I still didn't look at him. Couldn't. If I looked at him, I might break.
"You ran from me, Tyler." His voice shifted—still soft, but with an edge underneath. "Three years ago, you ran. Do you know how that made me feel?"
I know exactly how it made me feel. Like I was finally free.
"I searched for you. For months. I had people watching airports, train stations, bus terminals. And then you just... vanished." He circled around me, moving into my line of sight whether I wanted him there or not. "I thought you might be dead. I mourned you."
His eyes found mine, and there it was—the thingthat made Marcus Cross so dangerous. He believed it. He genuinely believed that he'd loved me, that I'd betrayed him, that this was a reunion rather than a kidnapping.
"But you weren't dead," he continued. "You were hiding. With them. Withhim."
The emphasis on the last word was unmistakable. Tank.
"You let another man touch you." Cross's voice was calm, but something flickered in his eyes—something dark and possessive. "You let him put his hands on what belongs to me."
I forced myself to breathe. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
"Nothing to say?" Cross tilted his head, studying me. "You used to talk to me. You used to tell me everything."
I used to have no choice.
"We have time," Cross said finally, stepping back. "I'm a patient man. And eventually, you'll remember how good we were together. How much you needed me."
He walked to the door, knocked twice. It opened from the outside—a guard, armed, face blank—and Cross paused on the threshold.
"Rest. Eat. Think about what you've done." His smile was almost gentle. "I'll be back soon."
The door closed. Locks engaged—multiple, from the sound of it. Heavy bolts sliding home, sealing me in.
I was alone.
Cross visited twice more that first day—I was certain it was still the first day, because the adrenaline from the warehouse hadn't fully faded, because my ribs still throbbed with fresh pain, because I could still taste smoke in the back of my throat.
Short visits, almost casual, like he was checking on a guest rather than a prisoner. He brought me books I didn't read—his favorites, the ones he'd insisted I study during our years together, as if literature could make captivity more palatable. He asked if I was comfortable, if the temperature was to my liking, if I needed anything.
And he touched me.
Nothing violent, nothing overtly threatening—just contact. A hand on my shoulder. Fingers brushing my cheek. His palm settling on the small of my back as he examined the room's amenities with false pride.
Each touch was a claim. A reminder.You are mine. Your body belongs to me. I can touch you whenever I want, and there is nothing you can do about it.
I gave him nothing. No words, no reactions, no indication that his presence affected me at all. When he touched me, I held perfectly still, neither leaning in nor pulling away. When he spoke, I stared at a point over his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes.
It was the only weapon I had, and I wielded it with everything I had left.
His mask slipped once—just once—when I pulled away from his hand on my cheek. A flash of something ugly in his eyes, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it.
But I hadn't imagined it. I knew that monster. I'd lived with it for three years.
The predator was still there, underneath the charm and the expensive clothes and the carefully modulated voice. Waiting. Patient.
And sooner or later, he would stop waiting.
On the second day, the main door's bolts slid back and Cross entered carrying a tablet.
"I thought you might want to see how your friends are doing."
My heart stopped. Cross sat down in the armchair, crossed his legs, tapped the screen. Then he turned it toward me.
