Chapter Fourteen
Victory
Three Months Later
Charlotte
I t's been three months and neither one of us have brought up what happened between us on my birthday.
He isn't angry or cruel towards me, he just chooses to act like nothing ever happened.
Sometimes I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking.
He always turns his eyes away the moment he knows I've caught him.
Me? I don't want to act like it never happened. I don't care if he regrets it or not, because I don't. For once, I felt wanted . Not wanted to put on a show, for money, or for someone else's pleasure. For me. Not Lottie in the outfits and the makeup, just me.
I'd never felt that kind of need before.
A raw, desperate ache just to be closer to someone, like the few inches of space between us were unbearable.
I want to feel it again. I want to feel his hands in my hair, hear that catch in his breath, knowing that I'm the one who caused it.
Every time he passes close to me now, I have to fight the urge to reach out and touch him.
My days follow the same routine. I spend most mornings curled up in bed, mindlessly watching TV shows and movies, trying to make the hours pass. In the evening, Silas comes home from work, and we have dinner together. It's something I've started looking forward to more than I probably should.
He made arrangements with his aunt to switch my schooling to online learning so I can finish high school. After we eat, he sits with me while I do my assignments, "monitoring" my internet usage to ensure I'm not trying to reach out to anyone. Not that I have anyone to reach out to anyway.
He has been surprisingly thoughtful about making sure I don't succumb to complete boredom.
He's bought several board games, everything from Monopoly to Chess.
He actually takes the time to sit down and play them with me, teaching me strategies and laughing at my competitive streak.
He tells me about his day at work and regularly brings home magazines for me to browse through.
I'm excited for today. He asked me to make a list of things I'd like. The only thing I wanted was books.
"I'm never doing this again." He says before he is even through the bedroom door, a bag of books in his hand, and clearly annoyed. "If you want any more books I'll order them online. Amazon exists for a reason."
"Why? What happened?" I ask, trying my best to keep a straight face.
He stalks around the bed to me, giving me a death stare that would make most people cower. I've grown used to his intimidating looks; he'll have to try harder. "Don't try to pull that innocent bullshit. You know exactly what happened. You planned this whole thing."
I act innocent, batting my eyelashes. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I just made a simple list of books I wanted to read."
"You're a fucking brat. Do you know how that old lady looked at me when I gave her that list? She actually clutched her pearls, physically clutched them, while she read through it. "
"Did you get everything on the list? Even the special edition with the artwork?"
"Yes, every fucking one of them. The lady even asked if they were for me when she was ringing me up, looking all concerned and scandalized.
I couldn't figure out why she was acting like I was the weirdest fucking person she ever met.
Not until I walk outside and open one of the books when I get inside my truck. "
"Which book was it?" I ask between giggles.
"Hell if I know, Char. I didn't look at the title. I was too distracted by the bright green twelve-inch fucking monster cock staring back at me when I opened the front cover. The old lady wasn't looking at me like I was weird, she thought I was a goddamn pervert."
I'm full on crying now, I'm laughing so hard. "They're called monster romance novels, or monster smut. They're really popular."
"You're telling me women actually read this shit?" He drops the bag of books on the bed next to me.
"Yes, but it's not just women, some men like them too.
There's way worse than that one. At least the monster in that book is in human form most of the time.
Just wait till you see this one, he has tentacles with suction cups.
" I dig through the bag, pulling out another book with a dark cover. "This one has—"
"Stop." He holds up his hand. "I don't even want to know what other freaky shit you're into. Just... keep it to yourself."
I hug the books to my chest, still grinning. "Stop judging. You're just mad because you got side-eyed by the sweet old lady in the bookstore who thinks you want a tentacle shoved up your—"
"Amazon!" he shouts at me before I can finish. "If you want more, I'll order them from Amazon." He runs a hand through his hair, but I catch the slight upturn of his lips.
Right then I decide it's time for his surprise since he handled his trip to the bookstore so well. A reward of sorts.
The next morning before Silas wakes up, I begin quietly removing the handcuff from my wrist. I slide the key into the cuff, twisting until it clicks open. Freedom… Well, sort of. I'm not going anywhere, but removing my own restraint feels pretty damn good.
I hold my breath, being extra cautious not to let the chain make any noise while placing it on the floor beside the bed.
It’s been about a month since Silas started trusting me enough to leave me unchained while he goes to work, opting to instead lock the bedroom door from the outside.
This change of heart came after weeks of proving to him that I had no intention of leaving.
This gave me the opportunity to explore every inch of his room that had been previously out of my reach.
The moment I stepped inside his large walk-in closet, I knew without a doubt he was a grade A psychopath.
The space was immaculate. Each hanger spaced exactly two inches apart, clothes arranged not just by type but by color gradient.
His dress shirts transitioned from crisp whites to deep midnight blues.
No one, and by that, I mean no sane person, has a closet that organized.
His boxers are folded with military precision, then rolled into perfect cylinders, and placed in his drawer in order of color, lightest to darkest. Don't get me started on the perfectly straight rows they are lined up in.
The belt rack looks like something out of an upscale department store display .
I honestly think it's more normal that he kills people than how neat the control freak keeps his closet.
Silas had been thorough when he went through his closet.
Removing anything he didn't want me to have or deemed useful for escape.
But the perfectionist himself missed one crucial detail, a spare handcuff key that had fallen to the floor as he was moving things around.
I may have spotted it instantly, then accidently nudged it with my foot until it was out of sight under his shoe rack before he could notice.
Even with the growing trust between us, Silas still takes precautions at night, cuffing me to the bed beside him while he sleeps.
But having that key gives me a choice, and choosing to stay means so much more than being forced to.
I'm not going anywhere and I'm going to prove to him he can trust me.
I tiptoe across his room, pausing at the door to listen to his breathing, making sure he is still asleep. I slip out of the bedroom carefully pulling the door closed behind me without making a sound.
Morning light streams through the kitchen windows as I gather what I need. I've learned during my time with Silas, his favorite breakfast is two eggs over easy, four strips of bacon, and two pieces of toast with a glass of orange juice. So that is exactly what I'm going to make him.
I've memorized where everything is from watching him cook.
Eggs in the fridge door, bacon on the bottom shelf, bread in the wooden box by the toaster.
I crack the eggs against the edge of the pan, letting them slide in, careful to keep the yolks intact.
The whites spread and bubble while I lay strips of bacon in another pan.
My hands shake slightly as I drop slices of bread into the toaster. What if he's angry? What if this is a stupid idea and it backfires? It's too late to worry, there is no turning back now. I need to do this to show him that the chains aren't necessary anymore, they never were.
I arrange everything just the way he likes so it looks perfect on his plate.
The eggs slightly overlapping on the left, runny but not too runny.
The bacon laid out evenly on the right, crisp but not burnt.
The toast on a separate smaller plate. The perfectly toasted, golden-brown slices are stacked and buttered on one side.
The orange juice goes in the tall glass he always uses, the one with the slight chip on the rim.
I've watched him drink from it every morning, always turning it so the chip faces away from his mouth.
My stomach twists with nerves as I hear movement from his room. My pulse races listening to his footsteps moving across the bedroom. There's a pause, then faster steps. He's noticed I’m gone. The door slams open, and then even faster footsteps down the hall and through the living room.
“Charlotte!”
I straighten the silverware one last time, positioning everything just so. When he finds me still here, making his breakfast exactly how he likes it, maybe he'll finally understand. This is where I want to be, and I’m ready to learn.
Silas bursts into the kitchen, his eyes wild with panic, not anger like I expect. He stops short, taking in the scene in his kitchen. Me standing calmly by the counter, his breakfast laid out in front of me.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demands. He sounds angry, but the visible breath he just released lets me know he's relieved I'm still here.