Jessa James - Covet

There is a window with a seat built into it, the same as there is in my room. There’s a big bed draped in black silk, and a set of bedside tables. A door leading to Monster’s bathroom, a sleek black cabinet for clothing storage, and a plain wooden bookshelf.

This time, though, I take my time. I feel the silk of the sheets on Monster’s bed, crushing them against my leg. I sit in the window seat and look out over the broad front yard. It makes a kind of sense now how Monster spotted us Sin and me quickly when we tried to escape.

Getting extra nosy, I look into his bathroom, at his personal effects he keeps there. A razor with wicked-looking blades, a fancy shaving brush, a comb. Toothpaste and a toothbrush. I pick up his aftershave and hold it to my nose. The scent of his aftershave is very woodsy and clean, cedar, wood smoke, and lemon.

It makes me think of his neck. I can picture myself smelling his scent on his collar. On more than one occasion he must have come straight to me after he showered and shaved.

The bathroom has been recently cleaned, and there are no traces left of whatever shampoo he uses in the clawfoot tub. There is a little wedge of his soap left in a dish, though.

I pick it up and smell it, admiring the smooth ivory color. It’s probably nothing fancy, but the smell of the soap, and knowing that he used it… I can’t keep myself from breaking off a bit.

He’ll never miss it. Besides, if I ever get caught, this will be the least of my concerns.

Carrying the little bit of soap out into his bedroom, I turn to his bed once more. Setting the soap down, I notice that the picture of Monster and the girl is no longer on his bedside table. Nor is it in the bedside drawer when I open it.

That gives me pause. That picture didn’t just disappear on its own. But what does it being gone mean?

Heading over to the other side of the bed, I slide open the drawer on the other bedside table. I find a container of lubricant, a photo of me taken while I was obviously asleep… and the same little slip of satin that I recognize all too well.

Monster has the panties I was wearing when I was brought here, right next to some lube in his bedside table. And the picture of me… mouth slightly open, eyes closed, face relaxed…

If these things belonged to anyone else, I would be surprised. Shocked, even.

But for some reason, nothing really shocks me where Monster is concerned. I’ve just seen too much to even be more than mildly bothered by the contents of the drawer.

So, Monster’s a pervert who violates my privacy. There’s nothing new in that piece of information, is there?

As I put it all back inside and start closing the drawer, something catches my eye. A single silken thread, as black as the sheets, dangles precariously from the drawer.

I know this trick all too well, as it’s one I set up many times. When I was younger, I would leave single strands of my hair in my diary or in drawers, to catch interlopers. More often than not, when my clumsy brothers thought they were being sly looting through my panty drawer, I would catch them that way.

Monster has set a trap. For some reason, he’s worried about having his privacy invaded when he’s not here. On one hand, I can imagine that if there were anything to be kept private in this room, it would be his drawer full of masturbation material. On the other, the bedroom is in a mansion full of maids who fear him and guards who follow him.

If any place in the world is safe from intruders, it’s in here. Then again, I am actively snooping through his stuff, so, maybe he’s right to be worried about it.

I try to wedge the strand back in the drawer as best I can, but there’s no doubt that I got it wrong. There are a thousand ways that Monster could’ve arranged the thread to hang in the drawer. It’s basically hopeless.

Biting my lip, I turn and pick up the bit of soap from the bed. I’m ready to tiptoe back to the secret passageway when the bookshelf catches my eye.

Drawn like a magnet, I wander over to it. I pull out a copy of The Great Gatsby , finding the same scribbles in this book as in the copy of Hamlet I was gifted. They are still illegible, still in what I presume is Greek.

All the same, they are comforting to me in some way. At least Monster is consistent in his madness.

Putting Gatsby back, I scan the shelves for something surprising or out of place. Something that will tell me about Monster. After all, that is what I came here to find.

After pulling out a few titles and shaking the pages, I hit pay dirt in the oldest looking book on the shelves. Its title is obscured by age and wear, its pages yellowed and tattered.

But the really good stuff comes when I try to shake out its pages. A big stack of photos falls out, looking like they’re mostly from the late seventies and early eighties. I pick them up off the ground, immediately struck by the first photo.

Three boys, all skinny and tanned and wearing rags. It’s obvious right away which one is Monster. He stares into the camera like he could get a piece of your soul that way if he tried hard enough.

I’m familiar with that exact stare. Quite familiar.

That stare of his still gives me a little chill, even though it is coming from at least twenty or twenty-five years in the past.

I flip to the back, where their names are printed very neatly. I can’t make out the rest, but I can read the names: Dryas, Arsen, Damen.

My chill comes back, needling me with cold, spiny fingers. Damen, I’ve met; he almost raped me.

That leaves Dryas and Arsen. I sound the names out. Dry-az. Ahr-sen .

Neither of them really seems right for the man I know only as Monster. Cocking my head with a sigh, I turn to the next photo.

It’s a photo of Monster and a little girl on a street corner, laughing about something. They have that ecstatic look that you can only have when you’re really young and really happy. On the back is written Arsen y Diana .

So, his name is Arsen, then. My Monster has a name.

I hear a noise, somewhere far off. It’s enough to make me shove the photos back in the book, put the book on the shelf, and scurry to the hidden door. I almost close the door, then I remember the bit of soap that I left on the bookshelf.

Sprinting to grab it and rushing back, I finally manage to close the passageway behind me. I’m not even sure what it was I heard, but better safe than sorry.

Clutching my stolen fragment of soap, Monster’s given name on my lips, I hurry out of the passage altogether.

He’s gone for several days before I see him again. At least this time, he left me real clothes. The maids wheel in several hanging rods of clothes and boxes and boxes of pretty dresses tucked in colorful tissue paper. Shoes are stacked high in baskets brought in by the servants.

Most exciting of all, a pair of plain white slippers and several pairs of riding jodhpurs in just my size. I change excitedly, almost in disbelief that I’m this happy to see stretchy pants.

I mark the days by playing with Cerberus, whose exuberance for life I find refreshing. Tiring, too, but mostly it’s a breath of fresh air.

Cerberus accompanies me down to the stables. The fact that I’m followed by no less than four bodyguards is disappointing, but not entirely surprising to me. I choose to ignore that.

Instead, I spend time introducing Cerberus to the horses. He’s very wary of them at first and won’t even go near their stalls. Used to going everywhere I go, he barks up a storm whenever he sees me getting close to Reina and Rey.

Petting the two beautiful black horses, I wonder if Monster realized that he was getting me a black puppy as well. Part of me wants to know if he even thought out Cerberus’s purchase at all, or whether Cerberus just happened to be around the house already.