Chapter 5
Cason’s uncle hasn’t paid the ransom yet.
I’m not usually one to worry about the future, about things that are out of my control. Because as much as I hate to admit it, there are some things I don’t have power over. But I’ve always focused more on what’s in front of me, on what I can control. If something veers you off the path, you adapt.
Right now…something feels wrong.
When the family doesn’t pay, it’s rarely because they can’t. It’s because they won’t. They stall. They negotiate. They convince themselves it’s a bluff.
From all the intel I gathered before taking Cason, he and his uncle seem to have a strong bond. Cason was moving in with him after his mom relocated to North Carolina.
It doesn’t make sense.
The problem is that nine times out of ten, when the money doesn’t come through, my employer—whoever it may be at the time—decides the asset is no longer an asset.
When you’re not an asset? You get eliminated.
Cason might be the first hostage I’d actually be…inconvenienced by killing.
That’s the most neutral word I can manage.
He’s disruptive. Loud. Inappropriate. Reckless in a way that should irritate me more than it does. He gets under my skin, but it’s rarely when he’s actively trying. Like he’s pressing buttons but the wrong ones.
He’s…growing on me, I guess.
And that’s a liability.
I’m not quite sure how it happened with how much of a menace he is.
The first time I brought him breakfast, it was cereal and an apple. Paper bowl, plastic spoon. I set it all down, left, and came back later to collect the disposable dishes. The empty bowl was there, but the spoon wasn’t.
I asked him where it was.
He shrugged. “What spoon?”
“The one I gave you.”
He looked around the room as though it might magically appear. “Huh. Weird. Maybe the Spoon Fairy took it. You should check under my pillow.”
The second time, same thing. Bowl empty, spoon gone. I decided not to press the issue. What could he possibly do with two plastic spoons?
But then that afternoon, I checked the feed from the camera in his room to see him sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, spoons in his hands, tapping them against the concrete, against the bedframe, against each other like some kind of makeshift percussion kit.
It was a steady rhythm. Not random, but musical.
Almost…good. He kept time with his foot, head tilted, expression focused.
It went on for hours. At first, I let it.
Then he wouldn’t stop. It started drilling into my skull, the clinking carried through the audio system no matter how low I turned the volume. Eventually, I muted the feed.
That, apparently, was not what he wanted.
The next day, he abandoned his spot in the middle of the room and parked himself by the door, leaning his back against it, this time smacking the spoons against the metal surface with exaggerated force. Loud and sharp and completely off-beat on purpose.
It was then I realized he was trying to press as many buttons as he could.
And it worked.
“Hey, if you’re listening,” he shouted just loud enough for me to hear, “I take requests!”
Clang. Clang. Clang.
I unlocked the door and pulled. He fell backward dramatically when he lost his wall, staring at me upside-down from the floor.
“There he is,” he said with a lopsided grin. “My biggest fan.”
I took every spoon away from him.
“Hey,” he protested, staring at me like I’d kicked a puppy. “That’s my emotional support cutlery.”
“You’ve abused the privilege.”
“I have rights.”
“You don’t actually. Not here.”
His pout deepened. “Rude.”
I turned to leave.
“Hey,” he called after me.
I paused despite myself.
“If I start beatboxing, are you going to tape my mouth shut? Maybe tie me to the bed again? Blindfold me? Drip hot wax on—”
I shut the door.
The silence afterward had been…noticeable.
But ever since, I’ve felt that same irritation scratching at the back of my skull. The same awareness. The same sense that he’s pushing, probing, searching for weak points.
The worst part?
He’s finding them.
And I can’t decide if that makes me want to kill him or hope that I don’t have to.
Even if I don’t want to kill him, I will if that’s what the job turns into. I’ve done worse for less reasons. Attachment is a choice, and I can choose not to indulge it.
Who knew choosing a path as a hired mercenary would require this much emotional discipline?
I exhale slowly and lean back in my chair, eyes drifting to Cason’s monitor out of habit.
He’s pacing again. He does that when he’s restless, when the silence stretches too long.
He walks the length of his room, tapping his fingers against his thighs.
He talks to himself sometimes. To the walls he knows won’t talk back.
Or to me through the camera he knows is there.
Humor as a shield. Defiance as a distraction.
Earlier, in the shower—
I shut that thought down before it spirals.
It wasn’t about attraction, the reason I looked. It was observation. Assessment. He uses his body like a weapon when he’s cornered, and I need to know how to defend against it in case I ever end up with my hard cock pressed against his ass again.
I can’t let him destabilize me like that anymore.
Then there was the way he went quiet when he talked about his father. That wasn’t strategy or flirtation. That was something else, something real. The first real part of him he’s shown me.
I shouldn’t have given him my name.
I stand abruptly and head upstairs to the kitchen before I can think too hard about it. I open the fridge and take out all the ingredients for the same kind of sandwich I’ve been making him all week. Turkey. Cheese. Extra mustard. It’s become automatic at this point.
When I head back downstairs, I pause at the bottom of the steps. I look over at the door to Cason’s room, then down to the two sandwiches in my hands.
For some fucking reason, I decide to break routine.
Setting the two plates on my desk, I go to Cason’s door, unlock it, and pull. He looks up immediately and comes to a stop in the middle of the room. It’s only been a couple hours since his shower, and his blond hair looks soft now that it’s dry.
I bet it would be—
“Let’s go,” I snap at him, pissed at myself. I definitely should not be rewarding him for inciting those thoughts. “Before I change my mind.”
Suspicion flashes across his face before he smooths it into something cocky.
“Field trip?”
“Out!”
He scrambles forward, then approaches more cautiously the closer he gets. All it does is make me impatient, so I grab him by the arm and shove him out of the room.
“Over here.”
I point to a corner of the basement where he won’t be able to see anything on my monitors, but I’ll still be able to see him.
“Sit.”
He doesn’t hesitate this time, but he does stare up at me as he lowers himself to the concrete floor. I can see all the questions he wants to ask swirling around in his eyes, but he’s holding them back behind a dam because he doesn’t want to ruin whatever freedom from that room he’s being granted.
“Hand.”
The crease between his brows deepens, but he raises his left hand.
I swiftly pull a pair of standard steel handcuffs out of my back pocket and secure one around his wrist. His lips part, eyes widening in surprise, but he doesn’t say a word as I fasten the other cuff to a heavy support pipe bolted into the foundation.
He tests the slack. There isn’t much.
I retrieve his food from my desk and hand him the plate.
“Eat. Don’t speak. Understood?”
The moment I see realization dawn on his face with a faint little smile, I regret my decision. He’s going to think he’s winning. He’s going to think he’s achieved something, that he’s weaseled his way exactly where he wants to be.
He presses his mouth into a thin line and nods all too eagerly.
“Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness.”
He sucks his lips into his mouth, and it barely conceals the grin he’s trying to hide. I hold his gaze, daring him. It’s a cliché. It’s something he’d normally give me shit for, crack a joke or two because he just can’t help himself.
But he holds it in.
“Good boy.”
I see his brows shoot up into his forehead just before I turn away, regretting that too.
Returning to my desk, I sit down, pick up my sandwich, and take a bite.
As I get back to work, the basement fills with the sounds of chewing and typing.
I glance over at him a few times just to make sure he’s not getting up to anything he shouldn’t be.
Not that I can imagine what that’d be while he’s cuffed.
But I know better than to underestimate him.
After I finish off my sandwich, I look over at him yet again. This time, his eyes catch mine. He just cleaned off his plate too. Without breaking eye contact, he raises his free hand and licks mustard off his thumb.
I turn back to my computer.
My expression is one of disinterest, I make sure of it.
Not that I have to put in much effort.
I don’t.
I’m legitimately surprised that he doesn’t offer some kind of commentary. I could tell how badly he didn’t want to go back into that room earlier, but I still half expected he would break.
As I get deep into research for my next job, I almost forget he’s out here. I don’t, of course. That would be stupid. But an hour passes, and he hasn’t spoken a word.
Spinning my chair, I face him to see his head leaned back against the wall and his eyes closed. I know he’s not sleeping because the fingers of his free hand are tapping against his thigh while the ones of his bound hand tap against the pipe.
“I’m impressed.”
His eyes fly open, already alert.
“You went a whole hour without speaking. I feel like you should get a reward.”
His lips stretch into a smirk.
“Not that kind.”
His face falls into a pout.
“One question. You get to ask me one question for every hour you stay silent. I may or may not answer, but I’ll give you what I can.”