But the words feel hollow in my head. There’s no real heat behind them anymore. No fire. Just this bone-deep exhaustion that settles into my chest like water damage creeping through stone, slow and irreversible.
He’s taken everything. My freedom. My weapon. My sleep. My certainty. My ability to hate him without?—
Without what?
I don’t finish the thought. I can’t finish it.
Instead, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad barefoot to the bathroom, stripping off yesterday’s clothes as I go. They drop in a careless heap on the tile.
The shower runs cold before I even step inside. Punishment. My body needs to remember whose side it’s on.
I force myself under the spray without waiting for it to warm, water hitting my skin like shards of ice, making me gasp sharply as I tightly wrap my arms around my middle. I stay there anyway, teeth clenched, letting it pound against my shoulders, my back, my face. Forcing myself to feel something, anything, other than the memory of yesterday in the library.
His thumb catching my tear. Lifting it slowly to his mouth. The way his dark eyes held mine the entire time, unblinking, while he tasted my defeat like it was fine wine.
The cold seeps deeper, numbing my fingertips, my toes, but it can’t quite reach the heat that still lingers low in my belly from that single, stolen moment. I hate it. I hate him. And I hate that the hate feels thinner every day, fraying at the edges like something worn too long.
That’s the worst part. The way my body betrayed me. Heat pooling low when I should have felt nothing but revulsion. The way I didn’t pull away when he touched my face. The way I almost?—
Stop.
I scrub my skin harder, nails dragging over arms and ribs until it stings red, but the cold water can’t wash away what happened. What’s still happening inside me. The slow, relentless erosion of everything I thought I knew about myself.
When I finally step out, shivering and raw, the blue dress waits exactly where I left it—draped over the chair by the window.Hischair. The one he claims every morning while he feeds me breakfast and talks about art and history like we’re equals, like we’re colleagues instead of captor and captive.
I reach for the silk without thinking.
Then stop.
My fingers hover an inch from the fabric. Blue. He told me to wear blue. And I’m going to. Like a trained dog performing tricks for treats.
He likes you in blue.
I yank my hand back like the fabric has burned me.
The wardrobe looms across the room, filled with clothes I didn’t choose. Clothes he chose. For me. Because he’s been watching me for months, taking note of my measurements, my preferences, my routines.
I should find that terrifying. Idofind it terrifying.
But.
But what, Vi? But it’s also kind of flattering that a beautiful man spent months obsessing over you? Jesus Christ, get a grip.
I turn away from the blue silk and cross to the wardrobe. I grab a gray dress instead. Boring. The opposite of the elegant blue he selected. A rebellion so small it barely registers, but it’s all I have left.
Dressed and as ready as I’ll ever be, I sit on the edge of the bed and wait.
Listenfor his footsteps.
When did that start? When did I begin tracking the rhythm of his approach like some kind of internal alarm system? The soft fall of Italian leather on ancient stone. The pause before the lock clicks. The particular way he opens the door. Never hesitant, always certain.
You’re pathetic.
Maybe. Probably. But the footsteps come anyway, right on schedule, and my pulse kicks up like a startled bird.
The lock clicks, the door opens, and Elio walks in.
He carries the same tray as always. Ccoffee, bread, fruit. But today my eyes snag on details I shouldn’t be noticing. The way his long fingers curl around the tray’s edge. Artist’s hands, I’ve thought before. Strangler’s hands too.
