4. Jasmine #2
He looked straight at me, his face lit up by the sick blue overhead, and I recognized the look. Not hunger, not violence, just curiosity. He was excited to see what new flavor he’d gotten in his mail-order sampler pack.
“Good morning,” he said, and the voice was warm, the kind you wanted reading you the weather or telling you the world wasn’t ending. “I was starting to wonder when you’d come around.”
I didn’t answer. I put both hands on the bars and stared him dead in the face.
He stopped a few feet away, easy, nothing up his sleeves but more sleeve. “How’s the head?”
“Open the cage,” I said.
He smiled wider. “We can do that. Eventually.”
He knelt down, so we were on the same level, and his arms rested on his knees like a teacher about to level with a difficult student.
Up close, the green in his eyes was so light it barely registered as color, almost transparent.
There was a scar above his left eyebrow and a faint nick on his chin, the kind that never healed because you kept shaving over it.
He looked me over, not in a way that said “I own you,” but in a way that said, “You’re a puzzle I can’t wait to solve.” He took a deep breath, just for show.
“Every woman in this room said exactly what you’re saying right now,” he said, smiling past the words, “and every one of them found their way to peace.”
I almost laughed. “That's supposed to scare me?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. You seem like someone who thrives on honesty.”
“You’re right,” I said. “So let’s skip to the part where I find out how you like to bleed.”
He didn’t blink. “Violence is always a choice. You’ll learn there are other choices.” He stood up, slow and graceful, and started pacing the length of the cages, hands behind his back like a warden doing a roll call.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he said over his shoulder.
“Because you’re a coward who can’t handle real women unless you chain them up,” I said. It came out sharper than I’d planned, but it felt good in my mouth.
He kept walking. “You’re here because the world out there is chaos. Everything outside these walls is broken—men, women, families, all running on trauma and lies. In here, you’re safe. You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not for anyone.”
I spat on the floor between us. “I’ll pretend you’re a corpse when I get my hands on you.”
He turned back and grinned, but not like he thought it was funny. “That’s the spirit. The first week is always the hardest, Jasmine. But it gets easier.”
I studied him, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh, the way his feet angled out. I was looking for weapons, but all I saw were hands and maybe a pocket bulge. Keys, most likely. I made a mental note of how many steps it would take to cover the gap if I got a shot.
The other women were quiet as corpses, heads down, eyes flicking up only to check if he’d picked a new favorite. He ignored them, all his focus on me.
I let my voice drop to low threat. “You know who my husband is?”
He nodded, like this was his favorite game. “Marcus Jackson. Sniper, to his friends. President of the Jackson Brothers, Kingman chapter. He’s impressive, but he’s not coming for you. Not in time.”
I gripped the bars until my palms creaked. “He’ll burn this place to the ground.”
He looked at me like he pitied the world. “I hope he tries.”
He came back to my cell, crouched again, his face inches from mine and nothing but steel between us. “You can fight if you want. It’s good to get it out. But sooner or later, you’ll see this is the only place left that makes sense.”
I leaned in, slow and deliberate. “I’ll make you eat your own teeth.”
He chuckled, then reached through the bars and tapped my forehead, fast as a snake. “I’ll see you at dinner, Eve number eight. Keep the fire alive.”
He stood up, backed away with a little bow, and moved down the line. No threats, no schedule, no timetable for when or if I’d ever leave the cell.
He keyed open the end door, looked back, and said, “If you need anything, just ask. I want you comfortable.”
I glared after him. “You can get me a hacksaw and a bottle of bleach.”
He just smiled and walked out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
The silence settled in, broken only by the buzz of the lights and the distant, echoing drip of water somewhere in the walls.
I went straight for the padlock, jammed my fingers through the shackle, and tested it again.
No give. I dropped to my knees and checked the floor for hairline cracks or chips, even though Eve had said there weren’t any.
I searched the cot’s underside, the shelf, the corners for anything they might have missed. Nothing but plastic and concrete.
I crawled up and down every inch of the bars, looking for rust or weld seams I could exploit. None. I tried twisting one with all my weight—maybe I could work it loose over a week or a month, but not tonight.
I took inventory of the room again, every shadow, every sound, every inch of it. I started cataloging people—Eve, Cynthia, the others—looking for someone who might have a different angle or a different kind of desperation.
I counted seconds, then minutes, then hours, until the light above me flickered and the air got even colder.
I didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop thinking.
And somewhere behind the rage and the pounding headache, a plan started to sketch itself out, ugly and simple.
Adam wasn’t the first man to try to put me in a box.
He’d just built a better box, and he thought that meant I’d give up.
But that’s not how stories like this ended.