The window set high on the wall leaked that strange, colorless light—too weak for midday, too gray for anything but the uncertain hours of early morning or late afternoon.
My heartbeat was too loud in my ears, a frantic percussion that made me feel like my heart might claw its way out of my chest. The panic was there, coiled tight beneath my ribs, waiting to spring. I could feel it building by the second.
I needed to calm down.
I took in a long breath, then breathed out, nice and slow.
The panic ebbed slightly, pulled back like a reluctant tide, though I could still feel it lurking at the edges.
If I strained my ears hard enough, I could hear soft footsteps overhead, moving across the floor above me.
Tom was up there. Which—of course he was. Where else would he be?
I pushed myself up to a sitting position, ignoring the way my vision swam and my stomach lurched. The cuffs around my wrists bit into my skin. He’d secured me to a pipe running along the wall—far enough that I could move, sit up, even stand if I wanted to. Close enough that I couldn’t reach the stairs.
The footsteps moved toward the basement door.
My pulse spiked. Every muscle in my body tensed, coiled tight with adrenaline and fury. The door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and light spilled down in a harsh yellow flood, making me squint against the sudden brightness.
There were footsteps once again, descending now.
Tom appeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding a plate of food. The sight of him sent a fresh wave of rage crashing through me. He’d changed his shirt, I noted with a detached sort of curiosity. The scratches I’d left down his cheek had been cleaned, three parallel lines standing out angry and red against his skin. There was a bruise forming along his jaw where I must have caught him during the fight.
The sight of those marks made satisfaction bloom in my chest. At least I’d managed to hurt him; it didn’t matter how little.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, maintaining a careful distance. His eyes found mine, and something flickered across his face—regret, maybe, or concern, or some sick approximation of both.
As if he had any right to either.
“You son of a bitch.”
My voice emerged gravelly and raw, barely recognizable as my own. Speaking hurt, sent fresh pain lancing through my throat, but I didn’t care. The rage burned hotter than any physical discomfort, consuming everything else in its path.
“I can see why you might be angry,” he said, and I wanted to punch him. Wanted to smash his face until bone gave way beneath my fists, until even his own mother wouldn’t recognize what was left.
“No fucking kidding.”
Tom’s gaze dropped to my neck. I could feel the bruises there myself—tender and swollen, the phantom shape of his fingers imprinted on my skin like a brand. His brow furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say he looked apologetic.
He took a step forward, as if to come closer. His free hand lifted slightly, like he wanted to reach out and touch me, to examine up close the damage his own hands had done.
He stopped himself at the last second and let his hand fall back to his side.
Too bad. I really wanted him to come closer, to get within range. He’d taken me by surprise before, overwhelmed me with speed and strength I hadn’t been prepared for.
I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” he quietly said.
I stared at him, waiting for the rest. Waiting for something—anything—that would make sense of this nightmare. But there was nothing. Just silence and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
“What did you imagine, then?” I asked, my voice dripping with venom.
Tom didn’t answer. He just stood there, holding that stupid plate of food like a peace offering.
“No, seriously.” I leaned forward as much as the restraints would allow. “What did you think would happen? Did you have a plan, or were you just winging it? Because from where I’m sitting, this seems pretty fucking improvised.”
“I never went that far.” His voice took on an almost contemplative quality, as if we were discussing a hypothetical rather than the fact that I was chained in his basement.
