He’s not in the room now. As narrow and cramped as it is, I wouldn’t be able to miss him, and I don’t see him. Where is he? Based on how he’s been acting since he decided I’m his new roommate—his newprisoner—I can’t imagine he’s gone far.
I’m right.
Part of me expected the door to be locked. After all, he did that to me last night. And I get it. I do. I probably scared the shit out of him when I tried to jump from the balcony. It’s just… I needed to prove to myself that I could get away. Staying here with Connor… that’s a bad idea. It would be too easy to shut down and let Connor take care of me. I don’t think I’m capable of doing it, and if he chooses to… why not?
Why not? Because it’sConnor.
I’m not sure how yet, but he’s fucking with me. Just like how he always did when we were in school together. I don’t doubt that he feels sorry for me and wants to help, but what’s the payoff for him? Why does he care? There has to be a reason, and since I can’t bring myself to believe him—to honestly accept that he thinks he’s in love with me—I thought I could get out of here before the hammer falls and I shatter more than I already havewhen it comes out that this… all of this… is just Connor being Connor.
That’s not what happened. He caught me, and he pulled me over the rail, and he held me close until the urge to run died down, leaving me helpless but to do anything other than let him take care of me.
He made dinner. I ate it. Don’t know what happened next, but here I am, feeling fuzzy from whatever he gave me. And he had to have done something, too. How else could I have slept through being moved again after six weeks of captivity left me so skittish, I wake up at the drop of a pin?
Look at me now. It’s another cell. Another jail. Only, when I turn the knob, the door is not locked. It opens easily, and I pull the door in, poking my head out in time to watch Connor grab a small towel, wiping his hands clean on it.
His eyes light up when he notices me watching him. “Haven! Good morning, sweetpea!”
I ignore the ‘sweetpea’. To be fair, I also ignore Connor as I take in my surroundings.
Immediately, I get ‘basement’ vibes. Like the room attached to this one, it has dark walls; instead of paint, though, there’s wood paneling with cement floors. I see a window to my right, but it doesn’t look out. More like it looksup. It’s a window well, allowing a small trickle of light in.
There’s a television mounted on the opposite wall. In front of it, a black leather three-seater sofa with the same fuzzy blue blanket that Connor wrapped around my shoulders yesterday folded up on the furthest seat. I see a cherry wood coffee table a couple of feet away from the couch. A remote is sitting on top of that. Probably for the television, I figure.
Directly across from the room I woke up in, an open door leads into a small bathroom. I can make out a tub, a showerhead, and part of the toilet from my angle. There are stairs leadingup to the right of the bathroom. Tucked beneath it, leading out midway into the space, the finished basement area has a cozy kitchenette, including a small circular table made of the same sort of wood as the coffee table, two chairs, and a narrow fridge that hums almost as loud as Connor is.
“Do you like it?” he asks. He throws his arms out. “It’s yours.”
Excuse me?
Frowning, I look at Connor.
It’s not easy. He has no right, looking as fresh and gorgeous as he does. He’s shaved. His hair is newly damp and combed. Since I saw him last, he traded a loose t-shirt for one of the pressed polo shirts he usually wears when I see him around town. He has khaki pants on, plus a pair of brown loafers. He looks like a trust fund kid ready for another day of spending money and schmoozing rather than watching me take in this room, telling me it’s mine.
Mine? How can it be mine?
“I was going to bring you down here last night, but you fell asleep right after dinner.”
I glare at him. His expression is so guileless, I know for damn sure that he did something to my food to ‘help’ me sleep.
He pretends not to notice. “In case you haven’t figured it out, this is the bottom floor of my home. Our home. It has everything you can ever need while you get comfortable here.” Lifting his hand, he ticks it all off on his fingers. “A bathroom of your own. Television complete with all streaming services. A fridge. A hotplate. A sink. And your room… it’s actually a panic room. For you, I mean that literally. When everything gets overwhelming and you need some space away from me, you can go in there. Lock me out. Lock the whole fucking world out, Haven, if that’s what you want to do. We’ll both know you’ll be safe in there, and right now, that’s the most important thing.”
That’s what he thinks. Me? I’m blinking at him, trying to make sense of that. A panic room? In theory, that does sound perfect for me. Especially if it means that I can shut the door and lock Connor out. But that’s assuming I accept that I’m staying here—and I most definitely amnotdoing that.
I open my mouth. I want to tell him no. I want to tell him that he’s out of his mind. I want to scream at him, yell at him, say that I want to go… but nothing happens. I stamp my foot in frustration instead, and Connor frowns.
He frowns, and then he nods as though he just came to a decision.
“You must be hungry, darling. You slept through the night, and it’s past time for breakfast?—”
Fuck, no. I point at Connor. I jerk my thumb at me. I cross my arms and open them repeatedly, the universal sign for: not gonna happen.
If I let him feed me again, who knows what will happen. He’s drugged me twice now that I know of: once when he jabbed me with a sedative, and then with last night’s dinner. Considering I woke up in his bed with the same heavy-headed feeling right after he brought me here, I wouldn’t put it past him to have sedated me then, too. No. Uh-uh.
No way.
He purses his lips together. Without another word, he pulls open the refrigerator. He bends low, grabbing something from the crisper drawer. A quick wash at the sink in the kitchenette and, as I watch him curiously, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his pocketknife.
I gulp as he flicks it open easily before making quick work of the red apple he plopped down on the wooden cutting board.
