“Did you contact anyone?” I ask, voice level.
She doesn’t blink. “No.”
A lie. I saw it myself, but the way she delivers it—steady, unashamed—strikes something deep and restless in me. I step closer, enough for her to feel the tension coming off my skin.
“You’re braver than most men I’ve killed,” I say, watching for a reaction.
Her pulse stutters in her throat. I see it, a small betrayal of fear or adrenaline. Still, she holds her ground.
“Should I be scared of that?” she asks quietly.
I watch her for a long moment, letting her see the weight of my answer. “You should be, but you’re not. That’s what makes you dangerous.”
She’s trembling, but it’s from exhaustion, not surrender. I sense a flicker of respect, even admiration. Not for what she’s done, but for what she refuses to give.
I want to reach out, to close the last bit of space between us, to see if her defiance would last when confronted with the reality of what I am. Instead, I step back, fighting down the urge.
“If you try to contact anyone again, I won’t be so forgiving,” I say, voice flat.
Clara meets my eyes, refusing to look away. “If you wanted to punish me, you already would have.”
She’s right, and I hate that she knows it.
Clara doesn’t flinch when I step closer, even as the tension between us thickens. There’s defiance in her eyes, but also calculation. She’s not reckless. That’s clear now. The call wasn’t a cry for rescue or a stupid attempt to outsmart me.
She only wanted her friend to know she was safe. I can respect that more than I want to admit.
I let the silence stretch between us. She holds my gaze, refusing to back down. I find myself almost smiling, though the feeling is unfamiliar, tugging at something I usually keep buried. For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then I speak, quieter than before. “You’re not a prisoner. Not really. I wanted to see what you’d do if I gave you a choice.”
She laughs, but there’s no real humor in it. “Some choice. A locked drawer and ten minutes of hope.”
I nod once, acknowledging the point. “Still, you didn’t try to run.”
“You made sure I couldn’t.”
“You could have screamed. Broken something. Forced my hand.”
She looks at me, searching for any sign of a trick. “Would it have mattered?”
“Yes.” I surprise myself with how much I mean it.
She studies my face for another heartbeat, then glances away. “So what now? Are you here to move the goalposts again?”
I pause, considering. I came to confront her, but now that I see the lines of exhaustion and stubborn resolve on her face, something shifts. Maybe it’s time to test what happens if I loosen my grip. Not as a game, but something closer to trust. Or curiosity. Or both.
“I’m going to show you the house,” I say. “You can leave this room. I’ll decide where you go. For now, you’ll stay with me.”
Her eyes widen, uncertainty flickering there. “Why?”
“You’re smart enough not to do something foolish. I’m tired of watching you pace this room like a caged animal.”
She stands, smoothing the front of her borrowed shirt, and gives me a look that’s half suspicion, half challenge. “Are you saying you trust me?”
“No. I’m saying I trust your sense of self-preservation.”
She almost smiles at that. “You must be desperate for company.”
