I dry off, the rough towel a familiar comfort. There is no escape, there is no absolution. There is only her. Protecting her, possessing her, keeping her chained to me is my penance. It is my punishment and my only salvation.
I walk back to the bed. She hasn’t moved. She looks so small, so peaceful. A perfect, beautiful lie in the center of my dark, ugly truth.
I slide back under the covers, pulling her against me again, her back to my chest. I cage her with my arms, burying my face inher hair, breathing her in. She murmurs something in her sleep and settles against me.
She will hate me when she knows. She will try to destroy me. I know this.
And until that day comes, I will never, ever let her go.
Twenty Two
Aria
Iwaketothefeelingof being watched.
My eyes flutter open and Cassian is already awake, propped up on one elbow beside me. He isn't looking at his phone or staring at the ceiling. He's just watching me, his expression unreadable in the gray morning light filtering through the massive windows. The feeling of safety from the night before has evaporated, replaced by the cold reality of my situation. I am a specimen under a microscope.
"Good morning," he says, his voice a low rumble. It’s not a question.
"How long have you been watching me?" I ask, my own voice raspy with sleep and unease.
"Long enough," he says, and offers no other explanation. He leans in and kisses me, a slow, possessive kiss that is less about affection and more about reaffirming his claim. A brand for the new day.
He swings his legs out of bed and stands, his scarred back a testament to a life I know nothing about. He pulls on a pair of dark jeans and a black t-shirt, his movements efficient and purposeful.
"Where are you going?" The question is out before I can stop it. It’s a normal question for a normal couple. We are not a normal couple.
He stops and turns to look at me, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Work." The word is clipped, final.
I press, needing more, needing to understand the shape of this cage. "Work where? The mechanic shop?" I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.
A small, humorless smile touches his lips. "No. The site. I have a construction job." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, a plausible explanation for his calloused hands and the industrial nature of this loft. It's a neat, tidy lie to cover a messy, sprawling truth.
He walks back to the edge of the bed and leans down, his hands on either side of me, caging me in.
"You can do whatever you want while I'm gone," he says, his voice a deceptive whisper. "You can eat my food, you can watch my TV, you can take another shower. You can make yourself at home." He pauses, his gaze dropping to my lips, then meeting my eyes again with chilling intensity. "But I'm locking the doorfrom the outside. And this is my home, Aria. I know every inch of it. Don't go looking for things that don't concern you."
He straightens up, grabs a worn leather jacket, and walks to the door without another word. I listen, my breath held tight in my chest. I hear the slide of the heavy deadbolt. Then the unmistakable, final sound of a key turning in the lock from the outside.
The silence that follows is deafening. I am alone. Truly and completely alone, locked inside this gilded cage.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Fear is a cold knot in my stomach. His warning echoes in my ears.I know every inch of it.He would know. He would know if I moved something, if I looked somewhere I wasn't supposed to.
But my fear is matched by a burning, desperate anger. The file folder. The one he’d been studying that first night. My mind flashes back to the image that’s been seared into my memory. The map.
Why was my apartment building circled on a map? Why the alley behind it—the exact spot where Jade…I can’t finish the thought. It’s a wound that will never close. His cryptic words from last night swirl in my head.You're something I broke.How? How did he break me? Was it just a cruel, possessive metaphor, or was it a confession?
I have to know.
I throw the sheets off and my feet hit the cold floor. I stand in the middle of the vast, silent loft, my senses on high alert. Every creak of the building, every distant siren sounds like him returning. But the need for answers is a physical force, propelling me forward.
Where would he hide it?
My eyes land on the black metal locker. His space. The place he gave me a single, sterile compartment for my life. The rest is his. I walk over to it, my hands trembling as I pull open the doorto his section. It’s neat, organized. A few folded shirts, a spare pair of boots. And underneath them, a thin, manila folder.
My breath catches. It’s right there. He’s so arrogant, so certain of his control over me that he didn't even bother to truly hide it.
My fingers shake as I pull it out and open it on the floor. There it is again. The map, with its terrifying red circles. My hands trace the lines, my mind screaming the question I’m too afraid to ask. I flip through the few other pages—financial statements for businesses I don't recognize, names with numbers next to them. It’s meaningless.
