Watching the way I put the tip of the pen to paper, Connor’s eyes gleam like he’s honestly interested in my answer.
You know what? The faux concern only makes me press harder when I write:
Prisoner.
How do I feel? Like his fuckingprisoner.
I shove the notebook across the table so he can’t miss it.
Connor sets his coffee mug down before he reads it. His expression doesn’t change. If anything, he looks thoughtful.
Then he steals my pen.
His printed handwriting is considerably neater than my cursive scrawl. Of course it is. Connor even writes like a smug asshole.
He slides the notebook back toward me.
Wife.
For a second, I just stare at the word. Then, because I can’t control myself, I throw the entire notebook at his head.
Connor catches it with one hand before it can make contact, and the bastard laughs. Not a chuckle. Not one of his little amused exhales. He laughs like I’ve delighted him, like my rage is the best part of his morning, like he doesn’t understand that I fuckingmeanit.
“Good morning to you, too, honeybun,” he says with a crooked smile.
I flip him off.
Connor’s grin widens. “Careful, baby. You keep flirting with me like that, I might start thinking you like me.”
Flirting? How deranged is he that he constitutes a middle finger as flirting? Well, in that case…
Purposely meeting his amused stare, I mouth two words at him. He reads them easily enough.
Fuck you.
Connor leans back in his chair, looking pleased. “See? We’re communicating. Progress. I told you you’d love me eventually. This is a good start.”
Love him?
I won’t.
Ican’t.
I hate him. I hate him so much.
I also hate that part of me doesn’t hate him at all, and he is completely aware of that fact…
The only thing worse is how an exchange like this—bickering like an old married couple over breakfast—doesn’t make me scared. Instead, it brings out an emotion that I thought Mickey and Cam and Noah finally beat out of me… and that seems to please Connor even as I’m chucking a notebook at him.
Because how do I feel?
Even if for only the moment, I feel like the old Haven Smith again.
The first timeI realize that the strange purple flowers growing in the window well connected to the basement aren’tsprigs of lavender, but ratherfoxglove, I think my surprise gives me away.
At the very least, Connor definitely notices me noticing it. But you know what? He doesn’t say anything about my sudden interest in the flower, and that catchesmyattention.
His unusual silence is rare for him. Connor often has enough words for both of us, and he seems to think that if he just keeps talking, eventually I’ll have to find a word or two of my own to answer him. But that afternoon, a little over two weeks after my latest escape attempt, he goes notably quiet as I shuffle over to the basement window, staring out into the window well where purple flowers sway in the small patch of sunlight.
