It was the only instance in the time I’ve had her that she didn’t recoil at my touch.
And I deserve to suffer the absolute torture of watching her work through this mess.
A good majority of it is my fault. Just like last time when I killed her father and caused years of the same kind of problems for her.
I really am the demon in her story, and I have no fucking clue how to fix what I’ve done.
Although I also suspect part of the violence of her current sleep issues is a result of withdrawal from the drugs Grant was forcing her to take.
Stepping into her room after a particularly bad night, I stand against the door and stare at her with my arms folded across my chest, my hair still dripping from the shower I took to wake up.
We’re on day seven. Her bruises have turned a mottled blue-green, the swelling has gone down significantly, and from what I can tell, she doesn’t have any broken bones that altered the structure of her face.
Grant’s lucky for that. It meant I might go a little easier on him when killing him. And by easier, I mean I’ll still cut off his dick, but I’ll do it with something sharp instead of a butter knife.
“Will you speak to me today?”
She glances up at me with hateful blue eyes, not sparing me even the hint of a smile or a sneer, just pure distrust and absolute loathing that I’m in the same room with her.
I don’t blame her for the reaction, but I’m getting goddamned sick of it.
Almost seven years I’ve been chasing this woman down, and now that I have her here, I’m not letting her treat me like I don’t fucking matter.
Maybe I shouldn’t say what I say, but her anger is exploding against mine, the toxic stew of it setting my nerves on edge.
“Maybe I should treat you like shit and slap you around a little to get you to behave. That’s how Grant did it, right?”
Her blues eyes fill with rage, those blood red lips that have always driven me crazy pulling into a thin line as she glares at me with daggers slicing at my face. But I can slice right back.
“You’re going to talk to me at some point, or else you’ll stay in this room for however long it takes for you to scream, or yell, or fight or fuck. I don’t give a shit what you choose to do, but you’re doing something.”
“I’ll never fuck you again.”
Her voice is cold, like ice against my skin, but it’s words, at least. Even if they are utter bullshit.
“I told you there will be a next time. I wasn’t lying. You’ll change your mind about that. But that’s not why I’m here now.”
Her eyes hold mine, a hard stare like a clash of swords, metal grinding, her heart beating like a war drum beneath her chest, the heavy pulse of it a warning that she’s imagining my death.
“Will you let me out of this room?”
And there it is. That one fucking question. The same one she asks every day that pisses me off.
“No.”
Her anger shuts down just like the rest of her, eyes turning toward the wall.
I would force her face back to me if Grant hadn’t already fucked her up. But she’s healing, and this shit will eventually end.
“Jump in the shower, and I’ll make you something to eat.”
As I walk away, she speaks again.
“Why won’t you let me out?”
At least it’s a new question. Except, not one I can answer. I’m still not sure how to explain my penthouse, the years of her on display, the shrine as Lincoln calls it.
I’ve considered tossing all the shit before letting her out, but I refuse to do it. I don’t play the instruments. I’ve already read all the books. None of that matters. Her music playlist is the first thing to blast through my speakers when you turn the stereo system on. And those photos. Fuck, those photos...
They’re the first thing I see when I walk out of my room every morning and the last before I go to sleep.
My life for the past seven years has been Adeline Kane.
Not Cabot, because fuck that asshole. His name should have never been hers to begin with.
I won’t get rid of it. I’ll just keep her locked up until I figure out how to explain it. Which will be a while. Because there is no explaining it.