“You had no right!” My voice broke, fracturing around the edges. “You had no right to do this to me. To make me—”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say the words out loud.
To make me care about you. To make me trust you. To make me think this was real.
The betrayal was almost worse than the fear. It sat in my chest like a living thing, clawing and burning, eating me from the inside out. I’d let him in. I’d let him see parts of me I’d never shown anyone else. I’d been vulnerable with him, and he’d used it. He’d lied to my face and I’d believed him because I wanted to believe him.
Because some stupid, naive part of me had thought I deserved something good for once in my life.
“Shay—” he tried again.
“Get out.” My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Get out. Get the fuck out!”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. But before I could start screaming again, he turned away and climbed the stairs. At the top, he paused, his silhouette dark against the yellow light.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Then the door closed. The lock clicked into place with a sound like finality.
And I was alone with nothing but my anger and the taste of blood in my mouth.
I yanked at the restraints again, harder this time, pulling until the metal cut deep enough that blood ran freely down my arms. The pain was bright and almost welcome. It gave me something to focus on besides the crushing weight in my chest.
I wasn’t going to die here. I wasn’t going to let him win.
I would get free.
And when I did, I’d make him pay for every single lie he ever told.
* * *
Tom came back a few hours later. I didn’t move from where I sat against the wall, my back pressed to cold concrete, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking tired or afraid.
This time, there was a crossword puzzle tucked under hisarm along with the meal.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“I figured you could use something to do.” He set the plate down within my reach, but not close enough that I could grab him if I lunged.
“I hate crosswords.”
He knew that. I’d told him once, months ago, when he’d been doing one over his morning tea and asked if I wanted to help. I’d made some comment about preferring actual torture to filling in tiny squares with obscure vocabulary.
He’d laughed then, kissed my forehead, and pulled me against him so we could continue to snuggle under the blanket.
The memory made bile rise in my throat now.
Tom looked almost embarrassed. “I know. I just wasn’t sure what else to bring you.”
“How about you give me the keys to these?” I rattled the chains, the sound sharp and loud against the pipe. “And we can go from there.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
I didn’t like how he used can’tinstead ofwon’t. How he pretended like it was beyond his control, as if he was just as trapped in this situation as I was. The deflection made anger spike hot behind my ribs.
There used to be a time when if I batted my eyelashes prettily enough, he’d give in without complaint. When he’d rearrange his entire schedule if I asked, as if making me happy was the most important thing in the world to him.
No. I reminded myself sharply, shaking my head. That was a different man. That was my Tom—the version I’d constructed in my head from lies and willful blindness.
