To the tank top sticking to my skin with sweat.
He swallows.
He actually swallows.
Royal doesn’t react.He doesn’t breathe loud.He doesn’t break.
But right now, he’s breaking.
The moment stretches thin as wire.
Dangerous.
Fragile.
Then he turns abruptly, like if he stays, he’ll do something we both can’t come back from.
“You’re staying,” he says at the door.“Until we figure this out.”
“I ain’t your prisoner.”
“You are,” he says softly.“Legend wants answers.And you’re a question I don’t know how to answer.”
He leaves.
Somehow, the stillness after he left is like fingers closing around my throat.
I drop back onto the cot, adrenaline buzzing under my skin.My hand slides beneath my tank top, fingers brushing the hidden key.Cold metal.My one weapon.
The Reverend’s basement key.
I stole it weeks ago when I still believed I could outmaneuver my daddy.When I still believed I had to help him get Paradise Falls.Back after I lost my job at the Hollar Dollar, my only real income aside from Legend’s scraps.But now?This key might save more than just me.Because Pearly Gates ain’t a church.It’s a trap.
A machine that eats girls whole.Just like it ate my soul.I slide the key under the mattress and lie perfectly still, waiting for the night to thicken.Hours drip by.Near midnight, the lock clicks.
I go limp.
Slow my breathing.Pretend sleep.Royal enters.I don’t move.But every nerve in my body rises toward him like a tide.
His boots pause beside the cot.He’s close enough I can sniff cedar, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of his blade oil.The chain tugs lightly when I shift in fake-sleep.My shirt rides up, baring a strip of skin.
I hear his breath catch.A single, sharp inhale.
Then nothing.
But the air hums.Crackles.Like storm clouds rubbing together.
He watches me.
Long enough for my heartbeat to sync with the silence.Long enough for me to feel him come undone by inches.I hear a zipper.He’s touching himself.Then he backs away.Leaves without touching me.
The door clicks shut.
My eyes fly open, and I grin.Because Royal thinks he’s in control.He thinks he’s the jailer.But I’ve got the key.
Literally.
And figuratively.
