Chapter 22 The Bait
THE BAIT
EMERY
Toni’s been ignoring me all day. Not a glance. Not a word. She’s barely come within a few feet of me. I should feel discouraged by her distance, but I think my plan is working. She’s purposely trying to stay away.
I’ve heard them fight. Simone isn’t pleased that Toni gave me a blanket. I don’t think she was supposed to find out, but she came downstairs too early. Toni didn’t have time to hide the evidence. They fought. Even through the walls, I could hear them.
This bodes well for me.
The more friction they have, the better.
Toni sits at her computer, the four screens covered with indiscernible code and pages.
Her back is toward me. Always her back. She reaches for her cell phone and intently stares at the screen.
She’s close enough that I can read her body language.
She squeezes the phone, and I don’t need to be an expert in kinesics to see that she’s pissed.
Her phone flies across the room, smashing against the cement wall as she grunts. “Cazzo!”
I rein in a smile.
It’s showtime.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
In the two years I worked at Lux, I’ve learned that there are two types of personalities.
One ruled by stone. The other by feathers.
Toni is stone. She’s tough and hard. And so, I must be the feather to her stone.
Light. Gentle. It’s not a concrete science, but I’ve watched enough backroom encounters to determine which approach boasts the best ROI.
Toni stiffens, ignoring me as she continues to clack away on the keyboard.
She’s stubborn. I’ll give her that.
“Did something happen?” I ask, voice airy and breathy. Like a feather dipped in poison. “Are you…” I pause for effect. Stones love theatrics. They can hardly sense it. Differentiate an act from reality. “Are you okay?”
Come on, Toni. Break for me. Show me a little crack. That’s all I need. One tiny chip. One teensy weensy sliver of hope.
“Antonia?” I might be pushing it. She might see through me.
Abruptly, she whips her head around, jaw locked and tense. “Do not call me Antonia. I loathe that name.”
On the inside, I grin like the fucking devil. But on the outside… On the outside, I give her eyes meant for helpless puppies, hurt and tortured and afraid.
“I’m… I’m sorry.” I pull my chin down to my chest, sniffling. “I didn’t mean to…”
Take the bait.
Take it.
Toni lets out a labored sigh. “It is… It is fine. I should not have snapped at you. I am… I am frustrated. It is not your fault.”
I look up at her through my lashes. “It’s not?”
A weak, sympathetic smile clips her lips. “No, bella, it is not.”
I swallow, shifting my weight uncomfortably on the squeaky mattress. I twist my leg to change positions, and wince, subtly enough that she thinks I’m genuinely in pain. I don’t need to look up to see her reaction. I can feel it. I’m slowly seeping into her cracks.
“What’s wrong then?” I ask, timidly fiddling with strands of loose hair. “Is… Is Simone angry with you?”
Toni scoffs. “When is she not angry with me?”
I perk a curious brow and immediately scold myself for being so reactive.
Trouble in kidnapper paradise, it appears.
How do I want to approach this? Do I want to relate to her problems? Mention I’ve been at the mercy of a man with anger issues? It’s not a complete lie. But it’s also not the truth. Damon’s anger never truly scared me. Annoyed me, yes. But never frightened me.
Or do I want to praise her for her selflessness? Show her how much her kindness means to me? I can’t make the wrong move. One wrong move and the entire thing could collapse on top of me, and I’ll never be able to escape.
Simone is angry at her for helping me. I should offer her my gratitude. She needs that. She needs to know that I appreciate her sacrifice. Yes. We’ll go with that. But gently. As to not startle the beast.
“It’s the blanket, isn’t it?” My gaze meekly floats to the throw.
“She’s…angry about that, isn’t she?” I don’t let Toni respond as I swallow.
“You said it’s not my fault. But it is.” I glance up at her, eyes soft.
“I’m sorry you’re fighting with her because of me.
I…” I reach for the blanket and hold it toward her.
“You can take it back if you want. I’ll…
I’ll be fine. It’s not that…” I fake a sneeze.
God, I’m a genius. “It’s not that cold.”
Toni clicks her tongue. “Shit.”
She stands up, and heads toward the kitchenette. I watch her carefully, studying her movements, the way her hair bounces with every step as she fills a kettle with water and places it on a burner. She spins around, arms crossed as she leans against the counter.
“You are getting sick, aren’t you?”
Sure. Let’s go with that.
I feign a tiny cough. “No, I’m fine. I just…"
As I search for a lie, my eyes widen. Oh, shit. Amid all this chaos and my plans to escape, I forgot I don’t have my pills. My immunosuppressants. Five days without a dose won’t kill me. As long as I genuinely don’t get sick. I could use this. I will use this.
“I just don’t have my pills with me.” I place a hand over my chest. “For my…”
“Fuck,” she grumbles under her breath, and I guarantee I wasn’t meant to hear her say it.
She turns her back toward me, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. Too tight. Far too tight. She cares. Oh, she totally cares. The kettle whistles, and she yanks it aggressively, pouring the water into a mug.
With a sharp breath, she turns around. “You will drink this, Emery Jones. Every sip.” She strides toward me, kneeling down as she reaches the mattress. Her gaze locks on me, fierce and deadly. “Every sip, bella. Drink.”
I inhale the hot vapor. “What is it?”
Toni blinks. “Tea.”
Time to turn up the flirt.
A sly, teasing smile lifts the corner of my lips. “I know it’s tea, Toni,” I say. “I mean, what kind of tea?”
“The kind that will keep you from getting sick,” she replies, gently bringing the mug to my lips. “Drink, Emery Jones.” I take a large sip and wince. Toni clicks her tongue, eyes narrowed. “Slowly, bella. Do not burn yourself.”
She’s quite close to me now. Her eyes are glued to my lips as they rest against the mug. I dart my tongue out, just a little, just enough that she sees it. That she wants it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll be more careful.”
“You apologize too often,” she notes, her posture relaxing as she continues to kneel before me. Absentmindedly, she lifts her hand and strokes back a strand of my wayward hair. “It is a horrible habit, Emery Jones. You should fix it.”
I take a small sip of the herbal tea. “Do you not apologize when you do something wrong?” My gaze briefly floats to the door which leads to the upper levels of the house. “Maybe… Maybe you should. Maybe then Simone won’t be so angry.”
Toni chuckles. It’s a sound that’s quiet and weak, not rooted in humor but in something darker. Something I can use.
“Simone is always angry,” Toni admits. “It is who she is. An apology will not change that.”
“That sounds…exhausting,” I whisper. “To love someone like that.”
Toni’s jaw twitches. “Sometimes we do not get to decide who we love, Emery Jones. It is beyond our control.”
“How…” I approach with caution. “How did you meet?”
A flash of pain dances across her sharp features, and I fear I may have crossed a line. But she doesn’t stand up. She doesn’t pull away. She simply stares at me. Almost deciding whether or not to trust me with her story.
She’d be a fool to trust me. Her hostage. Someone who’d do just about anything to ensure their survival. But in this moment, she’s not looking at me like I’m a tool, a means to an end. No. She’s looking at me like a confidant. Someone who’d listen. Someone who’d care.
Such a fool.
“We met a year ago in grief counseling,” she says, gaze distant.
“It was a couple of weeks after my sister had passed away. I needed… I needed someone to talk to. Someone who would understand the pain of losing a loved one. I found this group online. And then I met Simone.” Her eyes meet mine, and there’s an unsettling vulnerability glowing in her irises.
“Simone understood me better than anyone. Her brother… He was also a Diazenix victim.”
I swallow. A trauma bond. That’s what they’ve established. That’s their relationship. Hard to sever. Nearly impossible to replace. Trauma is the only emotion that’s nearly as strong as love.
What steep competition.
Hesitantly, I reach out and place my hand over hers.
“I’m glad you found someone to lean on,” I whisper.
“I’m glad you didn’t have to go through that pain alone.
” For this to work, I need to offer something in return.
Something honest. Something equally raw.
“I’ve never lost someone before, but I…” It’s harder than it seems. “I know how it feels to be empty inside.” I pause, closing my eyes.
“Like there’s no point in living. I know that feeling.
That hollow ache that never stops hurting. I know it too.”
Toni’s fingers curl around my comforting hand and she squeezes. She squeezes so hard that yet another crack appears in the stone I’m attempting to crumble.
And it will. Soon, she’ll turn into tiny flakes of debris and dust, and I’ll use the aftershock as my cover, as my way out.
“Are you still hurting, Emery Jones?” Toni asks, tilting her head. “Have you healed? Or are you still hollow?”
My heart clenches in my chest. It’s a good question.
One that I’ve been terrified to answer. But my fear is now irrelevant.
The answer doesn’t need my approval, my commendation, my support.
The fact I’m here, chained up, battered, and trying to survive says it all.
The fact I’m sitting here with my fingers interlocked with my captor’s, a woman who will most likely kill me, says it all.
What once was hollow is now burning with fire.
A fire to keep going.
A fire to live.
They did this to me. They’ve filled me with purpose. With passion. With meaning.
God, I hope they find me.
God, I hope I live.
I look up at Toni, my answer tailored to fit my carefully written narrative. “I don’t think I’ll ever be fully healed,” I whisper. “You’re lucky, Toni. You’re lucky you have someone that cares about you. I-I think I’ll be hollow until the day I die.”
“You…” Her gaze flicks down to my quivering lips, and I force my expression to remain solemn, somber, and borderline broken.
“You are not hollow, Emery Jones. You,” she cups my cheek.
God, I want to jump for fucking joy. Her thumb caresses my hairline, the pressure firm and tender.
And then I do it. I lean into her touch.
Her breath hitches. “You are not what I expected.”
My chest rises and falls as I carefully orchestrate a symphony of glorious, needy breaths. It’s easier when the target is beautiful. It’s easier when their touch genuinely ignites a spark of intrigue.
“What did you expect?” I ask in a breathy voice, eyelashes fluttering.
She quickly pulls her hand away and abruptly stands up, towering over me. “Not this,” she grunts and walks away.
I collapse backward into the mattress, grinning up triumphantly at the ceiling.
We’re almost there, Luna.
We’re almost there.