Housebound with the Blackridge Heirs novel Chapter 42

**Change Begins With You — Jayden Collins**
**Chapter 42**

**Maya**

Time had become a nebulous concept, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.

How many days had passed? Perhaps it was merely hours. In this sterile chamber, there was no clock to mark the hours, no sounds from the outside world to remind me that life continued beyond these walls. The light filtering through the curtains shifted in hues, sometimes a warm, golden glow, other times a cold, gray shade—but it never fully dimmed. It felt as if the sun and moon had conspired to keep me in a state of perpetual wakefulness.

Meals arrived with an unsettling regularity, each one presented on a gleaming silver tray that was slid silently through a small slot at the bottom of the door. Occasionally, the food was warm, but more often than not, it grew cold as I hesitated, my appetite having abandoned me in this strange, oppressive place. The plates vanished as quickly as they appeared, replaced by neatly folded clothes that bore a resemblance to what I might have worn at Blackridge… almost a semblance of normalcy.

Yet, it was all… too perfect.

And therein lay the crux of my despair.

The silence surrounding me was not an absence; it was a presence. It listened intently, as if the very air was alive, vibrating with the faintest hum behind the walls, akin to something breathing just out of sight, waiting.

By the second day, I had ceased my cries for help.

On the first night, I had screamed until my throat was raw, begging for mercy, cursing my captors, weeping in despair, and then laughing in a way that even startled me. But no one came to my aid. The collar around my neck pulsed each time my panic surged, a constant reminder to calm myself, as if it were a cruel guardian of my sanity.

So, I complied.

I began to track the passage of time by observing the sunlight as it danced across the floor. When it reached the leg of the table, I would tell myself that another day had come and gone. When the light finally faded, I would curl up in a ball and pretend to sleep, even though sleep felt like a distant memory.

Then, one morning—or whatever passed for morning in this place—the lock clicked.

I flinched as the door creaked open.

In walked the same two figures who had first entered my life in this confounding situation. The man and woman who had taken my name and twisted it into something accusatory.

The man was tall, with dark hair that framed a face carved with authority. His posture exuded an air of command, a trained soldier ready for battle. Beside him, the woman wore white once more, her blond hair perfectly pinned back, her expression so calm it bordered on unsettling.

“You look better,” the man remarked, his voice devoid of warmth.

I remained silent, unwilling to engage.

The woman offered a faint smile, one that felt rehearsed. “We were starting to worry you might not be eating.”

“Where am I?” My voice was a rasp, cracking from disuse. “And please, spare me the reassurances about being ‘safe.’ You people toss that word around as if it carries any weight.”

Neither of them flinched at my words. The man crossed the room and settled into the armchair opposite me, while the woman placed a sleek tablet on the table between us, its surface gleaming under the harsh light.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” she said, her tone gentle, reminiscent of a therapist coaxing a patient. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

“I’m already afraid,” I shot back, my heart racing.

“Good,” the man replied, his voice flat and unyielding. “Fear keeps you honest.”

The woman shot him a sharp look before redirecting her focus to me. “Let’s start with something simple. Your name is Maya Cole, correct?”

“Yes,” I affirmed, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re twenty.”

“Twenty-one next month,” I corrected, a flicker of defiance igniting within me.

“Born in Boston. No record of your parents. Multiple foster homes. Scholarship to Blackridge University.”

I swallowed hard. “You already know all this.”

“We do,” she acknowledged. “But we need to hear you articulate it.”

“Why?”

“So we can compare it to what you choose not to say.”

A chill slithered through my gut, coiling tightly.

The woman—Dr. Harman, I recalled him calling her—tapped her screen, scrolling through information with an unsettling ease.

“When did you first meet Caden Nightshade?”

My stomach plummeted. “Why does that matter?”

“Answer the question,” the man insisted, his gaze piercing.

“First week of school,” I replied, my heart racing.

“Has he ever bitten you?”

“What?” I was taken aback, my mind racing to comprehend the absurdity of the question.

The man leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his intensity palpable. “Don’t feign ignorance. Has he or has he not left a mark?”

“No!” I exclaimed, shaking my head vehemently.

“Has he ever lost control in your presence?”

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