His answer comes faster than I could have imagined. “Better than having a father sell you to the highest bidder. No. Wait. Your father actuallypaidto get you out of his house.”
I splutter, angrier with myself than with him. His rebuttal was far too easy.
He thinks so too. Downstairs, he wraps my wrists with nylon rope and hangs me from the hook on the ceiling, hoisting me up so only my toes reach the ground.
He laughs when I swear at him. He studies me like I’m one of his paintings, staring at my bare flesh until I blush. He licks the words I wrote—Fuck You— tasting each letter with the tip of his tongue.
Only after I moan does he use his fingers, stroking and pinching and prodding until I’m embarrassed by the sounds that crack my throat. His mouth comes next—lips and tongue and teeth driving me wild, making me writhe. By the time he sucks my throbbing clit, I’m begging him to let me come. When he finally does, an hour later, I scream so hard I lose my voice.
The following day, a Monday, I wake and take a long, cool shower. After, I study myself in the mirror. I barely recognize the creature who stares back at me.
My lips are raw where I chewed them as I tried to keep from screaming. The contraception matchstick feels like a gemstone buried in my arm. I can’t stop testing the soft map of purple bruises spread across my body, pressing my fingertips into marks until I hiss.
This is what I want. What I crave. I’ve consented to everything Wolf has done to me.
But a panicky feeling tightens my belly. Kaitlín Minola Lynch would never agree to the things I’ve begged for. I’m a mob princess. I belong to the Canton Crew and the Lynch clan, to Baltimore and Athgarven.
I’m losing myself behind Wolf’s twenty-foot fence.
I don’t want to escape, not forever. Here, behind the locked door of the jacks, I can admit I need Wolf’s dungeon. I can’t leave behind the blinding pleasure-pain that only he can deliver.
But I need to remember who I truly am. I need one day away from this place. One afternoon. One hour. I need to get past the forbidden iron gate, if only to gather up the tattering shreds of my self-respect.
Less than an hour later, I’m sitting with Granny in her garden. When she nods off over her knitting, I pull up a map onmy phone. I study exactly where I need to go—less than a mile to freedom.
Ms. Sutton brings us lunch, and I make a show of eating an entire egg salad sandwich. I carry in our dishes when we’re done. I help Granny inside for her afternoon nap.
And after my grandmother is dozing again, I start in on Ms. Sutton. I do my best to sound breezy, asking her to let me out the side gate in the garden. She shakes her head, saying Wolf is absolute about the rules.
I lie that today is his birthday. I tell her I’ve reserved a bottle of his favorite whiskey at the nearest liquor store. I say she’s the only one in the world who can help me to surprise my husband.
It takes a few rounds, but she finally agrees to let me go. I stop in the jacks before I go, leaving my mobile by the sink. I’m certain Wolf has a tracker installed on the device.
The instant the gate closes behind me, I head for the subway. I walk quickly past brick houses with their shiny black doors and matching shutters. I catch glimpses of gardens—flowering trees and brightly colored bulbs.
My arms swing at my sides, each step draining an ocean of tension from my shoulders. My stride lengthens. Sunshine warms my face as I reach a wider road.
Everything’s loud. Everything’s bright. I’ve only been locked up for a week, but I’ve already forgotten how busy and chaotic and beautiful the world can be. This break for freedom is exactly what I need to stay sane.
Wolf is waiting at the escalator that leads underground.
“How the fuck—” I start to ask.
He cuts me off by clamping his fingers around my biceps. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
The pressure of a good rant boils inside my chest. He has no right to track me. I’m his wife, not his prisoner. I should scream for help, holler to the busy people around me that this stranger is after me, that he’s some sort of pervert, a threat.
But the panicky feeling is back, tightening my belly andnarrowing my throat. I want to tell him. I want to use my words:You’re turning me into someone I don’t know. Someone I can’t be. I’m losing myself.
I barely understand my own feelings. I don’t have language to explain it to him. So I finally choke out a meaningless answer, my voice flooded with misery. “Anywhere.”
“Anywhere?” His grip tightens on my arm. He looks so confused that I wonder if I answered him in Irish instead of English.
“Someplace normal. A coffee shop. A restaurant. A drug store. I need to be a regular person.”
“A regular person.” I watch him test the words, trying to force them into the cold logic he knows best. Ones. Zeroes. On. Off.
“I’m scared!” I finally say.
