There’s a flight of stairs leading up into a house. It’s dark outside through the windows. A simple living space, under-equipped kitchen. He takes me upstairs. Two bedrooms, and a bathroom that he carries me into, sitting me down on the closed toilet while he runs a bath.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“San Francisco.” Declan leans against the counter while the bath runs, arms folded over his chest.
“You have a house here?” Why does he have a house here? That he never, ever mentioned, even when we friggingstayedhere?
He goes still, just for a fleeting second. Short enough that I could’ve imagined it. “Not really mine,” he mutters. “Just borrowing it.”
Yeah, okay. That makes sense. Everyone borrows a house when they want a basement they can use as a bondage dungeon to torture someone. There’s probably a filter on Airbnb that I’ve somehow missed.
I’m tempted to ask him more, but after that deflection, I know he won’t answer.
But there are other pressing matters that maybe he will.
“Do you know what happened to the rest of the crew? Is Cole okay?”
“He’s fine. He’s in a hospital. Renner set it up.”
“No trouble from the police?”
“No. Renner covered that too.”
“And Kurt’s out?” It doesn’t escape my attention that Declan rarely calls him by his first name, except when he’s actually here.
Again with that fleeting stillness. “Yes.”
“Who picked him up? It wasn’t the police, was it?” I know it wasn’t. Dario said enough for that.
“FBI,” Declan says.
“What?” I’d wondered, but to hear him say it… “Yet he’s out? How?”
“Good lawyers, no evidence… that’s what he said.”
“You spoke to him?”
Declan straightens, stepping toward me. “Yes, I spoke to him. I’m not answering any more questions right now.”
“But what about the others?”
He nods, conceding that one. “They’re all good. I think most of them have gone back to LA.” He takes my hand, helping me up. “No more discussions. It’s late, you need a bath, and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”
That’s his take-no-shit voice. The roof could collapse right now and he still wouldn’t change his mind.
Declan helps me into the bath. The hot water is soothing, and I lie back and sigh. It’s big enough for me, but I’m not sure it would be for him. There’s a shower over it, which he probably uses.
“We got away with it, didn’t we?” I say quietly.
“Yeah, we did.” He takes a loofah, lifts my hand, and runs it down my arm.
First he drugs and kidnaps me, then he interrogates and tortures me. Then he makes me come, harder than should be possible. And now he’s bathing me, like I’m fragile and precious.
I don’t understand him.
This is nice, though.
I bite at my lip, wondering if he’s distracted enough for me to get another question in. “Why is that box so important to you?”
