping my arm around her shoulder, allowing me to lean on her for support as we leave the room to go to Rosaleen’s. Ashlea bangs hard on the door, then twists the doorknob; it’s open, and she walks us both in. Rosaleen is startled by our entrance and turns on the lights to see who has disturbed her. She looks ready to scold us but stops suddenly at the sight of us. Blood is trickling down my neck, and droplets are hitting the floor. Rosaleen draws her conclusions. She runs to her bathroom and gets some cloth to press on my throat.

“Sit her down,” Rosaleen says with anger in her voice. She approaches with the towels, covering my wound and applying pressure. I can feel the warmth on my neck as the towel soaks up my blood. “Keep it pressed on her throat, Ashlea. Keep her attention; I’ll be right back.” Rosaleen runs down the hall to wake Soolena and Izavelle. Izavelle instantly comes to my aid. Without hesitation, she takes a second towel, quickly removes Ashlea’s hand from my neck, and replaces the first towel with the second, pressing firmly.

“It’s not that deep, Taylan. We’ll get this closed, and you’ll be good as new, but you must stay awake for us,” Izavelle instructs me.

“Can you see me?” Izavelle asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Are you dizzy?”

“Yes, the room is spinning, and my ears, I can barely hear you—the ringing.”

Izavelle instructs Ashlea, “Grab her legs, and turn her so we can lie her down.” Ashlea gently lifts and pivots me so I’m lying across the foot of Rosaleen’s bed.

“Keep her legs up,” Izavelle orders, and Ashlea does so without hesitation. Izavelle turns her attention back to me. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty. Can I have some water?”

“Not yet, dear. We’re going to keep your legs elevated until the color returns to your face.” Izavelle peeks at the wound. The bleeding has slowed, but it’s still oozing.

“She needs stitches. Can you reach for those cushions without dropping her legs?” Izavelle asks.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“Yes,” Ashlea responds, grabbing them.

“Okay, put them under her legs. There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom. Run and get it quickly. Go!” Ashlea is back in a fraction of a second.

“Open the kit. There’s a small hook-shaped needle; find it and a spool of thread.”

“Got it,” Ashlea says, anxiously waiting for more instructions.

“Okay, Ashlea, I’m going to have you switch with me. Put pressure on her wound.”

Izavelle works effortlessly, threading the needle and knotting the string. “Taylan, I don’t have any painkillers. You’ll have to bear this. I’ll be quick; four stitches, okay love?”

I nod, and Izavelle says, “Okay, here’s number one.” She gently lifts the towel, carefully lifts a piece of my skin, loops the needle through, and then pierces back through the other side. With no effort, she knots and cuts the first stitch, then moves on to the second, warning me as she goes. It hurts, but I can manage this. “Taylan, this is number two.” She repeats the process, knotting the thread and cutting the ends. She pauses to dab the blood away, then warns me again and does the third and fourth stitches.

“I’m thirsty,” I whine, my head pounding, wanting to close my eyes.

Izavelle instructs Ashlea, “Go fetch some water.” Ashlea is back in a flash.

“Taylan, you’ve lost some blood, and you’re still pale. I’m going to slowly lift your head up. Don’t help; let me take your full weight. Just relax. I’m going to give you a sip, nothing more.” Izavelle puts her hand under my head, raising me slowly and holding the glass to my lips, tilting it slightly so I can take a small sip.

“Swallow,” Izavelle encourages, and I do as I’m told. She gently lowers my head back down. Izavelle continues to treat my wound, dabbing at it. The bleeding has stopped, and she applies antibiotics before dressing my wound with white bandages from her first aid kit.

“Ashlea, she’s still pale and clammy. Run to the kitchen and fetch an ice pack from the fridge.”

“Where’s the kitchen?” Ashlea asks quickly.

“It’s the door across the hall from the dining room, the door before the living room area.”

“I’ll be right back,” Ashlea says, and she’s gone.

“How do you feel?” Izavelle asks, feeling my forehead.

“A little better, but I’m still thirsty.” Izavelle repeats the process, lifting my head and giving me another sip.

“How is that?” she asks.

“Better,” I reply.

Ashlea returns with an ice pack and hands it to Izavelle, who places it on my head.

“I think we’re doing well. Taylan, you need to stay lying down for a bit. I don’t want to deal with your fainting. This will take some time, and we’ll treat your thirst and feed you in moderation. No sudden movements, especially if you start feeling better. We’ll help you until you no longer show signs of fainting.”

The ice feels wonderful on my forehead, and I start to feel my strength return. I can’t feel the pain of my wound at this point; it feels numb. However, I still feel tired and weak. I lie there and let Izavelle and Ashlea care for me. Every few minutes, Izavelle allows me another sip. I’m on to my second and third glass, but my thirst is never quenched.

“How do you feel now?” Izavelle asks.

“Better. I’m starting to feel hungry.”

“Okay, we’re going to change the pillows and remove them from your legs, then put them under your head and back. Keep the ice pack on her head. I’ll be back with some food.” In the blink of an eye, Izavelle is gone, and it’s just Ashlea and me.

“How are you feeling?” Ashlea asks. I relax at the sight of my sister, relieved that the attacker didn’t hurt her.

“I feel better now that I’m all patched up,” I say calmly.

“I mean, how are your nerves?” I chuckle, realizing I misunderstood.

“I’ve been more distracted by my thirst than anything. You really did a number on them.” I pause and then look up at her. “Thank you for saving me.” I smile with a tear in my eye, and she returns a warm smile, wiping the tear from my cheek.

“You’re welcome,” Ashlea says, pausing to gather herself and tucking a strand of her red hair from her face. “I think your attacker was one of the food servers. I didn’t get a good look at him. I didn’t even hear him enter the room.” She looks down at her hands, sadness evident, but she’s clearly trying to bury it. Now isn’t the time. “I woke when he spoke. His voice was so

familiar. I listened and knew you were in trouble. I slowly opened the door and crawled across the floor. When I saw his back was to me, I leapt up and struck him in the back of the head with all the force I had using the dolphin sculpture. I never got a good look at him to know for sure who he was; my attention was on you. I know I knocked him out. He never moved or flinched when I rolled him off you. His voice was so familiar.” Ashlea takes my hand and holds it to her face, kissing it.

“Oh, Taylan, we need to know why this happened. Do you think we’re being used as bait?” Before I can respond, Rosaleen, Soolena, and Izavelle enter the room. Izavelle has a tray of sliced food and fruit juice.

Rosaleen comes to my side. “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she says with sympathy in her eyes and a quivering voice. “Soolena has tied him up and locked him in your room as an extra precaution. However, I’m not sure it’s necessary; he’s still out cold and barely breathing. His skull is cracked. Soolena has tended to his wounds, but he will die today. If not by us, it will be by his wounds. Tell me what happened?” She looks concerned, and Ashlea tells her everything.

After Ashlea finishes, Rosaleen confides, “You two are very brave.” She looks at me. “How do you want to dispose of your attacker?”