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DAPHNE
The stool is heavier than I thought. It seemed solid under my hands when Emerson made me bend over it, but I didn’t expect it to have so much heft. Still—it’s a better option than the chair by the bookshelves. The one that matches his. I couldn’t lift that one. I had to go out to the studio for the stool. Had to make my footsteps match the length of the room so he wouldn’t know. My bed is not centered over the studio doors, which means his isn’t, either.
I took a risk to get here.
The wooden legs of the stool tug at my palms as I swing it toward the big glass window in the studio. I didn’t think I’d have time to get back to my bedroom.
Impact.
The shock reverberates up my arms, and I gasp. It hurts. My hands. My wrists. My bones. I don’t feel like I have full control over the stool but I bring it back and swing it again.
The second shock is powerful, electric. It makes my teeth click together. I’ll jump out when the glass breaks. That’s my plan. Jump out of the second-story window and run.
Another swing.
Nothing.
The glass doesn’t crack. Doesn’t give. Hot tears run over dried salt on my cheeks. Glass is supposed to crack. I saw the destroyed remnants of the paperweight on Leo’s desk. A cascade of shattered petals. The window should be easier to break. My reflection grits her teeth back at me. I aim for my face this time.
Mirror-Emerson enters the studio, his stance casual, hands in the pockets of his sleep pants. Once again, I am consumed with wishing I could hate him. Truly hate him for how calm he is. How unaffected. I hate myself a little for how it makes me feel. His placid expression makes me think that I’m wrong somehow. That this is only a temporary madness, and I’ll come to see that I belong here.
I swing the stool again.
The glass holds.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he comments. No worry in his tone. No urgency. It’s as if he’s saying no clouds out there tonight.
I swallow a sob. “What do you care? You’re holding me hostage.”
“No, little painter. Hostage implies that I’m going to let you go once I receive payment. That’s never going to happen.”
I swing the stool in the other direction. Into the studio. Toward him. I let its momentum carry me the first few steps. The damn windows won’t break. I’ll break him instead. I tighten my grip on the curved legs, but something in my body hesitates. I’ve never attacked someone like this before. I’m within my rights to do it. He’s keeping me here against my will. But he’s not hurting me. He’s just standing there. A beautiful criminal. I trusted him.
I trusted him.
I dig the ball of my foot into the floor and run. My arms lift by themselves. I’ll hit his head. His ribs. I’ll swing it so he can’t get away. Wood on flesh. Another memory fights its way forward—my palms on wood—but I don’t let it surface.
I’m going to hit him. My mind braces for the crack of his skull, for the surprised grunt. The hard fall. My breath catches in my throat. Closer. Closer. Closer.
At the last possible moment, Emerson moves.
Some faraway part of me is surprised at how graceful he is. How athletic. I didn’t know a person could look so graceful in gray sweatpants and nothing else. Emerson knocks the stool out of my hand and grabs me around the waist. The stool clatters to the floor. I try to get my feet up so it doesn’t crush my toes. Pointless. He already has me out of the way.
I have the impression of muscle and body before my back connects with the wall. I shove against his chest, both palms, hard, but it doesn’t matter. Oh, god, it doesn’t matter. Emerson is the cage. Him. He doesn’t need metal bars. He doesn’t need locks. My panting breath is loud in my ears. This—I should paint this. A raging sea. Waves thrashing in my head. Whitecaps.
No part of me should like this. No part of me should feel relief at the fact that Emerson’s here. That I can’t get away. I’m not strong enough to push him off. I try again, and some sick part of me exhales. If I can’t get away, I don’t have to fight. I don’t have to lose. I make a few more attempts—reaching, digging in with my nails—but he bats my hands away. He’s not even out of breath. He’s as immovable as the wall. I know, I know—keep fighting until you can’t keep fighting anymore. That’s the rule. But who battles brick? Who battles concrete?
Why do I like this?
Why do I want him?
One final shove, and he catches my hand and pins it to his chest. His heart beats normally. Steadily.
“Don’t fight me, little painter.” The sound of his voice soothes something in me. It makes me compliant. I wanted to be a fighter, but I find myself leaning into the wall. Subsiding, like the tide. “There. See? You’re already mine. All stretched out like canvas. Trapped in a frame.”
His hand comes up, and he traces the shape of a frame beside my face. Over my head. Down the other side. It feels real. Like I could reach out and touch the edges. Like I could rise on tiptoe and press the top of my head to solid wood. I inch one hand out to prove to myself that it’s not. Of course it’s not.
“Why are you doing this?”
