5
Phoenix
The first thingI clock when the door opens is the sound. Metal on metal, a single clack instead of the double that’s come every other time.
He’s getting sloppy. Only one bolt on the container.
The second thing I notice is his face.
Danner’s eyes don’t just look at me. They’re calculating, skimming every part of me, and I force myself to swallow bile as they rake over my mouth, my throat, my chest, and even my legs like he’s checking inventory, pausing where he wants to linger just a little longer.
I feel each hesitation like a physical thumbprint pressed into my skin. His gaze lands low and lingers on my core. He licks his lips. A hard line pushes against his zipper.
The ancient feminine part of me, the part that’s lived lives prior to this one, the one that’s suffered and kept going…she knows what’s coming.
My body knows before my brain can form the words. Every muscle pulls tight, like I’ve been cinched from the inside.
I slide my palm into my pocket and close around the screw. It’s cold. Steadying. A single point of order in a room designed to feel like chaos incarnate.
Keep it.
Use it.
Breathe.
He balances a tray on the makeshift table like this is room service and we’re in civilized society, like this is a normal day and I’m a normal girl, and he’s not about to ruin my life in a way I’ll never recover from. A metal cup rattles against a metal plate, and I’m assaulted by the smell of stale bread and lukewarm broth.
“Good news,” he says. “We’ve come to the time of your stay when you get the rules.”
My dry lips move on autopilot. “Lucky me.” The words come out like they belong to someone else. Lighter. Someone who didn’t wake up chained inside a metal box with no real chance of fighting for freedom.
Don’t give up. Phoenix Jones never gives up.
He drags the metal chair around with a screech that sets my teeth on edge and straddles it, forearms over the back. He’s giving the performance of his life, presenting the pose of a man who thinks his comfort is the center of the universe.
His knees spread wide, inviting his fantasy into the space between us.
“Rule one,” he says, like he’s reading a manual. It makes me sick to think that he’s done this so often that the words come out as smooth as they do. “You talk when you’re talked to. No backtalk. No questions. You do as you’re told. You say ‘sir,’ and you say ‘thank you’ for being allowed to live. Save your fight for when I say you can spend it.” He laughs like he’s told a funny joke. “Trust me. You’re going to need it for what we have planned for you.”
I keep my face still. Blank. Bored.
Inside, my mind is already doing the math the way Atticus would. One bolt on the door. The clamp lamp angle. Filament exposed at the very edge. The distance from where I am to the bed. The length of the chain strapped to my ankle. The weight of the screw in my hand.
Every possible tool or way out… I have to focus on those things, because the reality of Danner’s plans are traumatic and horrendous, and I can’t let him see that he’s having any effect on me.
He tips his chin at the sink and the field toilet, the whole corner a shrine to degradation. “Stay presentable. Boss likes clean.” His gaze crawls to my hair, tangled and greasy, with several days’ worth of fear and sweat caked in. “You’ll get a brush if you earn it.”
I glance at the rust-streaked basin. “Can’t wait.”
He smirks like he’s been waiting for this line. “Rule two isn’t really for you. No marks on the face. Anyone bruises you or puts something where it shows, I break their fingers. That’s my fun to have. Only mine.”
He leans in, breath stale. “Rule three.” His voice drops, dripping with intimacy he doesn’t deserve. “Nobody touches you without permission.”
The air around us thins imperceptibly. My fingers clench around the screw until the thread bites into the palm of my hand.
“Permission from me?” I keep it flat.
He laughs, pleased with himself for earning a reaction out of me. “That’s funny. You’re a funny girl. Permission from me. Or the boss.”
