Inescapable

Chapter 9

The following three days were difficult for Iris. Every day was harder than the last. Trystan always came for her after breakfast, when she would join him and Luna on their daily walks. It was the highlight of her day, but it always made returning to her forced solitude and imprisonment that much harder. She had declined the walk the day before, citing exhaustion, but she’d sensed Trystan’s confusion and concern.

He hadn’t said anything though, instead he strove to remain impersonal with her and continued to discourage any questions. Conversation between them on their walks centered around Luna and their surroundings.

He”d also steadfastly refused to let Luna spend any time in her room with her, and once their walk was done, Iris had nothing but a long day of stark loneliness to look forward to, only occasionally broken by Luna’s visits to her door.

It was wearing her down. There’d been no word from Hunter Quinn, and Trystan still refused to even look at Iris’s emails from his manager. They were at an impasse and Iris, already worn down and depressed just from trying to maintain her mental health, could see no way forward for them from here.

“You didn’t touch your food,” Trystan said when he collected Iris’s breakfast tray on Wednesday morning.

She was sitting on the sofa, her back to him, staring out of the window at yet another gray morning. She was beginning to actively hate this place where the sun never shone and the wind was always howling.

“Iris?” Trystan’s sharp voice penetrated her funk and she gave him her profile.

“Yes?”

“I said you didn’t eat your food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to be hungry, you didn’t eat your dinner last night.”

“I wasn’t hungry then either.”

Trystan made a gruff, annoyed sound and he was kneeling in front of her before she’d even registered that he’d moved. He was staring into her face, and she listlessly turned her head to avoid his eyes, but this time he caught her jaw in a firm but gentle grip and kept her face still for his probing gaze to thoroughly inspect.

“You’ve been crying.”

Her lips quivered before she pinched them between her teeth.

“No.” She still had some pride and it stung that he could so easily tell that she’d shed tears. “I just… I can’t sleep. I’m tired.”

“Okay. But you’ve also been crying.”

She hated feeling so nakedly vulnerable in front of him and dragged her feet up onto the couch to hug her knees to her chest with one arm. She tugged her chin out of his grasp and buried her face in her knees. She curled her other arm over the top of her head, folding herself into a protective little ball, away from those silver eyes that missed no detail.

“Come on, Hughes,” he whispered, and she felt the light touch of his fingers on her hair. “You’ve got more spunk than this.”

“You don’t know me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the tears she’d already spilled.

“Of course I know you. You’re the woman who walked away from the relative safety of her car in gale force winds, through dark, unfamiliar woods. You fought a wolf, bested a beast, broke into a house and fought your way to safety against all odds. You can brave anything.”

Not this.

Iris had always believed she was brave. Despite not standing up to her high school bullies, or to her parents about working at the catering business. Despite her phobias, and her uneasy concern that her lifelong dream of pursuing a career in journalism was the wrong one for her, she’d always possessed an innate belief that she was a strong person. A woman of conviction.

But she’d never been tested like this before. So much for immersion therapy, because facing her worst fear day after day did not make it conquerable. It just made her weaker, more frightened, and unable to function.

Every day was a little worse than the last. And she wasn’t sure how she was going to cling to her sanity. She’d tried writing, but couldn’t concentrate. She spent hours staring blankly at the screen. She dreaded sleeping because the nightmares were terrifying. In the end all she could do was stay awake, staring into the dark, the locked door looming bigger and bigger in her mind until it was all she could think about. All she could focus on. Daylight brought no relief. She frequently opened the window and leaned out as far as she could, desperate for fresh air, until the cold drove her to close it again.

But she continued to open it every half hour—despite the iciness—just to breathe. It was the only thing keeping her sane right now. The knowledge that she could leave through that window if she became desperate enough. That she could walk away and maybe find her way to town.

It was mad, but it was fast becoming the only viable option available to her.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she wasn’t initially aware that Trystan was talking, but his voice gradually penetrated her self-imposed huddle of solitude.

“—raining, so we can’t really go for a walk today, but I thought you might want to see the cinema room. We could watch a movie? Have some popcorn?”

His hand was buried in her curls by now, his fingers stroking her scalp. His other hand was flat on her back, moving in soothing circles.

“Iris? Would you like that?”

She lifted her head and his hand fell away, but the other one continued to rub her back gently.

“Why would you…” She wasn’t sure how to finish the question. And in the end, stared at him mutely. He seemed to understand though, and his shoulders lifted.

“I don’t like watching movies alone. So, what do you say? You wanna join Luna and me for a movie day?”

She nodded and his lips lifted.

“Good.”

“What are you in the mood for?” Trystan asked after Iris had curled up on one of the massive recliners in the cinema room. She’d crept out of her melancholy enough to appreciate the sheer magnificence of this room.

It was decadence pure and simple. The screen took up an entire wall and there were two rows of six comfortable recliners, each with a fold-away tray and a cup holder. And in the third row were three reclining love seats for couples to share.

There was a popcorn machine, already filled with freshly popped kernels, the smell of which made Iris’s mouth water. Now that she was out of that stifling locked room her appetite was returning with a vengeance.

Trystan was fussing around her for some reason, draping a plush blanket over her lap, bringing her a raspberry slushy and a carton of warm popcorn.

“It’s lightly salted. Would you prefer butter or another flavor?’

“No, thank you, this is perfect.”

Luna had sunk down to snooze directly in front of Iris’s seat, and Iris occasionally ran her socked foot over the dog’s flank.

“So, what would you like to watch? Miles has a great variety of movies and shows.”

“I’m not fussy, you choose.” She didn’t care what they watched, as long as it kept her here.

He sat down in the recliner next to hers, kicking off his trainers and going full sprawl. He lifted what looked like a tablet from a small side table and swiped the screen a few times. He made a soft sound of approval before glancing over at Iris.

“You okay with scary movies?”

“I like scary movies.”

He nodded and swiped again, before putting the tablet aside. The lights dimmed, and Iris curled her legs under her bum and snuggled cozily beneath the warm blanket as she stared at the screen.

She shoveled handfuls of popcorn at a time into her mouth, occasionally sharing with Luna, and happily washed it down with her slushy as she became invested in the story.

“Oh my God, she’s a moron,” she groaned out loud about forty minutes in when the female lead made the classic ‘hello, is anybody there’ blunder.

“Why do you say that?” Trystan—who’d been largely silent throughout the film—asked curiously.

“She lives alone. If you think someone is in your empty house, you don’t ask if anybody is there. You get the hell out.”

“Fair point. Although…” He left the word hanging, the sentence incomplete, and it was enough to distract her from the movie.

“Although what?”

“The other night when you snuck back into the house. I heard an anomalous noise, and—I’m sorry to say—I asked if someone was there.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth in horrified glee.

“You didn’t.”

“I totally did. I knew it wasn’t Luna.”

“How did you know that?”

“My dog is smart, but I’m pretty sure she can’t turn door handles.”

“I tried to be so quiet. How are your ears so crazy good? With the wind and rain and everything, it couldn’t have been that noticeable.”

“It wasn’t. But I was already on alert after our initial meeting.”

“And you really asked if someone was there?”

“I think it’s instinctual.”

“It’s dumb. If I’d been an ax murderer, intent on slaughtering you, your question would have alerted me that you were aware of my presence.”

“Luckily for me, your only intentions right then were getting naked and showering.”

She fought back a furious blush, and lost. Fortunately, it was too dark in the room for him to see her crimson face.

“I was trying to get warm.”

A discordant screech, echoing from the surround-sound speakers made them both jump, and they refocused on the screen where the character was clutching her chest in shock after having unearthed a body in the dumbwaiter.

“If you live alone and move into an ancient house with a dumbwaiter, the house is probably too big for you,” Iris observed caustically.

“Aah, you’re one of those,” Trystan said, taking a slurp of his slushy.

“One of what?” Iris prompted, when he didn’t elaborate.

“A plot apart picker. Someone who tears apart the minutest details in a movie as they’re watching it.”

“I’m not,” she protested indignantly. “I don’t pick plots apart. Not usually. But scary movies bring out the worst in me. I think it’s my way of coping with the tension and fear. If I can point out an implausibility, I’m better able to remember that none of it is real. Although it doesn’t really work, since I always wind up checking cupboards and under the bed for monsters and boogeymen after watching a scary movie anyway.”

“Seriously?” Now it was his turn to sound gleeful.

“Ssh, we’re missing the film,” she said, trying to divert his attention. His knowing chuckle told her he knew exactly what she was doing, but he let it go. Filching some of her popcorn, he settled back down in his seat to watch.

The rest of the movie was only occasionally interrupted by Iris’s moans of disapproval and her squeaks of fear whenever something truly frightening happened.

Trystan immediately put on a lighthearted romantic comedy after the horror movie. A palate cleanser, he called it. Iris, who wasn’t a big fan of romcoms—and exhausted after several nights of poor sleep—dozed through most of it. She startled awake when the end credits were rolling, and sat up in confusion.

“What happened?”

“Movie’s over,” Trystan said, after a jaw-popping yawn. “Don’t blame you for snoring your way through it, it was godawful.”

“Are you allowed to be that critical? I mean isn’t there some kind of professional code that dictates that you say only nice or noncommittal things about other people’s movies?”

He snort-laughed at that.

“I enjoy watching movies and I have opinions, same as everyone else. But I would never publicly slam a movie. I know how much work goes into making them. But this isn’t a public space and, as such, I’m allowed to voice a private observation without fear that it’ll be spread all over the gossip rags tomorrow.”

Another test? Maybe. Maybe not. It was too exhausting analyzing every little thing he said for potential land mines and snares.

He stretched luxuriously and yawned, another huge yawn that triggered one of her own.

“I’m starving. Want to help me with lunch?” he asked, and Iris—keen to delay the return to her torture chamber—nodded eagerly.

“Yes, please.”

“You any good in a kitchen?” he asked, as he got up and then held out a hand to help her up.

She stared at that big, capable hand for an uncertain moment, before taking it. His fingers closed around hers—strong and familiar—and he waited for her to unfold her legs before giving her a helpful tug up. She yelped and stumbled into his arms when her right ankle buckled.

His arms wrapped around her waist as he caught her.

“You okay?”

“My foot’s asleep,” she moaned, gingerly testing her weight on it before yelping again. “Ugh, pins and needles.”

“That’s the worst,” he murmured into her ear. “Take your time, I’ve got you.”

They stood like that for a few moments, while she gradually placed more weight on her foot as the tingling subsided. He held her comfortably, his arms loose around her waist, his big hands splayed in the small of her back, the tips just resting above the curve of her butt.

They were both wearing sweatpants and hoodies but even with all that fleecy fabric between them, she was still keenly aware of that large hard body pressed so close to hers.

She brought her hands up between them, flattening her palms against his chest.

“I’m okay now,” she whispered, casting her eyes downward, uncomfortable with his piercing stare that seemed to miss nothing.

He held onto her for a beat longer, his hands moving upward to cup her waist.

“Hey, Iris?” His chest vibrated against her hands as he spoke.

“Yes?”

“I really, really hate it when you hide your eyes from me.”

Her brow furrowed at the comment and she lifted her head to stare at him in confusion. He made a deep, rumbling sound of approval when she met his gaze.

“That’s better. I like seeing that defiant spark in them when you’re pissed off with me. When you hide your eyes, I worry that you’re on the verge of tears.”

“Why would you care if I cried? At best I’m an unwelcome guest in your temporary home. At worst I’m an intruder who tried to lie her way into an interview with you.”

“This is a… difficult situation. And I’m trying to be fair. I feel like I’ve found a workable solution for both of us, at least until this can be straightened out. I don’t think that’s so unreasonable.”

It wasn’t unreasonable. Not at all. Iris was the one with the problem and no matter how much she tried to explain it to him, she doubted he’d ever truly grasp how distressing it was for her to be locked in that room.

“You’re not being unreasonable, or unfair. But my phobia isn’t rational. I can’t reason my way out of it. I wish I could.”

His arms fell away from her waist and he stepped back, leaving Iris cold and bereft. She wrapped her own arms around her body in an attempt to keep that dreadful, lonely coldness at bay.

“I don’t know you, Iris. I can’t trust you. You understand that, don’t you? I can’t allow you to roam freely around my space. I can’t afford to be so blindly foolish. You’re asking me to believe that you suffer from a phobia that very opportunely means you can’t stay in a locked room? You see how highly suspicious that is, right? How could you even board a plane to come here in the first place, if that were the case?”

She nearly hadn’t, but a combination of medication, an aisle seat, deep-breathing exercises, as well as the excitement at the prospect of meeting and interviewing Trystan Abbott had helped her fight through her debilitating fear.

About halfway through the flight, when she’d realized that she was well on her way to South Africa and that she hadn’t lost her shit even a little, she’d felt so damned powerful and triumphant and proud. It had been a huge boost to her self-esteem. The flight hadn’t been easy by any means, but once she’d understood that she could do it—that she was doing it—Iris had felt almost invincible.

Only to find herself here, and right back to square one with her phobia.

“I don’t understand why Mr. Quinn didn’t message or email you about my arrival,” she said wearily, tired of having the same dead-end conversation with him. “If you would allow me to, I could show you my correspondence with him.”

“I told you before, electronic correspondence is easily faked,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Of course it is,” Iris said with a dejected sigh, really not in the mood for this conversation again either. This wasn’t even a misunderstanding anymore—it was the willful stubborn insistence of one party not to believe a single word the other said. There was no arguing with that. No reasoning. He didn’t want to believe her and so—no matter what proof she offered to support her argument—he wouldn’t.

“You asked if I was any good in the kitchen,” she said, changing the subject. She ignored the astonishment in his usually enigmatic gaze, knowing he’d expected her to continue arguing her case. Iris felt a swell of satisfaction that she’d managed to surprise him. He was too smug in his belief that he knew everything there was to know about her and what motivated her.

“My parents own a catering and events company. They started off as caterers and I grew up knowing my way around a kitchen. I’m a pretty decent cook, nowhere near as good as my dad, of course. He’s a genius in the kitchen. My mum’s better with the admin.”

“Well, I’m happy for you to recreate one of your dad’s recipes for lunch. I’m pretty fed up of cooking. As you may have noticed, I’m not the most creative of cooks.”

“You do okay,” she said and he grinned.

“If that’s not damning someone with faint praise, I don’t know what is.” He chuckled in genuine amusement.

“Are you sure you trust me to cook. Not afraid I’ll drug you and snoop around your house while you’re unconscious?”

His smile broadened, lively amusement still lingering in his eyes.

“Well, I wasn’t until you asked me that question,” he said, his tone mocking. “Come on, time to dazzle me with your culinary abilities.”

It wasa pleasure to cook in the massive state-of-the-art kitchen. It was truly a chef’s space, with everything she could possibly need right at her fingertips. She’d been honest when she’d boasted about being a decent cook. She happily whipped up a chicken korma—one of her dad’s specialties—from scratch, with butter naan and raita as sides.

Trystan proved an able sous chef, happily chopping and dicing anything she needed him to. He remained largely silent, while Iris regaled him with stories of her family’s business and some of the more outlandish events they’d planned and catered.

“I’m actually a little sorry I missed the Bhandari wedding this past weekend. It’s one of the biggest events we’ve ever catered. Over a thousand guests. Dad was really chuffed we got the contract.

“I went to school with the bride, Shruti. She and I were never really friends, she was more popular than me. I didn’t have many friends at school, I always had my head stuck in a book or I’d be staring into space thinking up crazy stories. The other kids thought I was a bit weird.”

“Did they bully you?” It was the first time he’d spoken in ages, and it made her aware of how long she’d been prattling on inanely.

“Sorry, you must be bored to tears. I do tend to go on a bit when given free rein to talk.”

“If I were bored to tears I wouldn’t be asking questions, now would I?”

Fair point.

“What was the question?” she asked, prevaricating.

“Were you bullied?”

“A little,” she admitted. She ignored his annoyed hiss when she deliberately looked away from him to “check” on the curry simmering away on the gas stove top for the second time in under a minute.

“A little?” he repeated and she inhaled shakily, before forcing herself to meet that all-seeing gaze.

“Okay, a lot. Usually small things, like name-calling and taking or breaking my stuff. They made fun of my braces, my hair, my body. My parents being in the service industry. Nothing was off limits to them.

“I didn’t want a phone, and I had no social media accounts because I knew the online bullying would be relentless if I did. And it became yet another thing for them to mock me about.

“Then one Friday afternoon, just after the final bell, Shruti—the ringleader—and her cohorts shoved me into a supply room and locked the door. The teachers were all in a staff meeting and the other kids had mostly gone home already. Any student who did hear my panicked screams daren’t go against Shruti and her minions. It felt like I was locked in there, in the dark, for hours. But in reality it was only forty minutes or so. That’s how long it took for my form teacher to return to the classroom and find me there. I was a wreck. I’d…”

She stopped talking, not sure she wanted to tell him anymore, her face blossoming with color.

“What?” His voice quiet, reassuring, and interested. His eyes were gentle.

She breathed out a shuddering sigh and shrugged. Her fingers tracing the veins in the marble-top counter.

“I’d wet myself. No other students were there to witness it, but… I was so scared they’d find out. That it would be another thing for them to mock me about.”

“How old were you?”

She’d been so absorbed in the memories that she’d mostly put behind her that the question, uttered in that dark, brooding voice, startled her. She jumped and looked at him. She was getting so used to being in his company every day that it no longer seemed surreal that she was standing here in Trystan Abbott’s presence.

“It started when I was fourteen and didn’t stop until I started my A-levels at seventeen. They were the longest three years of my life. I was fifteen at the time of that particular incident.”

“So, you were sorry to miss the wedding because you planned to spit in the champagne fountain, right?” he asked and—after the meander down shitty memory lane—his dry wit was very welcome. Iris burst into laughter and he watched her for a moment, his eyes alight with an indefinable emotion, before he joined in on the laughter.

“Not gonna lie, the thought definitely occurred to me,” she admitted with a chuckle. “But honestly? I wanted to witness the spectacle. All the gorgeous saris, the colors, the food. I fully intended to remain out of the bride’s sight, though. I wanted to avoid the inevitable snarky comments. She really is such a bitch. And going by the few times I’d encountered her over the past few years, the last decade has done nothing to improve her disposition at all.”

“Do you work for your parents full time?” he asked, while removing a couple of plates from a kitchen cabinet.

“No. I help out most weekends, and when they’re short-staffed, but I’m a freelance editor. I work mostly with indie authors, and have a decent—and growing—client base.”

He set the table, while she turned off the gas cooker to give the curry a few minutes to cool down.

“Sounds like a thriving business.”

“It is. I earn good money and enjoy the work. But…”

“You want to write your own stories,” he completed for her, and she blinked at him in surprise.

“I—no… I mean, I want to be a journalist. I have a level 3 diploma in multimedia journalism, I’ve just never had the opportunity to?—”

“Iris, you seem like a determined woman. Someone who usually achieves what she sets out to do. You’re what? Twenty-six? And you’ve been faffing around editing, working for your parents, doing anything except what you say you so desperately want to do. I’d think that by now you would have at least worked or interned at any number of publications or news agencies. But you haven’t. Why not?”

“The time was never right. My dad went through a bad spell with his health a few years ago and I needed to help out more with the business.” Even to her own ears, her excuses sounded flimsy. Because, quite honestly, she’d had numerous solid opportunities to work as a junior reporter at several local newspapers, and she’d turned down internships at two national news broadcasters. She’d always used family commitments as a convenient excuse not to grab those chances, and now she could clearly see how much she’d been bullshitting herself.

“If I didn’t want to be a journalist, I wouldn’t be stuck in this godforsaken place with you, now would I?” she asked, throwing the question down like a gauntlet between them. Instead of bristling like she’d expected him to do, he canted his head as he leisurely perused her hot, agitated face.

“You make a valid point, Hughes. I clearly don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.” Infuriatingly, he sounded like he was humoring her and that rubbed Iris up the wrong way.

“You don’t,” she told him, anger making her voice quiver. “You have no idea what motivates me.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

“No, you don’t,” she denied, her voice heated and her words curt.

His eyes argued with her, but he chose not to verbalize what he was thinking.

“Wine?” he asked instead, reaching for a pair of long-stemmed glasses.

She stared at him, hating to let this go, needing to convince him of her commitment to her chosen career path. But knowing she couldn’t make a solid case when she, herself, doubted her choices.

“Iris?” He prompted and she inhaled deeply, hating how much she loved the sound of her name on his lips.

“Red please,” she said in response to his earlier question, and turned to retrieve the raita from the fridge.

They sat down to lunch at the quaint, cozy banquette in the kitchen and ate silently for a while, soft jazzy music playing in the background and alleviating the strained silence between them.

“Sam Brand is my security advisor,” Trystan volunteered unexpectedly after he was about halfway through his meal. Up until that point he’d only complimented her on the food, before they’d lapsed into silence.

It was odd that he’d choose this moment to refer to the name he’d mentioned three days ago.

“Oh? I thought that Australian guy, Chance, was.” The big, blond Australian bodyguard—Chance Griffin—had caused a minor sensation in the gossip magazines when he’d first started shadowing Trystan about a year ago. People had been sighing over his good looks, rhapsodizing over his brawny body, and the sight of him with Trystan had soon become common. There was even rampant speculation that the two men were hot for each other. Which had resulted in a lot of erotic fan fiction centered around Trystan and his bodyguard.

“Chance works for Sam. One of the reasons I chose not to have Chance here was because Sam lives in town, and he was reasonably confident that I’d be perfectly safe here. Chance is staying with Sam while I’m here, on call in case I choose to venture out into the world. But I wanted—needed—to be alone.

“In fact, Sam and Miles Hollingsworth are good friends. Miles is merely a passing acquaintance of mine. We’d met at a few charity functions and he seems like a decent guy, but we’re not what I’d call intimates.

“Sam knew I needed someplace private to stay and—since Miles and his wife are in London for the next six months—Sam asked Miles if I could stay here while he and his wife are out of the country. So, no… Miles Hollingsworth is not my financial advisor.” The last was offered with a faint smile but Iris was baffled by this sudden flood of previously withheld information, and was unable to return the gesture.

“I see,” she said, not really seeing at all. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“You asked.” His answer was both simple and immensely complicated at the same time.

Why had he suddenly decided to start answering her questions? Or more specifically why that one?

And would he answer another question if she merely asked.

Only one way to find out.

“Speaking of Australians,” she began. “Are you aware that your fancy American accent has been slipping steadily by the day?”

He surprised her by looking not one whit offended by that question, and then shocked her even further by laughing.

“I tried so fucking hard to get rid of my native accent when I was starting out because Quinny believed that it would limit my opportunities. It became almost second nature to disguise it.

“By the time I was big enough for it to no longer matter, it had become commonplace to speak in that godawful hybrid accent. But when I’m back in Oz, or spending time with my family, or away from the US, my natural accent starts to reassert itself. In fact, I’m hoping to shed the American one completely. It was the worst advice Quinny ever gave me. And that’s saying a lot, since he is partially responsible for one of my biggest flops. Although, to be fair, we’ve been together from the start, and we were young and inexperienced with a lot to learn back then.”

“Your biggest flop? You mean Eagle-Man?” Iris asked, with a sympathetic wince, even though she was trying hard not to laugh at the memory of that embarrassment of a movie. It had been one of his earlier films and it would have been a death knell to the career of any less-talented and—let’s be honest here—less hot actor.

He glared at her.

“Do you mind? I like to pretend that atrocity does not exist.”

“I don’t blame you. But it’s really not as bad as Night of the Killer Wētās. Although, I have to admit, I really loved that one.”

“That was an indie. Come on, I was doing a favor for a friend. I was young and stupid, how the hell was I supposed to know those wētās would come back to bite me in the arse?” Iris loved how his accent had reverted back to Aussie so much that he no longer said ass. “No matter, I stand by my decision to make that one. It has a certain charm. And it has a devout, hardcore fandom. But fucking Eagle-Man? Jesus, it had a decent budget and had no business turning out as dire as it did.”

Iris laughed—the sound joyful and contagious—and after a while he let go of his feigned indignation to join her.

It was a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, and after lunch he brought out a deck of cards and they played a few games of gin rummy.

It was heading into early evening, and getting dark, when he finally put the cards away. They cleaned the kitchen together and he fed Luna.

“I have a couple of phone calls to make,” he told her once the kitchen was restored to neatness.

She stared at him blankly, not sure why he was telling her that. She wasn’t stopping him from making his calls.

“Iris, I’ll need you to return to your room,” he elaborated, and her heart sank to the soles of her feet. She’d been having such a great time; they’d been getting along so well—he’d felt almost like a friend—that she hadn’t for a second contemplated the reality that he’d go back to being her jailer once he was done entertaining himself with her.

“I could stay in the kitchen with Luna,” she suggested, misery lending a wobble to her voice.

Why was he doing this to her? Somehow this felt worse than before.

Yesterday and the days before, despite their companionable—mostly silent—walks, she hadn’t enjoyed his company as much and therefore hadn’t fooled herself into believing that maybe he was starting to like and trust her. He’d remained at an emotional distance and she’d been okay with that. It kept her from liking and trusting him.

He’d been an adversary, an enemy, and that had made his actions understandable.

But this… this was cruel.

“Are you going to lock the door?” she asked him, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders in an effort to hide her panic from him.

“I have to. But I promise you, I’m just down the hall. You’re not alone. Tomorrow we’ll walk Luna together. Would you like that?”

She hated the achingly gentle tone of voice he was using, hated how he was speaking to her like she was a child in need of coddling. Hated that he had no clue, not one single fucking idea of how bad things got for her in that room. He thought she was exaggerating, that she was being childish, that she was making up some ridiculous excuse to avoid being imprisoned in her room. How could he still believe that after what she’d revealed about being locked in the supply room?

His hand was in the small of her back and he was exerting only the slightest of pressure—not shoving, not nudging—to get her to walk. Her feet moved. Leaden, reluctant, but they moved… carrying her back to that awful place.

The walk back felt interminable but was over in the blink of an eye. Before she knew it, she was standing in the room, staring at him, as he loomed in the doorway—a large, dark and threatening figure—with the light from the hallway streaming in behind him.

She stood there on shaking legs, her eyes pleading with him when her voice failed.

“I’ll bring your dinner later,” he said.

I’m not hungry, the words wouldn’t emerge from her locked throat.

“Iris,” he whispered, his voice sounding as despairing as she felt. “Stop looking at me like that, I can’t…”

He shook his head, swallowing down whatever he’d been about to say.

He stepped into the room and cupped her face with his hands.

“I’ll be back soon, okay?” He dropped his forehead to hers and—in a move that finally shocked her out of her numbness—dropped a hard, almost angry, kiss on her lips.

She gasped, and when her lips parted, his tongue slid into her mouth—just a brief foray—leaving a trail of slick fire in its wake.

The kiss was over before it even properly began and he stepped back an instant later.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” He swallowed thickly and shook his head in frustration, while she continued to stare at him in mute shock. “Christ, this is such a fucking mess.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face and retreated, slamming the door in his wake.

She jumped at the harsh sound and then—when the door locked—she sobbed. A quiet, despairing, hopeless sound.