I could picture it. Tank's rage, his desperation, his refusal to give up. The same stubbornness that had made him pursue me when I'd tried to push him away, that had made him refuse to let me disappear into my fear.
"It's sweet, really." Cross sat down on the bed beside me—too close, his thigh pressing against mine, his shoulder brushing my arm. "Tragic, but sweet. He thinks he can save you."
I held myself rigid, refusing to lean away, refusing to give Cross the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
"He can't, of course." Cross's hand landed on my knee, warm through the fabric of the pants he'd provided. "No one can. You're mine, Tyler. You've always been mine. And now that I have you back, I'm never letting you go again."
His hand slid higher—not quite to inappropriate territory, but close. Close enough to make his intentions clear. Close enough to remind me of all the nights I'd spent in his bed, all the times he'd touched me when I didn't want to be touched, all the ways he'd convinced me that my body belonged to him.
"Tell me you'll stay."
His voice was soft, intimate. His breath was warm against my ear. His hand was still on my thigh, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric.
"Say the words, Tyler. Tell me you'll stay, and this can be pleasant. I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you."
Liar. You always wanted to hurt me. You just wanted me to thank you for it afterward.
But the fear was real. The memory of what Cross could do—had done—was written on my skin, carved into my psyche. Part of me wanted to give in, to say whatever he wanted to hear, to survive.
And part of me—the part that Tank had woken up, that the club had nurtured, that I'd built piece by piece over three years of freedom—refused to break.
"I'll stay." The words tasted like ash on my tongue.
Cross smiled—wide, triumphant, satisfied. His hand squeezed my thigh once, possessive.
"I knew you'd come around. I knew you just needed time to remember?—"
"I'm lying."
His smile froze. "I'll say whatever you want me to say." I met his eyes for the first time since he'd entered the room. "But we both know it doesn't mean anything. You can keep me here. You can threaten everyone I care about. You can do whatever you want to my body. But you can't make me yours. Not again. Not ever."
Something cracked behind Cross's eyes. He moved fast—faster than I expected. His hand closed around my throat, slammed me back onto the bed, pinned me with his weight. Not squeezing, not choking, just holding me there. Showing me how easily he could.
"You've gotten brave." His voice was low, dangerous, nothing like the charming mask he usually wore. "That man taught you to talk back. Taught you to forget your place."
His free hand traced down my chest, my stomach, stopped at my waistband. A threat. A promise.
"I could remind you." His fingers played with the button of my pants. "Right now. I could show you exactly who you belong to."
Fear flooded through me—ice and fire and the sick certainty that he would do it, that he'd done it before, that nothing I said or did would stop him if he decided he wanted this. But I didn't beg. Didn't plead. Didn't give him what he wanted.
"Then do it," I heard myself say. "And prove that the only way you can have me is by force."
Cross's hand stilled. For a long moment, we stayed like that—his body pinning mine, his hand at my throat, his fingers frozen at my waistband. I could see the war in his eyes, the desire battling with pride, the need to break me fighting against the need to believe I wanted him.
Then he released me. Stood. Straightened his clothes with sharp, controlled movements. "You've changed." His voice was cold now, all pretense of warmth abandoned. "But you're still weak. You still break. And I still know exactly how to break you."
He walked to the door, knocked twice. "Perhaps you need more time to remember what happens when you defy me."
The door opened. Two guards this time, both armed, faces blank. "Twenty-four hours in the dark," Cross told them. "No food. No water. Let's see how brave he is after that."
The guards entered. Grabbed my arms. Dragged me toward the other door—the one I'd noticed on my first day, the hairline rectangle set flush into thewall. I'd spent hours wondering what was behind it. Now I was going to find out.
One of the guards pressed something—a hidden latch, invisible unless you knew exactly where to push—and the panel swung inward to reveal a smaller space. Not a closet—smaller than that. A box. Barely large enough to stand in, with walls so close they brushed my shoulders on both sides. No light. No room to sit, to crouch, to do anything but stand.
Sensory deprivation. Another technique from the interrogation playbook. Take away sight, take away space, take away any sense of time or place or self, and wait for the mind to crack.
They shoved me inside. The door sealed with a heavythunk, and the darkness swallowed me whole. There was no light. Not a sliver, not a crack, not even the faintest glow. Just absolute, perfect blackness that pressed against my eyes like a physical weight. The air was stale, recycled, carrying the faint smell of concrete and something else—something chemical, like cleaning solution.
