"Somewhere with no neighbors again."
"You're in one of my favorite properties. Private peninsula. No road in. Supply boat twice a month. The locals think this entire stretch is an old fishery. And this property is right by a beautiful cliffside."
No road in. No escape either unless you want to jump off a cliff.
"Why did you move us?"
He turns, head tilting like he's assessing a specimen. "Because the last house caught fire. It wasn't safe."
"Fire? I don't remember?—"
He waves a hand. "You don't remember much these days. Your memory is god-awful. We should have you checked out by a doctor."
I swallow down the fear. "Was it an accident?"
He clicks his tongue. "Lightning. At least that's what the locals were told."
"Was anyone hurt?"
He winks. "Everyone who needed to be."
I keep my face blank. He's waiting for a flinch, a tremor—something he can use against me later.
I don't give him anything.
He walks toward me, steps measured. When he's close enough that I can smell his cologne—strong, expensive, suffocating—he reaches up and takes my jaw in his hand.
His thumb presses into the bruise that never gets time to fade. "There's a rat sniffing around my shores. Someone trying to get close to us."
I say nothing, and he squeezes harder. Pain shoots through my jaw and up my neck.
"And I have to ask myself," he continues calmly, "what changed? For years, you were off every ledger. Completely forgotten. Then I allow you to dip your toes back into work and suddenly I have a rat problem. Is there something you'd like to confess, Keira?"
"Of course not." My voice is neutral. I've been practicing this.
"Did you say something you shouldn't have? Leave crumbs for someone to follow?" His thumb drags over my cheek, pressing deeper.
"I don't have access to a phone, an account, or an unsupervisedwalk. You made sure of that. Just guards and walls and whatever pretty dress you pick out when you want a painting to hang on your arm."
His grip tightens and fresh heat burns behind my eye.
"Careful."
"I'm always careful. You taught me how, remember?"
Something hideous flashes in his eyes. "When I found you, everyone had already decided how you'd die. A little traitor with a price on her head. I'm the reason you're still breathing. I'm the reason he"—his gaze flicks to the bed—"has a roof and a last name. Don't forget how much you owe me."
I think of the name on the documents.
Hale Calder.
Calder is the shackle. The mark of the man who owns our oxygen.
But Hale…
Hale is mine. It will always be mine.
A piece of the man I loved and lost. The one good memory I get to carry.
