True to his words, he returns to me that night, and it’s the start of a new pattern, one which makes my captivity easier to bear. During the day, I’m forcibly reminded that I’m a prisoner. My activities are mainly limited to walking around the apartment, which, though bigger than any place I’d stayed in until then, feels cramped. I guess it’s because in my previous life, I spent so much time walking outside.
I also try to do what I imagine Damien would want me to, though apart from telling me to wake up at seven, choosing my clothes, and expressing his distaste of TV, he hasn’t given me too many indications of how he wishes I would spend my time. I try to eat at least half of everything Lucy serves me, and work through the books on the shelves. I’ve never been one to read, but slowly, I start to enjoy it. Somehow I end up reading most of them in just a few weeks. When I first arrived, the number of books felt neverending, but I guess I do have a neverending amount of time at my hands.
I don’t read in case he’s watching on his feed. I read because Iknowhe’s watching—and also, because I want him to be proud of me when he comes to see me at night.
I’m well aware of the irony. During the day, alone in a luxury apartment, I feel like a prisoner. At night, though I’m in the arms of my captor, I feel free.
So free that I speak more than I ever have in my life. I’ve even gotten better at asking him questions about himself, now that I see how willing he is to answer them.
Over the next few weeks, I find out a lot about him. About how abusive his father was, how he became friends with Logan infirst grade, how the two of them made a pact in third grade to one day leave Oakley far behind. How they accepted hanger-on Everest into the pact. How in sophomore year, they both dropped out and started doing odd jobs for the mafia. How they met Vale, then, and Igor, his henchman, who were a lot higher up on the ladder. How all five of them managed to launch Devil when Damien was just seventeen, thanks to those connections. How they quickly became the most powerful criminals in the state.
“All because we never got tattoos, so people thought we were respectable,” declares Damien, though the dangerous glint in his eyes tell me he’s keeping certain things from me. Maybe he thinks I can’t handle it. But I’m keeping just as much from him, for the same reason, so I can’t exactly fault him.
I also learn a lot of other things about him, things I never would have thought could interest me. I don’t think I’ve ever been interested in another person before. But I cling hungrily to every morsel of information he gives me.
I learn the title of his favorite book (The Stranger, by Camus), his favorite movie (The Duelby Spielberg), his favorite food (pasta), even his favorite color (he doesn’t have an immediate answer for me, but after thinking about it for a while, he says it might as well be red.)
I don’t tell him about pink being mine, because it feels a little silly. But he guesses it right away.
He answers every one of my questions, and I get a lot braver. Until one evening, when I ask a question I really want to know.
“Why am I here?”
It seems to take him by surprise, and for a moment, he stops rolling his tongue around my nipple.
“Please continue,” I beg, and, shaking his head in amusement, he goes back to pleasuring me.
In those weeks of closeness, his touch is far more important than the thoughts that haunt me during the day.
In the evenings, they’re mostly forgotten, lost in some far away place along with the nightmares. I haven’t had another bad dream since he’s begun to stay with me at night.
Still, even pleasure can’t entirely keep the thoughts at bay.
It takes a full week for me to ask him again. “Why am I here?”
“Because you belong to me,” he growls.
“I don’t think so. I don’t think you would have taken me if it had been up to you. You’re not that kind of man.”
He scowls, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You have no idea what kind of man I am, pet.”
“And you have no idea what kind of womanIam.”
His face softens at that. “You’re a very cute, very sweet little pet, and you’re mine.”
So I’m right. In spite of his uncanny ability to read my eyes, deep down, he really has no idea about me. For the first time, I find myself wanting to tell someone, to tellhim, but my tongue is still tied when it comes to that night when everything changed. “My father died,” I manage.
“Yes, you told me. And I read the article,” he murmurs, kissing me. “A murder-suicide, if I remember correctly. I’m sorry, my pet.”
No. I wish I could tell him the truth, but instead, my heart clutches at those words.I’m sorry.I know he’s not actually apologizing, but the words feel softer than anything I’ve heard before. They mean he cares.
His thoughts are fixated on something else. He seems to want to share something too, but he pauses a few times before beginning, “You’re right. The reason you’re here is not so simple.”
“Does it have something to do with the nanochip?”
He stares at me, and I detect something new in his eyes. Something like suspicion.
“How do you know about that?”
