He leans back, hands resting lazily on his knees, then taps a finger against his temple.
“Aren’t you a little cliché for a kidnapping victim?” he says. “You’ve been trying so hard to get into my head. Surely you know that’s not how you win. You’re smarter than this. Aren’t you?”
He leans forward again, and the shadows shift across his face, catching every line and crevice. His expression burns itself into my memory.
And his words crawl into my mind like spiders.
Of course he’s right. He knows I know he’s right. Even now, he’s playing me.
Get a hold of yourself, Cassian.
He wants someone to share the spotlight with. Someone who understands the rhythm of his act. He wants to relive the game, move by move, mistake by mistake. I see it in his eyes.
Because that’s what all this was for him, wasn’t it?
Everything he did to Sabine—watching her, sending her gifts, surrounding her with signs of his presence. It was never aboutconnection. There was no empathy. No attempt to see the world through her eyes.
He analyzed her. Studied her perspective.
But only to use it against her.
Only to savor the exact reactions he had hoped for.
And now he’s waiting for the same from me. Waiting for me to break, to give him something he can use. And if I don’t, I know he’ll make moves to force it.
I stare at him, throat tight, barely able to breathe past the rising panic. And the hatred. Lots of hatred.
“You’re right,” I say.
“I am,” he murmurs. “I’m right most of the time. Thought we at least had that thread of understanding in common.”
I breathe in through my nose, feel my chest expand, every tense muscle fiber protesting. But I need to calm down. I need to play the game.
“I suppose I’ve let myself slip.”
His eyebrows rise in interest.
I lower my gaze slightly. Not in submission, just enough to suggest I’m recalibrating. Reeling it in. Trying, as he clearly wants, to meet him on his stage. And god, what a stage it is.
The longer I look at it, the more I realize it’s designed to mimic something. A bar. There’s an old jukebox in the far corner. The area with the desk and screens is carpeted, even though the floor beneath is cold, damp concrete.
He’s going for a vibe, clearly. Trying to recreate something that made sense in his sick little world.
But the smell gives it away.
Mold. Mildew. Rot.
It clings to every breath I take.
“Well,” I say, voice steadier, “you’ve got me. All wrapped up. The game ended early, huh?”
He watches me. Hard. Those beady, unblinking eyes twitch at the edges, like he’s holding something back. A smile. A lunge. A slip into whatever version of himself lives behind that too-loose skin of a face.
Then, slowly, he begins to clap.
Three, maybe four lazy, theatrical claps that echo through the room.
“Bravo,” he says softly. “That’s more like it. There’s the soldier boy I wanted. The sharp one. The one who knows when he’s lost the upper hand and doesn’t waste time pretending otherwise. I knew you’d be fun.”
