I’ve been so focused on the cage, the locked rooms, the armed guards, the surveillance cameras recording my every breath, that I missed what was really happening.
It’s wanting to stay.
I’m waiting for him now. Listening for his footsteps every morning. Wanting him to sit closer at lunch. Thinking about him when he’s gone.
And it’s not just physical. Not just my body betraying me in dreams and stolen touches. It’s the conversations. The silences. His presence, filling up spaces I didn’t know were empty.
Stop.I press my palms against the cold tile.You have to stop.
Because if I don’t I’ll lose more than my freedom.
I’ll lose myself.
The water runs cold until I’m numb, until my lips turn blue and my fingers won’t work properly. But when I finally step out, wrapping myself in a towel and staring at my reflection in the polished metal?—
I make myself a promise.
I’m not going to stop fighting.
Not yet. Not ever.
Even if the enemy I’m fighting is myself.
14
VIOLET
Sleep doesn’t come back after the shower.
I lie in the dark, hair still damp, skin still cold, staring at the ceiling where painted angels judge me with their serene, unbothered faces. The dream replays on a loop behind my eyelids every time I close them. His hands. His mouth. The way dream-me begged for him like breathing.
Elio, please?—
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
By the time dawn light creeps across the plaster, I’ve maybe managed two hours of fractured sleep. My body feels like I’ve been hit by a truck. My mind feels worse.
The door opens at eight. Right on schedule.
My pulse kicks up before I can stop it. Stomach flipping like some kind of trained response, Pavlov’s bitch hearing the dinner bell. I hate it. Hate that my body has learned the rhythm of him, that it responds to his presence before my brain even registers he’s in the room.
He’s the monster. He’s the monster. He’s the?—
The mantra feels hollow. Worn thin from overuse.
Elio enters carrying the breakfast tray. His wearing yet another dark suit, immaculate as always. The hint of a stubble isgone, his face freshly shaven today, I note against my will. The way the morning light catches the clean line of his jaw, smooth and sharp, and I hate that I register it at all. Why does my brain keep doing that? Filing away these stupid, pointless details like they’re evidence of something. Like he’s someone I’m supposed to study instead of escape
He sets the tray down on the table by the window, and turns to look at me.
“You look tired.”
I bark out a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears. “Captivity affects sleep. What did you expect?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just settles into his chair, and studies me with those dark, fathomless eyes.
“Bad dreams?”
My whole body goes rigid. He knows. He has cameras. He watched me thrash and moan and?—
