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EMERSON
Soft lamplight falls over Daphne’s frame. One of my T-shirts drapes over her body, obscuring her from me. It’s painfully demure, given that I fucked her not three hours ago. Shadows in the cotton give it depth. Character. But the shirt is nothing compared to the woman.
Dark eyes, bright with disbelief, with terror. Hair falling in gentle, slept-in waves. Pink cheeks paired with parted lips. Oh—that pain. If I didn’t already own her, I’d pay any price. Art that hurts like this always proves its value.
The dividing line between my thoughts shimmers. I’m not so far gone that I believe she’s made from canvas. I know she lives. She breathes. She cries. It’s a matter of perspective, that’s all. I need to keep her at a safe distance so she doesn’t overwhelm my emotions. Set them loose from their frames. And I need to see her as she is. It will be the only way to keep her here without destroying her mind. That would be a shame. A waste. It would strip the beauty from the piece.
It would strip the essential parts of her away, and I’m not interested in that. I want to keep her whole, like any priceless art.
Daphne rises from the bed and plants her feet. Fear moves through her in small tremors, like tiny waves lapping at the shore, but she keeps it apart from herself. Does she lock it away, like I do? Wait for the opportunity to put it on the canvas?
I’ll have plenty of time to find out. For now, I breathe in her sweet determination. Catchlights in her hair give the impression that she’s lit from within. Burnished. My bed is an ideal backdrop. White sheets roll together with my dark comforter. Daphne was peaceful there. Sleeping. It’s as if she emerged from a cotton sea.
“That’s not possible, Emerson.” The corners of her mouth flirt with a cruel smile, but she’s not made for it, not practiced. “Leo can trace my phone. He can find my location.”
“I deleted the location data before it could upload. All the data from the few hours leading up to your visit.”
“Well, that’s—” Another try at a smile. Her eyes are huge. I want to be closer, but I don’t think she’d allow it. “He’ll have tried to call me. He’ll be able to do it that way.”
“Your phone has been off since we first came into the house.”
“You destroyed it?”
“No. It’s safe. It’s simply not available to you, little painter. Not until you’re settled.”
“Settled?” A tear runs down her cheek. “You think I’m going to settle down? You think I’m going to be okay with this? You’re keeping me prisoner.”
“I’m keeping you safe. I care for all my acquisitions.”
Daphne blinks, hard, spilling more tears. She rises on the balls of her feet. Once. Twice. Three times. Hummingbird.
“You’re crazy,” she whispers. “You’re dangerous. This isn’t happening.”
“I’ll be patient, little painter. You can take the time you need.”
“For what?” A few steps around the edge of the bed, then back. There’s nowhere for her to go. “For what, Emerson?” Horror dawns in her expression. “Are you going to keep me somewhere? A cage?” Daphne’s eyes dart around the room. “Are you going to chain me up in that closet? Is that what you’re going to do?”
The suggestion is a right hook to the cheekbone. Daphne’s shadow covers the muted spines of books in my shelves, the edges of her shape feathering out until it disappears. My shirt moves on her body as she breathes. It’s too fast, too harsh. Her dark eyes well with fear. Unshed tears crystallize the light, fragment it. Each moment compresses. Flattens. Old memories remain in frames, behind locked doors. They remain still. I keep my back turned. I keep my focus on Daphne.
Even now, she cannot bring herself to lean away from me. No doubt there is some part of her that wants to throw itself into the corner, back herself against the wall. No one is more familiar with that instinct than I am.
And yet.
Daphne’s still leaning in, the angle as subtle as the brush of cotton over her thighs.
“Come here.”
“No.”
“You can come here, little painter, or I can come to you. Your choice.”
“None of this is a choice.”
“Nonsense. I’m giving you one right now. Walk over to me, or I’ll walk over to you.”
Her chin quivers, and her hand hints up at her collar, but she controls the motion.
“What are you going to do?”
