I exit out of the footage and return to the live feed. I roll my shoulders, working out my tense muscles, then stand and stretch. My body is just as taxed as London’s. She hasn’t gone through this alone. I’ve been with her. And when she enters the trap, I’ll be with her still.
I glance through the window, excited for her to see our masterpiece.
Before her, countless hours have been spent in this room designing, crafting. Modeling. It’s my home away from home, and when it’s gone, I might feel bad—but I’ll rebuild. Bigger, better, more intricate.
With her.
I roll up my sleeves and reach behind my back, fingers tracing the inked equations etched between my shoulder blades. Then I unfold the plans—the ones I sketched from the designs tattooed into my skin.
The blueprints for her trap were born nine months ago, conceived within the confines of a six-by-eight cell. Now, after modifications tailored to the upgraded specs, her trap is nearly complete.
I poured every last bit of myself into this creation. It’s my heart and soul, if such a thing truly exists. Built entirely for her, driven by some foreign emotion that plagued me, consumed me, until forced to relent.
There’s a fine line between passion and obsession—and I crossed that line the moment I saw her.
But I haven’t heeded my own warnings. Over the course of our twisted entanglement, I’ve become dependent on her success. How much strain can the mind endure? Even when you know the disaster is looming, you can’t look away. We’re all a little sick like that.
This trap will test us all.
I imagined this moment at sunset. Something about the twilight compliments the scene, with a dusting of twinkling stars scattered across a dim sky, the chirr of crickets in the backdrop.
Of course, we’ll have our very own orchestra of screams and pulleys, a soundtrack for the perfectly choreographed ballet.
London’s dance.
Hooking the last key, I give it a flick to watch it spin. The setting sun glints off the shiny silver.
Once I’m satisfied that every detail is in place, I turn the laptop around and enable the mic. “It’s time to wake up, love.”
London stirs awake, her head snapping up as she recalls her surroundings. “You sick bastard. Let me out of here?—”
Still so much fight left in her. Good. Having her completely broken won’t work.
I lean closer to the screen. “Are you ready?”
She lifts her hand, middle finger delivered in defiance. A smile curves my lips. I suppose that’s answer enough.
As I head toward her room, I twirl my key ring with one hand, hold her present in my other, my steps hurried, impatient. I’m like a kid in a candy store—or however that saying goes. At least, I assume this is how a normal, healthy kid would feel awaiting his special treat. I have little to compare this feeling to, as dread was my dominant emotion during my youth.
I flip on the switch, flooding the room in light. London squints at me as I near the cage. “It’s only been a couple ofdays,” I say, dragging my gaze over her disheveled appearance. “You look like hell, baby.”
But her glare lacks that defiant spark I’ve come to adore. “I’m sick, Grayson. I need a doctor.”
I unlock the cage door with a disappointed groan. I thought by now we’d be past the lies. “We’ve already established your sickness, London. What you have, there’s no cure.” I brace my forearm on the bar, blocking the opening. “I’m the closest thing to a doctor you’re ever going to get.”
She stands on shaky legs, her arms hugging her waist. “I have a fever, you asshole. I need a?—”
“I have antibiotics.” I step inside and hang the dress on a bar. London notices the black satin gown for the first time. “I have medicine for just about any ailment. Come on, it’s getting late. We need to get you cleaned up and dressed.”
Her gaze doesn’t stray from the dress. “What the hell is that.”
“Your dinner gown. You are hungry, I assume.”
She clenches her hands into fists at her sides. “I’m not your fucking play thing.”
“London, I’ve been extremely patient. Let’s go.”
She arches a delicate eyebrow. “Make me.”
