Ikeep my eyelids sealed as I stubbornly fight reality, pleading for that merciful oblivion to return. But just as Grayson stole the world from me, he now forces it violently back, thrusting smelling salts beneath my nose.
I wrench my head to the side, groggy and disoriented. My voice comes out hoarse. “Why can’t I move?”
My throat is raw, my neck tender and bruised. A wave of nausea rolls through me, and the slightest movement sends pain shooting down my shoulders. “You choked me,” I whisper. “Why didn’t you just kill me?”
A scraping noise reaches my ears, and as I dare to open my eyes, I see Grayson seated beside me.
As my vision clears, my other senses sharpen. We’re under a veranda. The air is crisp and it’s evening, the warm glow of draped lights illuminating the space. The scent of food hits me, making my stomach pang with hunger. Then I notice the numbness in my limbs—and I’m startled fully awake.
Grayson reaches for a tumbler of water. “The string wasn’tpart of the original design,” he says, his gaze finding mine. “But I couldn’t resist the symbolism.”
I glance down, anger tightening my chest. Thick black cord binds me, crisscrossing my body and biting into my flesh. And beneath the restraints, that damn dress.
“Restrained by your own devices,” he continues. “Trapped within your self-inflicted limitations. How will you escape the restrictions you’ve imposed on yourself?”
I blink at him, unimpressed.
He shrugs, then brings the glass to my lips. “You’re not amused. I thought the metaphor was fitting. That little string always wound so tightly around your finger, cutting off blood flow, the way you cut yourself off from truly living. Then you enter the maze, following the cries, to find the final test.”
Maze.
Then I hear it—the faint sound that’s only been background noise until he mentions it. Screams carry from the dark, reaching my ears.
“Who is that?” I demand, dread killing my appetite. “What have you done, Grayson?”
He makes me drink the water, and I struggle to force it past my constricted throat. And I realize something else is…off.
I turn my head, and notice my damp hair as it drags over my bare shoulders. My head is fuzzy. “You drugged me,” I accuse.
“I didn’t want to, if that makes a difference.”
“It doesn’t. What did you use?” I need to know what’s in my system, the side effects.
“Chloroform.” He states it so casually, so fucking nonchalant. “You needed a bath, and as appealing as it sounds, wrestling you in the tub would’ve eaten away too much time.” He blows out a breath, reaching across the table to grasp my hand. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of you,” I seethe, even as my pulse batters my veins.
He encloses my hand in his. “You’re frightened, London. Cold hands indicate blood retreating from your extremities, an autonomic response to fear.” He releases me. “You need to eat.”
He slides a plate closer, then slices into the steak. A scream punctuates the silence, and I crane my neck toward the source, the sudden motion lighting up pain at the base of my skull.
“I never asked,” he says, “but I assumed you weren’t a vegetarian.” He holds up the piece of steak in offer.
Too starved to care, I lean forward and bite the meat off the fork.
He carves another slice free. “How much of your memory did you regain?” he asks, presenting the next bite.
I accept the food, chewing slowly. My head already feels a little clearer. I don’t want to go back to the cage—mentally or otherwise. I’ve allowed my mind to slip once, and I can’t afford to lose control again.
“I remembered enough,” I say.
“Do you remember how old you were when you were taken?” Grayson selects a steamed carrot this time. At my silence, he adds, “I was seven. Too old for that selective memory thing, where the mind represses to protect itself.” He feeds me the carrot. “You must have been younger.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. I don’t even know if what I experienced in the cage was real or some drug-induced hallucination. “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to already know everything about me.”
“If I knew everything, we wouldn’t be here,” he says. “And if we both knew all the answers, then we’d be far past this courting bullshit.”
“Courting,” I mock, a laugh slipping free. “I suppose this would be considered dating to a sadistic psychopath. Just a romantic dinner after a little strangulation and breath play.”
