And, of course,nophone.
No sharp objects. No blades. Nothing I could turn in my hand and make hurt.
The books on the table pull at me next. I cross the room and crouch by the low stack, reading titles by the strip of light that sneaks around the curtains.
There’s a slim poetry collection. A battered copy of some philosophical text. A leather-bound volume so old it looks like you’re not supposed to touch it without gloves.
The one on top is fiction. Crime, by the feel of it. British author. I flip it open to the middle.
Margin notes. Not printed.Handwritten. Strong, clean lettering in black ink. Harsh angles. Precise. Aman’shand.
I skim the notes on one page. They’re not about the prose. They’re about motive.
—He doesn’t react to the blood. He reacts to the disrespect.
—Not rage. Principle.
—This is where he decides she’s his.
Heat curls at the base of my throat. It’s not attraction. It’s recognition.
Whoever wrote this doesn’t read for entertainment. He reads to understand leverage. To understand possession.
I shut the book and slide it back where I found it.
“I’mnotyours,” I say under my breath.
That one I don’t whisper for the camera. I whisper it for myself, and I mean it.
The nausea finally ebbs enough that I trust my body. I stand and circle the bed, bending, checking underneath.
No restraints installed in the frame. No ankle cuff points. No bolted hardware.Interesting.
So this isn’t an interrogation room. This is… staged comfort. Soft captivity. Which is worse, somehow.
If they wanted to terrify me, they’d have left me in a basement with a drain in the floor. This is not that. This is careful. This is curated. This is,we can make you compliant without scaring you, if you cooperate.
It’s also,we can take that away the second you don’t.
I move to the en suite next—because of course there’s an en suite. The door is cracked open, and I slip in effortlessly. The bathroom is gorgeous. That’s my first thought, and I hate that I have it.
Black tile. Marble sink. Gold fixtures. A walk-in glass shower big enough for two, with steam still faintly fogging the lower panes like someone used it not long ago. Fresh towels hang on a heated rail. There’s a toothbrush, still in its packaging, and a small tray of toiletries laid out like some unsettling welcome basket: cleanser, lotion, lip balm.
Lip balm.
Whoever prepared this room thought of my split mouth. Heat crawls up my spine, not shame—rage. This is worse than being cuffed to a pipe. This is being managed. This is being anticipated.
This is someone telling me, without saying a word…I intend to keep you intact.
I grip the edge of the marble sink until my knuckles ache.
In the mirror, my reflection stares back. Red hair gone wild, a snarl of curls and tangles. Freckles standing out against skin that’s gone too pale. Eyes rimmed in shadow, but clear again. Focused. Awake now.
Not broken.
Good.
I turn on the tap, splash water over my face, then cup a handful and sip. It tastes clean, no bitterness, no chemical tang. Not drugged, then. Either they think I won’t try to run tonight, or they want me lucid when they come.
