Owned By The Devil (Werewolf Romance) Prt 3

 

Chapter 3

Nalani’s POV

A silver spoon rested on the white soup bowl as I picked at the steaming rice and cooked meat. The heat of the food stung my fingers, but I managed to handle it.

I could feel the assistant's gaze burning into me. It was probably because I had pushed the fork aside and resorted to eating with my hands. I preferred it this way. Ever since I was a child, my mother and I had always made direct contact with our food. It wasn’t the Western way of eating, and it often earned us curious stares when we did it in public, but it was something I enjoyed.

"You're struggling there," the assistant remarked when she saw me flinch from the heat.

"It's hot," I replied unfussy.

She nudged the fork closer to me. I shook my head in response. "It’ll cool down soon," I said, turning my attention to the hot chicken soup. I couldn’t remember the last time I had tasted chicken soup that was so good and authentic.

I had cooked for Thane before, though it was never an easy task. Half the time, the meal was missing key ingredients, and often it turned out bland, but we made do.

We always had food shortages in our household. I did the grocery shopping with whatever money I could snatch from Thane’s pocket, or I would go to the local food pantries, whether through church or other organizations. He would feast one day, and the next, we were starving.

Thane ran on liquor. That was what fueled him.

"You're different," the assistant said.

I looked up at her. Her skin had a beautiful, wood-like hue, a deep, rich brown that suited her. Her makeup was well-applied, with dark eyeshadow that made her brown eyes stand out. She was slim, a frame that made my own body feel inferior. I wasn’t slim—just skinny, bones covered with flesh, but still far too close to the bones for comfort.

"Why would you say that?" I asked.

"I’ve never seen a Westerner eat with her fingers," she remarked.

"Oh, I’ve done it countless times with my mom," I replied.

"Not your dad, too?"

The mention of "dad" always brought my stepfather to mind, no matter how evil and cruel he was. He was the first person I thought of. I shrugged. "He’s more of a fork kind of guy," I said with a nervous chuckle, the vivid image of Thane using a fork like a caveman flashing in my mind.

"Okay," she said, uncertain.

"What's your name?" I asked, curiosity creeping into my voice.

"Zeynep," she answered.

"Nice place here, Zeynep."

We were eating in what seemed like a grand dining area. The mansion was old, as was the decor. Vintage chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the floorboards had the feel of an old English home. The house creaked with every step, and I could hear the maids walking around, their footsteps echoing through the halls. How were they allowed to live while I faced my fate?

"You like it here?" she asked.

"No," I responded.

"Too old?" she continued. "It’s been around for ages. Many people have passed through here."

"Many wives. Which number do I fall under?" I asked bluntly.

Her mouth fell open in surprise at my question. "I would—"

"You don’t count?" I interrupted.

"No."

"Do you have any idea when she’s going to kill me?"

Zeynep chuckled softly and shook her head. She probably didn’t care. It was likely just her job to give me a shower and something to eat, but my death? That wasn’t her concern.

"I— I don’t know," she replied, with a stammer.

I nodded, bringing the hot soup to my lips.

"How come she doesn't target you?" I asked.

"Because I’d end up missing," She replied.

My brows furrowed in confusion. "End up missing?" I repeated. She chuckled softly.

"They choose girls who, once lost, stay lost. Girls who mean nothing to society," she explained.

I shrugged, continuing to eat. I was indifferent to my death—until it was the actual day. When would that be? I’d been here two days, waiting for him—or her. This morning, I woke up from a sudden night terror, gripped by the vision of a ring. It was so beautiful.

"How long did the last wife stay?" I asked.

"I don’t think—"

"Tell me. I’m going to die, right? So, no one’s really around to tell. It’s not like I’m planning on running."

"You’re really different," Zeynep murmured. "The last girl… she lasted about two months… she was terrified."

"How terrified?" I pressed.

She smiled sadly. "Just imagine not knowing when your time’s up," she paused, her brown eyes softening. "That kind of fear."

I shrugged. "I’m okay with it." My fingers moved through the warm rice, squeezing a bit and rubbing it in the gravy. "I just want to know how long she lasted," I said, before putting the food into my mouth.

"Two months," she replied quietly. "She was so scared; she wouldn’t even touch her food."

I nodded. "Well, my death will at least be worth something. My sister’s going off to college. She’ll become something good, I hope."

"Don’t you want to live? You’re telling me you don’t feel bad, not knowing when your time will be?"

"It’s better not to panic," I said.

I had come from hell. At least I knew that if I died—and had maybe bargained with a god or two—I might earn a corner in heaven. I’d heard of heaven. I used to dream of it. Not so much these days. But death? It was the ultimate sacrifice to reach it, and I didn’t think I could do that to myself. It didn’t feel right.

"How old is your sister?" Zeynep asked.

"She's older. 26. But our father never really had the money," I explained.

"You're brave."

"I'm a sacrifice."

Zeynep stared at me, but her gaze wasn't quite on me—it focused on my wrist. I quickly pulled the sleeve of the shirt she gave me down to cover it.

I smiled faintly, returning to my meal, when Gideonn walked in.

Gideonn. She baffled me. It was hard to believe that the powerful figure who ran this city was a woman. She was tall, well-built—a physique that showed she was wealthy and well-cared-for.

Why did she kill? Why would someone so powerful let men like Thane Ferguson play her, only to trap them and take their daughters? It seemed like she had a thing for men with daughters.

I thought they would take Kali—she was the pretty one. But here I was, thinking she'd marry and settle down. Yet, she signs a marriage certificate and then, just like that, she’s killing her own wife. Didn’t she want a family? Settle down? I knew it wasn’t going to be me—she was staring at me as if my time was up.

"You're wearing my shirt?" Gideonn asked, voice cold.

The assistant flinched. Hadn’t she noticed she’d been standing there for a while, fuming over a shirt?

"I would’ve worn my own clothes, but on the drive here, you stopped the car and deliberately dumped them," I replied, sassily.

I probably shouldn’t have spoken to her like that—acting as though I were the smartest girl in school. But with death looming, what did it matter?

"Can I have a moment with my wife?" Gideonn demanded. The assistant quickly scurried away, as if eager to be out of my company. Gideonn adjusted her expensive wristwatch and sat down across from me.

"You're clean."

"Yes, because I showered." I returned to my bowl of soup, wiping my hand on the napkin that had been laid out for me. "Have you decided when you're going to kill me?"

"I haven't."

"What's taking you so long?"

"Don't rush me." She snapped, her nails extending as though they'd grown in seconds, raking the dining table.

I stared at her, and she quickly withdrew her hands, tucking them into her pockets.

"I'd like my assistant to take you shopping tomorrow. It's getting late, and I don't want to see you in my shirt anymore."

"It feels comfy. Bigger, but comfy."

She sized me up with a look that seemed to last forever. I supposed she was savoring the art of anticipation—waiting for me to panic, to wonder when my end was near.

"I want you to do something for me."

"What’s that?"

"Don’t wander the corridors at night."

"Do you tell that to the maids too?" I laughed sarcastically, but she didn’t smile. She didn’t smile—she smirked, like an amused clown. "You're a clown."

I looked down. I really should stop saying things to provoke her. It felt like she could explode at any moment.

"Alright, I won’t wander the halls tonight." It seemed I’d get to live another night.

Shopping… I supposed I’d be picking out my dress for my funeral.

"Good. I love a wife who listens."

She loves? She loves and still kills? "How much—"

"I have work to do, Wife. Enjoy your meal while it lasts."

"That’s what I’m doing."

She hesitated, as if she wanted to stay and size me up a little longer, but eventually managed to stand. Her hand remained in her pocket.

What was she hiding? Her fingernails?

"You smell better."

"That’s because I showered," I retorted.

Just then, Zeynep entered with a forced smile. I could tell she was terrified of her boss. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for the other wives—watching her while they waited for their final moments.

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