The next time you wake it's once again to the gloom of your room. Not quite gloom; the candles are lit. You roll onto your back, staring up at the flickering light of the candelabra. The three men must have come into your room while you were sleeping.

You sit up with a start and smooth your hands down your body, wondering if they've somehow poisoned you again and perhaps rubbed more of that lotion on you—or done other things. It's hard to tell. You feel normal, just sticky from the last time they touched you. Sniffing at the air, you look across your shoulder to the desk. Someone's cleaned up the mess and left you more food. How they didn't wake you is a surprise. You must have been really tired. You haven't eaten all day and the smell tightens a knot in your stomach.

You ignore it.

Slipping from the bed, you grab at your legs with a hiss. They're aching! Why are they aching? You must have hurt them during the fall somehow. Trying to ignore it, you grab up your usual sheet and tie it around you before hobbling over to the windows to peer between the curtains. The setting sun stabs at your eyes, making you pull back with a wince. You look back at your bed, thinking of your desperate plan. The sheets are new and strong-looking, the blankets thick.

It could be done.

Squinting, you peer between the curtains again and look down below. So far! Nausea swirls in your stomach as you remember how you almost fell to your death. You think of how terrible you were at the ropes at school. Can you even trust yourself to hold your weight up?

You step back, then look to the doors. There's no harm in trying again, as futile as it might be. You grab at your legs again, giving your aching calves a rub, before hobbling over to the only real exit. You stare up at the doors' huge height.

You yank on the handle. Taking a deep breath, you brace your shoulder against one of the doors and heave. Feeling it give, you pull back in amazement, letting it click shut. Heart hammering, you remember the knife and hurry over to the bed to fetch it.

There's every possibility you'll need it.

The door creaks, then moans as you lean your shoulder against it, gripping the knife awkwardly as you use all your body weight to open it. Step by step you slowly push it open, gritting your teeth, gasping for breath. Your shoulder is aching. Finally, it's open enough that you can slip through. You wince as it booms shut behind you. Why you've suddenly managed to open it is a mystery, but a mystery you can ponder later.

You're in a hallway, a row of torches bracketed into the wall on one side. On the other side are arched windows, similar to those of your room, staggered evenly along the length of the hallway like the torches, letting in the red glow of sunset. It's spooky. Almost dungeon-like. And again you can't help but wonder where the hell you are. The air doesn't feel right. The smells don't smell right. And it's cooler than it should be.

How far away from home are you?

A man with wings can take you anywhere. You grab at your arms, trying not to think about it.

With no time to lose, you hurry along, or at least try to—your legs are still aching. You look through the windows but they reveal no more than your bedroom windows.

The hall seems to go forever until you eventually pass through a doorway. The room beyond is small and square and looks like some kind of turret room. There's no furniture or any other object except another one of those terrible bearskin rugs.

Across the room is another doorway, which you pass through. Another hallway and you come across a door on your left. It's twilight now and moonlight shines against the handle. Unlike the doors to your room, they're small—and locked. You come across another two sets of doors, one of which is huge (again, locked), before finally reaching the end of the hall at another set of big doors. You pause. There's a door knocker and it's in the shape of a bull. You swallow as you stare at its horns.

Don't go in. Don't go in. Don't go in.

Your head and body seem to be at war with each other. Your mind tells you to withdraw while your body aches to keep on ahead. You can smell him. He must be beyond the doors. Keeping very still, you listen.

You take a step back, then another and another. You look over your shoulder, then back again, and before you know it, you're back at the doors, gripping the handle.

Stop! What are you doing?! Are you crazy?!

This time you grip the knife between your teeth as you lean your shoulder against one of the doors and heave like the last time. You slip through, being careful to make sure the door shuts quietly.

Transferring the knife back to your hand, you blink against the darkness. Like your room, the curtains are shut, but your eyes adjust quickly. The room is twice the size of yours with just as little furniture, but you hardly notice any of it, your eyes fixed on the bed.

Standing frozen, you stare. It's hard to see anything more than a large bulge amid the sheets but you know it's him. The smell is overwhelming. His breathing is deep and growling, almost animal-like.

He's asleep.

Are you sure? Are you freakin' sure?! Go back. Go back. Go back!

It's almost strange to see him in bed. As a monster, shouldn't he be sleeping in the woods somewhere? Or in a cave? Or on a pile of skeletons?

Hardly breathing, you keep quiet on your tiptoes. The only thing loud is the pounding of your heart.

You reach the edge of his massive bed. He's sleeping on his side, his back to you. Even in the darkness you can see the hard muscles in his shoulders. His hair rests in a tangle against his pillow. Vaguely, you see the outline of the jutting bones of his spine. The sheets are wrapped around his legs, revealing his muscular arse.

His horns. One of them you can see. It's pointing the other way, puncturing the darkness. His shoulder lifts at every breath. What are you doing here? What do you want to happen? What do you expect to do?

The knife feels so small and useless in your hand. Was it your intention to kill him? Stab him through the eye maybe? You don't know. You don't know what the hell you're thinking. It's almost like you don't know yourself anymore.

All you know is that this is a very bad idea.

You take a step away, only to freeze as he rolls onto his back. You bite back a shout, but his eyes aren't open. He gives a little grunt as he blindly scratches at his chest.

Jesus.

The sheets have pulled away and you can see all of him now. The smell of him fills your lungs and seems to swamp your brain. You feel fuzzy. The room feels fuzzy. His penis is limp and rests against his right leg like a wrinkled slug. It's not as frightening as before but it's frightening enough. Even flaccid it's so huge!

Suddenly, he arches his back, stretching himself out as he lifts his arms above his head and yawns. The muscles in his abdomen clench, then smooth out. His biceps bulge. He reminds you of a lion with his canines. Then his eyes flicker.

You crouch to the floor, then scramble behind one of the bedposts. The bed creaks as he moves. It sounds like he's sitting up. With no other choice, you throw yourself under his bed, clutching the knife close to your chest.