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And now she knows it, too.
“I want out.” London’s voice is barely audible. I turn up the volume. “Let me out of this fucking trap.”
She’s so close, but she doesn’t understand it all fully yet. This isn’t a trap. The burial, the cage…it’s preparation for her trap. She can’t go in until she’s primed, her mind open and ready to accept our reality—to accept us.
She’s so close.
I close out the footage and return to the live feed. I crick my neck, working out the kink, 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 out 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’ll mourn—but I’ll rebuild. Bigger, better, more intricate. With her.
I roll up my sleeves and reach behind my back, trace the tattooed equations between my shoulder blades. Then I pull out my plans, the ones I sketched from the engraved ink on my skin. The design of her trap began nine months ago in a six-by-eight cell. With a few custom tweaks modified for the upgraded specs, it’s now nearly complete.
I put every last bit of myself into this. It’s my heart and soul, if such a thing exists. I built it for her, out of some foreign emotion that consumed me, plagued me, until I was forced to relent. There’s a fine line between passion and obsession—and I crossed that line the moment I saw her.
I haven’t heeded my own warnings, though. Over the course of our entanglement, I’ve become dependent on her success. How much can the mind endure? Even when you know the disaster is coming, you can’t look away. We’re a little sick like that.
This trap will test us all.
I envisioned the moment at sunset. Something about the twilight suits the scene. With the dusting of stars scattering a pale sky, the chirr of crickets in the backdrop. Of course, we’ll have our own orchestra of screams and pulleys, a soundtrack for the perfectly choreographed ballet. London’s danc
e.
I hook the last key, give it a flick to watch it spin. Shiny silver glints in the setting sun.
When I’m satisfied that every detail is in place, I turn the laptop screen toward me and enable the mic. “It’s time to wake up, love.”
London stirs, then her head snaps up and she looks around. “You twisted bastard. Let me out of here!”
Still so much fight in her. Good. Having her completely broken wouldn’t work. “Are you ready?”
Her hand raises to flip me off. I suppose that’s answer enough.
I’m like a kid in a candy store as I head toward her room. I twirl my key ring, my steps hurried, impatient. 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, dread having been my prominent emotion during my youth.
I flip on the light. London’s demeanor is unsettling as I near the cell. I can’t keep the smile from curling my lips; I’m that eager. “It’s only been a couple of days,” I say, looking over her disheveled appearance. “You look like hell.”
Her glare lacks that certain defiant spark I’ve come to adore. “I’m sick, Grayson. I need a doctor.”
I unlock the cell door with a groan. I thought by now we’d be past the lies. “We’ve already established your sickness, baby. What you have…there’s no cure.” I brace my hand 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 an assortment of medicine for any and all ailments. 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 drops her hands into fists by her sides. “I’m not your fucking play thing.”
“London, I’ve been exceedingly patient. Let’s go.”
She cranes an eyebrow. “Make me.”
I scrub a hand through my hair. Two days wasn’t enough. But we’re running short on time. For all intents and purposes, the dress isn’t a requirement for her trap. But she uses her expensive suits and pencil skirts to shield herself like armor. I want her out of her comfort zone.
