Page 21 of Stolen Rebel

I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and lean forward off the edge of the bed. Sucking in air feels almost impossible. The walls of this hellhole are inching toward me, and I can’t catch a damn breath.

The dress, the prison, the lock on the outside of the—the door. Shit. Did he lock the door? I don’t remember hearing the screech of metal on metal as he slid the deadbolt closed.

A flutter of excitement, hope, a thrill of possible escape has me bolting up off the mattress and crossing the room with eager strides. My hand hovers over the handle, my heart thrashing in my chest as I close my fingers over it and turn.

There’s a satisfying click, and the door opens.

Oh. My. God. The door opens. It’s open.

My breath stalls out in my throat. If it’s open, it’s because he wants it to be. Because he’s so fucking sure that I can’t escape. It’s another test. A tease. A falsity. A measured leash. I bet he’s downstairs waiting to see what I do with it.

That rat bastard.

There’s no way out of this place. My heart sinks to my feet like a rock in a pond.

Even so, I grip the door, every cell in my body urging me, no, demanding that I slam the wood into the frame, but that’s what he wants. A reaction. He wants me to be predictable, to break character, to snap back at him like the fiery girl he once knew.

Somehow, I channel calm I don’t feel, I close the door with a click, and put my new clothes away in the wardrobe, hanging the dress from the last time we slept together out of sight at the back.

There’s power in that dress, and I’m not ready to part with it just yet. If I can use it to help Liam Mahoney tell me the truth about what happened when I left, I’ll do it.

I glance at the door again, the urge to escape burning hot under my skin. If I made it out past the brothers, the dog, and into the garden, maybe I could call Brian and tell him where to find me without the risk of being overheard. And trade Liam’s cage for Brian’s.

Except, I’m not entirely sure I want him to find me. And the second I so much as whisper the name Liam Mahoney to my handler, he’ll go off like a firework at New Year. I might not be able to control much about this situation, but here and now? I can control not being handled by him.

There’s a cost to pulling that ripcord. Him and his interrogations, restrictions, and punishment dressed up as protection. And I think I might be getting tired of paying it.

Since his promotion, our relationship has dwindled to missed calls and the occasional weekend where he tries to play house. We don’t live together. He says it’s for my protection, but I know it’s so he can keep his two lives separate. The sex was never frequent, and after the one time I actually let him in, I realized I was just trying to pay a bill I could never settle. I don’t miss him. I miss the girl I was before I became his fucking pet project.

I pace the room for what feels like hours, and I can’t waste the battery to turn on my burner to check the time.

Laughter drifts up the stairs, and a pang of envy slithers under my fingernails. The unlocked door taunts me from across the room, and Liam’s stupid piece of folded paper challenges me from the bedside table.

I need to get out of this room and start mapping this place properly. I need to learn the security in this damn prison. Figure out how far this bungee cord really stretches. And I can’t do any of that staring at those fucking bars over the window. If I run, I won’t get a second chance.

Fuck Brian. Fuck Liam. Fuck them both in the eyeballs with something sharp. I’m going to walk around this house until someone puts me back in my bland cage, and hopefully learn something while I do.

I’ve walked this bedroom floor enough tonight to know which floorboards squeak. Quiet movement matters more than being fast right now, so I sidestep those as adrenaline surges in my veins. I’m leaving this room. If he wants his fucking Rebel, he’s going to get her. And I’ll do it with a saccharine smile on my face, so sweet that no one else will believe him and his angry ranting.

The handle twists again, the door opens, and I step out onto the landing, giving my hips a little shake because hell yeah. A quick look over the banister shows two guards at the bottom of the stairs, one facing the door and one angled toward the hall. More laughter rings out from somewhere down below, and I picture Liam and his brothers sitting around and having the craic while I’m up here playing Rapunzel in her ivory tower.

Bastards.

I’m not brave or stupid enough to go downstairs, to take on two armed men, or to invoke the wrath of an already rattled Liam. My lips twitch. The dress might have been a test for me, but it also showed that he’s still emotionally compromised when it comes to me.

More evidence of the power in that dress.

Most of the doors on this floor are locked, which feels oddly as though Liam suspected I’d venture out. That also tells me this floor is controlled. My movement is restricted; my routes are limited. He’s herding me.

One’s an office, but I can’t tell whose. There’s a dark wooden desk under a mountain of papers and files, the walls have ornate frames with photographs of the Mahoneys, their parents, even a picture of their dogs.

There’s a bookshelf behind the desk. It’s got paperweights, more pictures, and a couple of dusty encyclopedias. I don’t waste time flicking through the loose documents on the shelf.

The chair is slightly pulled out, half turned, basically an invitation. My gaze drops to the seat. A thin folder sits there like it was abandoned mid-thought.

I hesitate for half a second. Then I pick it up.

Names. Photos. Notes scrawled in Liam’s handwriting.