I don’t.
“Oh my God, I’m?—”
The sound of her voice snaps the moment clean in half, and I let go.
The release is abrupt, almost brutal, like my body understands the cost before my mind does. I step back fast, putting distance between us, breaking the contact before it can become anything else. My pulse is loud, unruly, and my hands flex at my sides like they’re reaching for her without permission, like they don’t recognize the order to stop.
She steadies herself, smooths it over the way she always does. Effortlessly.
“Thanks. I do that sometimes.”
I don’t move. I can’t. It’s too fucking risky.
She glances down at her heels, so comfortable in the moment, clearly no idea what she just stepped, or fell, into. “Turns out gravity still hates heels.”
I don’t respond, and she smiles anyway—soft and warm, like nothing in the world has shifted—then turns and walks away. I stay rooted long enough to catch her glance back, just a second, that same shy smile still lingering, before she disappears around the corner.
The contact doesn’t leave with her. It stays, lit into muscle and breath, refusing to fade.
Thisis the danger. Not him. Not Dean Murdoch.
Her.
I can’t touch her again. It’s too fucking dangerous. Now that I know what it costs me not to, I understand how careful I’ll have to be.
5
SOPHIA
The sun is sinking when I realize I’ve stopped looking for a way out. Not because I’ve given up—my hands still ache from testing doors, from pressing against glass that doesn’t give—but because the light has shifted, and my body is too tired to ignore it. There are only two places I have access to right now, and I refuse to go back to the room with the steel door.
So I stay here.
The kitchen opens into a wide living space, all of it one continuous stretch of wood and stone and quiet, designed to feel effortless. At the far end, the windows take up the entire wall. Floor to ceiling. Uninterrupted. The sky beyond them is wide and cruelly beautiful, all gold bleeding into bruised purple, the horizon stretched so far it feels like a dare.
I sit on the floor instead of the couch. Pillows are scattered nearby, oversized and soft, the kind meant for leaning into, for comfort. I don’t touch them. I keep my back straight, knees pulled in, arms wrapped tightly around myself.
It’s cold. The house holds its warmth the way it holds everything else, quietly and efficiently, but the glass steals it back inch by inch as the sun drops. Goosebumps pebble my skin. I ignore them. Cold is something I can manage. Cold is honest.
I stare out at the view and let my thoughts circle uselessly. Why me? Who is he? What does he want? How long do I have? Will he hurt me? Am I going to die here, quietly, in a house beautiful enough to pretend this isn’t happening?
I don’t know how to fight. I’m not a negotiator. I know how to sit on the floor with kids who don’t trust adults anymore, how to soften my voice, how to make space for fear. I know how to give comfort. None of that helps me here. He doesn’t need to believe me. He needs to let me go. Those are different things entirely.
I take another sip of the bottled water I reluctantly grabbed out of the fridge earlier—a fridge stocked with fresh fruit, eggs, milk, vegetables. The second my stomach growls, I shut the door. It’s bad enough I need water, and I’m determined not to eat his food until I absolutely have to. For now, water’s enough.
I hear him before I see him. Not footsteps, exactly. A presence shifting. Air changing. The hair on the back of my neck rising. What surprises me is that the fear is quieter this time. A trickle. Not the hammering from before.
He stops somewhere behind me. Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to pretend he isn’t there. I don’t turn. I don’t give him that.
“You’re cold.” His voice sends a brief quiver down my spine.
“I’m fine.” A lie. We both know it.
Something shifts behind me. Fabric rustles. I sense movement at the edge of my awareness and brace myself, heart spiking—but he doesn’t touch me. A blanket lands on the floor next to me, folded and in reach.
“I don’t want it,” I say, too quickly.
“I didn’t say you did.”
