Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
SLOAN
The chain rattles against my ankle as I shift position on the bed, the sound a constant reminder of my new reality.
He left me like this while he went to town for supplies—chained like an animal because he knows he can't trust me yet.
The metal is cold against my skin, and no matter how I position myself, I can't find a comfortable way to sit.
But discomfort is the least of my problems right now.
I have work to do.
The light streams through the bedroom windows, casting everything in a yellow hue. Without the distraction of having him here, I can finally think clearly.
He's smart, I'll give him that. Brilliant, even, in his twisted way.
The planning that went into this kidnapping, the attention to detail, the psychological manipulation.
.. it's not the work of some unhinged stalker acting on impulse. This is methodical. It’s the work of someone who understands exactly what he's doing.
But smart doesn't mean invincible. And if there's one thing I've learned in my twenty-eight years on this planet, it's that every man has weaknesses.
Every predator has blind spots.
I just need to find his.
The chain gives me about six feet of movement from the bed, enough to reach the small table by the window but not enough to get to the door. He measured it carefully, I'm sure. I’m close enough to basic necessities, yet far enough from freedom.
The first thing I need to accept is that I can't overpower him. He's bigger than me, stronger, faster. He's also well-versed in violence in ways that Alex never was.
So brute force is out. Running is out, at least for now. When I'm chained to a bed in the middle of nowhere with no survival skills and no idea which direction leads to civilization, I can’t realistically believe I’d make it out of here alive.
So that leaves psychology.
I settle back against the headboard, pulling the blanket around my shoulders as I consider what I know about Asher.
Not much, unfortunately. He's the family secret, the twin they erased from their perfect world.
He clearly has abandonment issues, anger issues, and an obsessive personality that walks the line of delusion.
But what does he want? Really want, beneath it all?
Love, obviously. But not the healthy kind. He wants the consuming, all-encompassing kind of love that burns everything else away. He wants to be needed, to be the center of someone's universe the way he clearly never was growing up.
He wants what Alex had.
And that's where I come in.
I'm not just a prize to be won or an object to be possessed. I'm a symbol. A representation of everything he was denied, everything he deserved but never received. In his fucked up mind, claiming me isn't just about desire… It's about justice. Leveling the playing field.
Which means he needs me to want him back. He needs me to choose him, not just submit to him. The obsession isn't satisfied by my compliance; it requires genuine emotional investment.
And that's his weakness.
Because need makes you vulnerable. The more he needs my emotional response, the more power I have to manipulate him. The more invested he becomes in my feelings, the more I can use those feelings against him.
It's a dangerous game, really. Playing with the emotions of someone so eager to murder is like dancing on the edge of a cliff. One wrong step, one moment where I push too hard, and I'm dead.
But it might be my only chance.
I think about his reaction when I told him I hated him yesterday. The way his expression faltered, just for a moment, before he covered it with that philosophical bullshit about hate and love being similar emotions. He was hurt. Actually hurt by my rejection, which means my opinion matters to him.
If my opinion matters, I have leverage.
The sound of tires on gravel interrupts my plotting. He's back from town with whatever supplies he thinks we need for our extended stay in his form of paradise. I have maybe two minutes before he comes to check on me, two minutes to compose myself.
The front door slams shut, and I hear him moving around the main living area. The rustle of bags, the thump of heavy objects being set down. He's taking his time, probably organizing his goods, making sure everything is perfect for his precious prisoner.
I use the time to examine my appearance in the small mirror on the bedside table. My red hair is a tangled mess, and there are dark circles under my eyes from stress and lack of proper sleep. I look like exactly what I am—a woman who's been through hell and back.
But underneath the obvious trauma, there's still something that draws him. Something he saw in all those photos that made him decide I was worth murdering for.
His footsteps are coming down the hallway now, calm and confident. I arrange myself on the bed, not trying to look too eager but not cowering either. Somewhere in between—vulnerable enough to appeal to his protective side, strong enough to keep his interest.
"How are you feeling?" he asks as he enters the room, carrying a steaming mug that smells like hot chocolate. "I thought you might be cold."
The casual tone of his voice is surreal. He's bringing me comfort food like a thoughtful boyfriend would, not like the psychopath who has me chained to a bed.
"Tired," I answer honestly. "Confused."
"That's understandable." He sets the mug on the bedside table within my reach, close enough that I can smell the rich chocolate and something else… cinnamon, maybe, or vanilla. It’s vanilla. "It's natural to feel overwhelmed when you’re going through so many changes all at once."
I reach for the hot chocolate, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic cup. The heat feels good against my cold fingers, and despite everything, I'm grateful for the gesture. Which is exactly what he's counting on, I'm sure.
"Thank you," I say, taking a small sip. It's perfect, of course. Rich and sweet with just a hint of vanilla that makes it special.
"I picked up a few other things when I was in town," he continues, settling into the chair beside the bed. "Some books, magazines, puzzles. I thought you might get bored."
Bored. Like I'm here on vacation instead of being held against my will.
"That's... thoughtful." I force the words out, trying to sound genuinely appreciative rather than sarcastic.
His smile is warm, almost boyish. "I want you to be comfortable, Sloan. I know this is an adjustment, but I'm hoping you'll start to see the possibilities here. The freedom from all the expectations and pressures of your old life."
Freedom. The irony would be funny if it weren't so terrifying.
"It's hard to feel free when I'm chained to a bed," I point out gently, testing the waters.
"That's temporary," he assures me quickly. "Just until you understand that running would only hurt you. Once you accept that your home is with me now, you'll have much more freedom to move around."
"And when will that be?"
"When you stop looking at me like I'm a monster." His voice is soft, almost vulnerable. "When you stop planning escape routes every time I leave the room."
The honesty catches me off guard. He knows exactly what I've been doing, exactly what I'm thinking. But instead of being angry about it, he sounds almost... sad?
"You killed your brother," I say quietly. "How am I supposed to look at you?"
"Alex was going to destroy you." The warmth disappears from his voice. "He was weak and selfish and he would have broken down everything beautiful about you until there was nothing left."
"That wasn't your choice to make."
"Wasn't it?" He leans forward, his eyes intense. "Who else was going to protect you? Who else saw what he was doing to you and cared enough to stop it?"
There's something almost desperate in his voice, like he needs me to understand his logic. Needs me to validate his actions. And that desperation is exactly what I need to exploit.
"I understand that you thought you were helping," I say carefully, "but killing someone... that's not protection. That's not love."
"Then what is love?" The question comes out raw, unguarded. "Is it letting someone hurt the person you care about? Is it standing by while they slowly destroy everything that makes them special?"
The pain in his voice is real. Whatever happened in his past, whoever failed to protect him when he needed it, the wound is still fresh. Still bleeding.
"Love is trust," I say softly. "It's believing that the person you care about can make their own decisions, even if you don't agree with them."
"And if those decisions are destroying them?"
"Then you talk to them. You support them. You help them see other options." I set down the hot chocolate and meet his gaze. "You don't murder people."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he's looking for something specific. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"You don't understand what it's like to watch someone you love being hurt and not be able to stop it."
The raw honesty in those words hits me hard. For just a moment, the mask slips completely, and I see the broken person underneath all that control. Someone who's been hurt so badly that murder seems like a reasonable response to perceived threats.
It doesn't excuse what he's done. Nothing could excuse that. But it gives me a look into his mind, into the twisted logic that brought us to this moment.
And insight is power.
"Tell me," I say gently. "Help me understand."
His eyes flick to mine, surprise and hope warring in their depths. "You want to understand?"
"I want to understand you." The lie comes easier than it should. "If we're going to be... together... then I need to know who you really are."
The word 'together' hangs in the air between us, thick. I watch him process it, the way his entire posture changes as he considers the possibility that I might accept our situation.