Chapter 13 Kyra #2
Because he made sure of it. Because he systematically cut me off from every academic resource I might have accessed.
"That's very generous," I say, the words tasting like ash.
"I take care of what's mine," he replies, and the possessive statement that sent thrills through me yesterday now makes my skin crawl. His hands slide from my shoulders down my arms, enveloping me in an embrace that feels like a trap. "And you are mine now, aren't you, Kyra?"
I force myself to lean back against him, to play the role of willing captive while my mind races through options.
We're miles from civilization in the middle of winter.
My phone has no signal thanks to his deliberate signal blocking.
The Range Rover keys are undoubtedly secured.
I have no way to call for help, no way to escape.
"Yes," I whisper, hating myself for the lie but knowing it's my only option. "I'm yours."
His satisfaction is palpable as he presses his lips to the top of my head. "Good girl. I have a few more calls to make, then I thought we might continue our Christmas preparations. There are gifts to wrap, dinner to plan."
As if we're a normal couple preparing for a normal holiday. As if he hasn't orchestrated every aspect of my downfall to bring me to this point.
"That sounds perfect," I say, the performance taking everything I have.
"Perfect," he echoes, his fingers tracing my collarbone in a possessive caress. "I'll be in my study for another hour. Feel free to continue your research."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again. When he finally leaves, closing the door behind him, I let out the breath I've been holding. My hands are shaking as I stare at the research materials he's provided—another element in his elaborate manipulation.
How many other women has he done this to? Is this a pattern, or am I special in some twisted way?
Focus, Kyra. I need a plan. Need to pretend everything is normal while I figure out how to get away from this mountain, away from Victor's carefully constructed trap.
I force myself to breathe deeply, to think like the scientist I am.
Observation: I'm trapped in an isolated cabin with a dangerous man who has systematically manipulated my life for years.
Hypothesis: If I can find a way to contact Aaron, to warn him, he might be able to get help.
Experiment: Test for weaknesses in Victor's system, find a way to get a message out.
I pull out my phone, unsurprised to find there's still no signal.
But I remember that first night, how I'd noticed a brief flicker of reception near the window in my bedroom.
If Victor has signal jammers installed, they can't be perfect—no technology is.
There must be weak spots, places where a signal might get through.
Tonight, I'll test each window, each corner of the cabin, methodically searching for any place where I might get even one bar of reception. Just enough to send a text, to alert someone to my situation.
In the meantime, I need to continue the performance. Need to play the role of willing captive, of woman falling under Victor's spell. He expects me to be researching, so that's what I'll appear to be doing—taking notes, reading articles, maintaining the fiction that nothing has changed.
But everything has changed. I now know exactly what kind of man Victor Strickland is. I know what he's capable of. I know the lengths he's gone to in order to possess me.
And I will not be possessed.
I pull the notepad closer, begin formulating an escape plan disguised as research notes. In between legitimate observations about cardiac regeneration, I map out the cabin's layout, note potential escape routes, list the supplies I'd need if I were to attempt to walk out through the snow.
It's a desperate plan, but desperation is all I have now. When Victor returns in an hour, I'll smile, I'll play along with his Christmas preparations, I'll pretend to be falling deeper under his spell.
But I am not his. And I never will be a mindless toy.
The Christmas tree lights twinkle in the great room, visible through the office doorway.
The beautiful decorations we hung together yesterday now seem macabre, a festive facade covering the darkness beneath.
The wrapped presents under the tree—what do they contain?
More carefully selected manipulations designed to bind me closer to him?
I force myself to focus on the notepad, on the scientific language that will camouflage my thoughts if Victor happens to look over my shoulder.
But my mind keeps returning to the fragments of conversation I overheard, to the cold calculation in Victor's voice as he discussed the dismantling of my life.
"Three years of planning doesn't get compromised because someone has second thoughts."
"By Christmas Eve, she'll be completely mine."
Christmas Eve. The deadline Victor has set for my complete surrender. Three days from now. Three days to find a way out of this nightmare before it's too late.
I hear his footsteps approaching again and quickly flip to a fresh page in the notepad, sketching a molecular diagram as if deep in research considerations. When he appears in the doorway, I look up with what I hope is a convincing smile.
"Productive calls?" I ask, as if I haven't discovered his monstrous manipulation.
"Very." He leans against the doorframe, studying me with those perceptive gray eyes. Does he see the change in me? Can he tell I'm performing now? "I'm finished for the day. Ready to continue our Christmas preparations?"
"Absolutely," I say, standing with a casualness I don't feel. "What's next on the agenda?"
"Gift wrapping," he says, holding out his hand to me. "I thought you might help me finish preparing the packages for under the tree."
I take his hand, fighting the revulsion that threatens to show on my face. His skin is warm against mine, his grip gentle but firm—the hand that threatens his own son, that signs documents dismantling lives with a few strokes of a pen.
"Sounds perfect," I reply, the word bitter on my tongue.
As he leads me downstairs, his thumb tracing circles on my hand in a gesture that yesterday felt intimate but now feels possessive, I focus on maintaining the performance. I need time to plan, I need him to believe nothing has changed.
The Christmas tree lights twinkle in the afternoon sun, casting colored shadows across the hardwood floor. Beneath it, those perfectly wrapped packages seem sinister now—more elements in Victor's elaborate trap.
"I have a few more gifts to prepare," he says, leading me to a table near the tree where wrapping paper, ribbons, and boxes are arranged with military precision. "Some special things I think you'll appreciate."
"You didn't have to get me anything," I say, the social nicety automatic despite my inner turmoil.
His smile is indulgent, almost pitying—the look of a man who knows he holds all the cards. "Oh, but I did. I've been planning this Christmas for quite some time, Kyra. Everything has to be perfect."
Everything has to be perfect. The obsessive control beneath the statement chills me. How many Christmases has he imagined with me? How many scenarios has he played out in his mind during the three years he's been watching, waiting, planning?
"Well, I'm afraid I don't have anything for you," I say, attempting a light tone. "You didn't exactly give me shopping opportunities."
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine despite everything I now know about him. "Your presence is gift enough," he says, and I catch the double meaning—presence and presents—in his wordplay. "Besides, there will be many Christmases for you to make it up to me."
Many Christmases. The casual way he assumes a future together, assumes I'm now a permanent fixture in his life, makes my blood run cold. This isn't a holiday fling to him. This is the culmination of years of planning, the first stage of what he intends to be a permanent possession.
I force a smile, taking the roll of wrapping paper he hands me. "What are we wrapping?"
"Just a few small things," he says, opening a drawer to reveal jewelry boxes in various sizes. "Nothing too extravagant for our first Christmas together."
Our first Christmas together. As if there's no question there will be more. As if my future is already decided.
Which, in his mind, it is.
I focus on the mechanical task of wrapping, letting my hands work while my mind continues planning.
The scissors beside me catch my attention—a potential weapon, but a poor one against a man I now know has "buried bodies," as he so casually mentioned.
Besides, I have no way off this mountain even if I managed to incapacitate him. No, I need a subtler approach.
"You seem quieter this afternoon," Victor observes, his perceptiveness unsettling. "Everything alright?"
I meet his gaze, forcing warmth into my expression. "Just focused. I want these to be perfect for you."
The answer satisfies him, his eyes softening with approval. "Always so dedicated to excellence. It's one of the things I admire most about you."
One of the things he's observed during three years of surveillance, he means. The compliment that would have warmed me yesterday now makes my skin crawl.
We work in companionable silence—at least, what appears companionable from the outside. Inside, I'm screaming, cataloging everything I've learned, trying to formulate a plan that won't end with me—or Aaron—falling victim to Victor's obsession.
"There," Victor says eventually, placing the last wrapped package beneath the tree. "Perfect." He stands back to admire the display, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me against him. "Our first Christmas tree together."
I lean into him, playing my part, while my mind races ahead. I need to get to my phone. Need to find a way past his signal blocking. Need to warn Aaron, to get help.