Matt's eyes close as his breathing evens. Still listening.
"I really thought I was going to be able to escape this," I huff a laugh. "But my track record isn't great, you know? Would you belive this isn't my first rodeo? I was kidnapped by Elio first, it was just a different cage. Different circumstances. He'd keep me in his fortress and talk to me about Sicily's history. About art and music. At first, I hated him. And wanted him. Both at once. Nothing canceled the other out. That's the part that makesme think I'm broken. How do you want someone who stole your freedom? How does your body decide this is the one, the murderer in the tailored suit who locks the doors at night?"
I'm shaking again. Not cold.
"He was gentle. That's the worst of it. If he'd been cruel, like them," I nod at the walls, the compound, everything, I could have hated him clean. But he was patient. Looked at me as if I were the rarest thing he'd ever found. I don't know if it was love or how a collector looks at something he owns."
Matt opens his eyes. Turns his head on the concrete to meet mine.
"What did you do?"
"I fell for him. Not right away. I fought him at first. Hard. Almost starved myself to death. He was there waiting to catch me every time I stumbled. Patient, never threatening. A stark contrast to how he was with everyone else. At first, I told myself it was survival. Strategy. Biding time. But then I got to know him, his demons, the things he cherished. And by the end I'd look at him and feel." I press my palms to my eyes. "I fell for him, Matt. He was my kidnapper and I fell for him. Am I broken?" My voice cracks. I press harder, refusing the tears. This place devours anyone who cries.
Matt's hand finds my wrist. Fingers pull my hands down. He doesn't sit up. Just holds on. Looks at me with those steady brown eyes that shouldn't still be kind in a place like this.
"You're not broken."
"You don't know that."
"I know wanting to be loved doesn't make you sick. I know your body telling the difference between someone who sees you, and someone who sees furniture isn't a malfunction. That's being human."
"Objectively he's not a good man, Matt."
"You had no choice. You did what you had to survive."
Did I though?
I lie down beside him on the concrete, scooting closer until my head ends up on his shoulder. His heartbeat steadies, regular now, the trapped bird quiet. My shirt smells of sweat and blood, ours mixed. His chest rises and falls. I match my breathing to it.
"When we get out, you decide what you want. Not what you should want. Not what makes sense. What you actually want. Because whatever comes next has to be yours." Matt murmurs.
The light flickers. Dies. Buzzes back on with a high whine that drills behind my eyes.
"What if what I want is fucked up?"
"Then it's fucked up. Doesn't make it less yours."
I close my eyes. His hand starts moving through my hair, slow and steady.
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"When they dragged you past, how did you know he was in there with me? How did you know to fight right then?"
A pause. Two seconds. Three. Longer than the question needs.
"I heard you. Through the walls."
I made no sound. I know I made no sound. Silence is my entire survival strategy here. But his answer comes easy. His hand doesn't stop in my hair. Heartbeat stays level under my cheek.
It makes little sense. Maybe he heard he guard? Tomorrow I'll think about it.
Right now I just need the next hour.
9
VIOLET
