Ch 2: Leave No Trace
Elena had not slept. She remained perched on the edge of the mattress, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the door. Numbness crept up her legs as the hours dragged by, but she barely noticed. Every creak of the house, every distant footstep, sent her pulse skittering. But the door never opened, and as dawn drew closer, exhaustion began to dull her fear.
She uncurled herself slowly, wincing as blood rushed back into her legs. For a moment, she stood there, steadying herself against the bed before crossing the room and pressing her ear to the door. She held her breath and listened, straining for any sound from the other side. The hallway beyond remained silent.
Elena finally let out the breath she'd been holding. She listened a moment longer before turning toward the window. Grey light had seeped through the curtains, slowly revealing the room around her. The bed stood against the far wall with the nightstand beside it. At the center of the room, a table sat with a chair tucked beneath it, while a rocking chair rested near the right window. To her left, a wardrobe stood beside another door.
The bathroom.
She shifted uncomfortably. She’d been holding herself for hours, too afraid to move, and the sight of the bathroom made the discomfort impossible to ignore.
She wanted to go. She needed to. But the bathroom was his.
At her father's house, she had survived by using the small, locked bathroom off the kitchen, the one he never entered. She had learned to time her needs around his absences, and needing things—food, water, or a place to relieve herself—was a liability, a crack in her invisibility.
But this wasn’t her father’s house. It was his. He had looked her in the eyes and said he had no interest in her. He hadn’t hurt her.
Kazimir Volkov. What kind of man is he?
She knew what kind of man her father was. She knew his moods, his temper, and how quickly a calm moment could turn violent. His kindness had never meant she was safe.
But this man was not her father. He had looked at her with those grey eyes and said he wouldn't touch her. Her father had said many things too, but this man hadn't been drinking. When he'd found her hiding behind the curtain, he hadn't dragged her out. He hadn't hit her. He'd just looked at her and walked away.
What if he was different? She knew better than to trust the thought, but she couldn’t quite let it go either.
Her gaze drifted to the wardrobe. It stood dark against the wall, its carved surface catching the window’s grey light. She couldn’t ask him what kind of man he was, but there were other ways to learn.
She edged toward the wardrobe, her heartbeat quickening as she reached for the brass handle. Holding it gently, she eased the door open, careful not to let it creak.
Inside, men’s suits hung in a neat row. They looked expensive, the kind that needed dry cleaning. Her fingers hovered over the nearest one before she reached out and brushed a sleeve. The fabric was soft and cool. It carried the dry, woody scent of cedar. She leaned in slightly, breathing it in again. She liked it. It was a quiet, clean scent, nothing like the sour fumes of wine and old sweat that clung to her father's clothes.
Elena tilted her head and studied the wardrobe again. Black shirts, folded in precise stacks on the upper shelf. Three black belts coiled neatly from a hook. Polished black shoes stood in a row along the bottom. She moved to the drawers and crouched, pulling the first one open just far enough to see inside. It contained black socks. She eased it shut and opened the next, revealing black undershirts. The lower drawer held more black shoes.
All black. So strange.
Her gaze drifted lower, moving over the shelves until a sliver of color, half hidden behind a pair of tall boots, caught her eye. Careful not to disturb them, she reached between the shoes and with a gentle tug, an emerald dress slid out.
The silk was cold and slippery beneath her fingertips, so soft it seemed to melt against her skin. She had never felt anything quite like it.
For a moment, Elena forgot her caution. She stroked the emerald silk again, a delighted smile spreading across her face as she drew it against herself. The back dipped low, and the hem fell against her ankles. On her, the dress would hang loose in places, never quite settling where it should, the generous folds of silk seeming to dwarf her. Her smile faded as she lowered the dress, though only halfway. Her fingers lingered in the silk, reluctant to let it leave her hands.
Then footsteps sounded outside the door. Elena's hands jerked. She shoved the dress back into the wardrobe, hurriedly pushing the drawer shut to conceal it.
A moment later, the door opened, and an old maid in a black-and-white uniform stepped inside. Elena's eyes darted toward the wardrobe before returning to the maid. Her hands twisted in the faded yellow fabric of her own dress, smoothing it down nervously before bunching it in her fingers again.
The maid's eyes swept over Elena beside the wardrobe, lingering only a moment before moving on to the rest of the room. Elena held her breath, searching the woman’s face for any hint of suspicion. But the maid's expression remained blank. She carried the tray to the center table and set it down with a soft clink before turning and leaving without a word.
The door clicked shut. Elena's gaze flicked toward it, then back to the tray, then to the door again. She listened, straining for any sound beyond the door. But the hallway remained silent.
Her eyes returned to the tray. Was it meant for her? Or for him?
She stared at the tray, torn between caution and hunger. Her stomach clenched and growled. Before she could think better of it, Elena snatched the toast and cup, her eyes darting toward the door as she hurried into the alcove. She pulled the curtain partly closed and ate quickly, listening for any sound beyond. Gradually, she relaxed enough to finish what was left.
She waited a little longer before easing the curtain aside and poking her head out. The room was still empty. Her eyes darted between the door and the wardrobe. Elena stepped out, returned the cup to the tray, and crossed back to the wardrobe.
The dress was still where she'd left it. Elena fussed with the folds, putting everything back as neatly as she could. As she straightened, she glanced at the bathroom again.
She still hadn't gone. But after rummaging through his wardrobe and taking his food, using his bathroom felt like one intrusion too many. She didn't know what might provoke him, and she had no intention of finding out. His bathroom was out of the question. Somewhere in the mansion, there had to be a servants' toilet she could use instead. The man in the grey suit had only told her not to try to escape. Elena would find a bathroom, then come straight back. That should be all right.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
She crossed to the door and tested the handle. It turned easily. She eased it open a crack and peered into the corridor. After a quick glance in either direction, she slipped through and pulled the door quietly shut behind her.
Once outside, Elena kept close to the wall, her bare feet padding silently across the floor. Soon, she realized she had no idea where she was going. The mansion seemed to unfold endlessly around her, corridors branching in every direction. She wandered down one at random, turning another corner when it seemed to lead nowhere.
Then the smell of freshly baked pastries and fried onions reached her. She followed the scent, hoping it might lead toward the servants' quarters. After another turn, the corridor narrowed, and there, at the far end, she spotted a door marked with a bathroom sign.
Relief bloomed inside her. She hurried toward it and reached for the handle, but before her fingers could close around it, the door swung open.
A broad-shouldered man stepped through, still fastening his belt. He looked up, caught sight of Elena, and stopped. His gaze dropped to her bare feet before returning to her face, a slow smile curving his lips.
"Well, who do we have here?" he chortled, taking a step toward her.
Elena turned to run, but he was faster. Before she could get more than a step, he moved into her path, blocking the corridor. She tried to slip past him, but he caught her by the arm and herded her backward until her back met the wall.
He leaned closer, studying her with that same oily smile. "What's the matter? Don't speak Italian? Or are you just too good to answer?"
His cheap cologne mingled with the smell of food, an unpleasant combination that made her stomach turn. Elena turned away, shaking her head, then made a small sound and pointed toward her mouth, hoping he would understand.
He followed her gesture and raised a brow. "You're the mute?"
When Elena nodded, he chuckled. His gaze traveled over her again, slower this time. He lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair from her shoulder, his fingers grazing her skin before letting it fall.
Her heart hammered, but her body wouldn't move. Her feet felt rooted to the floor, her hands numb, sweat breaking out along her spine. Elena squeezed her eyes shut. If she couldn't see him, he wasn't there. If she was very still, he would get bored. If she was nothing, he would leave.
Please be bored. Please look away. Please, please, please.
But the man didn't move away. She felt his heat press around her, his sour cologne closing in like a hand around her throat. He leaned closer and closer until she could smell the stench of his breath.
"Marco!" a voice barked from down the hall.
The hand vanished. Elena's eyes opened a fraction. She dragged in a shallow breath, then another, her legs trembling as she leaned against the wall.
The man, Marco, straightened at once. His smirk disappeared, replaced by an easy, practiced slouch.
Another man, thinner and older than Marco, approached. His face remained expressionless as his eyes passed from Marco to Elena in a single, measured glance.
"Kazimir wants the perimeter report. Now."
"Whatever," Marco muttered. He gave Elena one last look, then sauntered away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Elena stayed pressed against the wall, the back of her neck still prickling with sweat. Her heartbeat thudded in her temples as she kept her eyes lowered, watching the lanky man from the corner of her vision. He said nothing, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched until he gave a small jerk of his chin.
She understood the dismissal and pushed herself off the wall. Her legs threatened to buckle, but she steadied herself and started walking. A few steps later, she stopped. The turns she'd taken to get there had blurred together, leaving her facing a maze of identical hallways. She hesitated, unsure which way to go.
She heard him exhale through his nose. "This way," he said.
Elena froze for a heartbeat, then hurried after him, keeping several paces behind. One corridor became another, then another, until she had lost all sense of direction again. The route was more convoluted than she'd realized, and when they finally stopped outside her door, she felt grateful she hadn’t been left to find the path back alone.
Elena's hand paused on the handle as she glanced back at the man. He stood a few paces away, off to one side of the doorway, his eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder. She lingered there for a moment, unsure what to say. Should she thank him? Apologize? Neither felt quite right.
The man's gaze flicked to her for the briefest moment before returning to the wall. "Go inside."
She nodded and slipped through the door, letting it clicked shut behind her. The pressure in her bladder sharpened the moment she was alone. She pressed her thighs together, breathing in short, shallow bursts as she stared at the bathroom door.
She had tried, that was what she told herself. She had left the room and done everything reasonable to avoid using Kazimir's bathroom, but Marco had ruined that plan. The servants' toilet was somewhere beyond these corridors, and she no longer trusted herself to find it. That left his bathroom as her only option. She could only hope using it wouldn't provoke him.
Elena took a deep breath and stepped into the bright bathroom. The tiles were icy under her bare feet, sending shivers up her calves as she hurried across the room. She used the toilet as quickly as she could, then flushed and watched the water disappear down the bowl.
At the sink, she turned the tap to a thin stream. Cold water ran over her knuckles, chasing away the last of the numbness. She scrubbed quickly, watching the soap suds slide down the drain.
Pushing herself upright, a lock of hair slipped across her face. Her hand rose to brush it back, then paused as she looked up at the mirror. Loose strands clung to her temples and the sides of her neck. Her face was pale, and the yellow dress clung to her shoulders, damp with sweat.
Elena’s hands stilled beneath the stream. She studied her reflection, but all she could see was Marco’s face. That smile. That look in his eyes. She had seen it before on her father, the moment he realized he had power over her. Marco had seen her fear. He knew she was vulnerable. He had found her. And now there was nowhere left for her to hide.
She reached for the loose strands around her face and shoved them back with trembling fingers. She smoothed them again. Then again. The collar of her dress was crooked. She straightened it. A damp spot marked the fabric, and she rubbed at it until the cloth bunched beneath her fingers. Her hands wouldn't stop. Hair. Collar. Dress. She moved from one to the next, faster now, pinching, smoothing, tugging. A strand caught beneath her nail. She yanked it free.
She looked up. His eyes stared back from the mirror.
Elena shook her head and stumbled back, one hand flying to her mouth. Hot, shallow breaths struck her palm. She swallowed, but her throat felt sealed shut.
No. No, no, no, no, no, no—
Elena backed away from the mirror, then turned and fled into the bedroom toward the alcove. She rushed toward it, nearly catching her foot on the edge of the bed. Her fingers fumbled for the curtain and tore it open. She crawled inside, pulled the curtain behind her, and folded herself into the corner, clutching the pillow against her chest.
Please. Please leave me alone. Please forget me. Please lose interest. I’ll be good. I’ll do anything. Please leave me alone. Please, please, please, please, please.
She pressed her face into the pillow, fingers twisting into the fabric. Her teeth chattered. She tried to draw a deeper breath, but her chest seized, forcing the air back out in a thin, ragged gasp. She tried again. The next breath came faster, shallower. She couldn't seem to get enough air.
And then she smelled it. A woody, clean scent. She buried her nose into the pillow, and she breathed in again, tentatively at first. The scent was stronger this time. Familiar. She drew in another breath, almost without meaning to. Her grip on the pillow softened.
A sob escaped her throat. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes then slipped free, tracing warm paths down her cheeks. Curled around the pillow, she breathed in the woody scent between quiet sobs, letting it fill her lungs. The trembling gradually subsided. Her breaths came farther apart now, then steadier, until the only thing she could feel was the pillow beneath her cheek and the faint woody fragrance clinging to the fabric.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 9/2/26 - Final edits