Chapter 4
four
. . .
I pace the length of Sutton's living room like a caged animal, three days of confinement—even in luxury—wearing on my last nerve.
The city sprawls beyond the windows, tantalizingly close yet completely inaccessible.
I've tried the door a dozen more times, tried the windows, even considered the fire escape until I realized the access was also secured.
Sutton leaves each morning for work, returning each evening to find me still here, still trapped in his gilded cage.
He brings me gifts—clothes, books, a sleek laptop that can access anything except email or social media.
He orders in gourmet meals, watches me eat with those intense eyes, asks me questions about my life before, but never offers to let me leave.
Today, I've had enough. When I hear the electronic beep of the door unlocking, I plant myself in the center of the room, arms crossed, jaw set. This ends now.
The door swings open, and Sutton steps inside, impeccable in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than a car. His eyes find me immediately, as if drawn by some magnetic pull, and his expression shifts from businesslike detachment to focused interest.
"Cecily," he says, my name a caress on his tongue. He sets down his briefcase, shrugs out of his suit jacket with fluid grace. "You look upset."
"I can't stay here like this," I say, getting straight to the point. "I'm not a pet you can lock up while you're at work."
He loosens his tie, watching me with that unnerving intensity. "Is that what you think you are? My pet?"
"What else would you call someone who's kept in a cage, no matter how nice that cage is?"
He moves toward me, and it takes everything in me not to step back. I will not show weakness. I will not let him intimidate me, no matter how my heart races when he's near.
"I call you my guest," he says, stopping just outside my personal space. "A guest I'm protecting from a man who meant you harm."
"A guest can leave whenever they want."
His eyes narrow slightly. "And where would you go, Cecily? Back to your stepfather? To the streets? You have no money, no identification, no support system." He takes another step closer. "Tell me your plan. Convince me you have somewhere safe to go, and I'll let you walk out that door right now."
The worst part is, he's right. I have nowhere to go. No plan beyond getting away from Raymond. And even after three days, I'm no closer to figuring out my next move.
"That doesn't give you the right to keep me here," I insist, hating how weak my argument sounds even to my own ears.
"No," he agrees unexpectedly. "What gives me the right is that you're safer here than anywhere else. What gives me the right is that I can protect you in ways no one else can."
"I don't need protection. I need freedom."
He laughs, the sound short and harsh. "Freedom to do what, exactly? To struggle? To put yourself in danger? To go back to a life where you were at the mercy of a man who saw you as property to be sold?"
I flinch at the reminder of Raymond's plans for me, and Sutton's expression softens marginally.
"I'm not trying to control you, Cecily. I'm trying to give you a chance to breathe, to figure out what you want your life to be now that you've escaped him."
"By keeping me locked up in your penthouse? How is that any different from what he did?"
Sutton's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "If you can't see the difference, then perhaps I've overestimated your intelligence."
The barb stings, and I lash out. "The difference is that he was honest about his intentions. He never pretended to care about me. You—you bring gifts and act concerned while keeping me just as trapped."
In an instant, he closes the remaining distance between us, his hands gripping my upper arms, not painfully but firmly enough that I can't easily pull away.
"Is that what you think this is?" he demands, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Some elaborate game? You think I spent three days learning everything about you, providing for your every need, just for my own amusement?"
"I don't know what this is," I shoot back, refusing to be cowed despite the slight tremor in my voice. "I don't understand why a man like you would take in a homeless girl and treat her like—like—"
"Like what?" he presses, his fingers flexing against my skin.
"Like she matters," I whisper, the fight suddenly draining out of me.
Something flickers in his eyes—a flash of vulnerability that's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. His grip on my arms gentles, becomes almost a caress.
"You do matter," he says quietly. "From the moment I saw you standing in the rain, something in me recognized something in you. Call it fate, call it instinct, call it whatever you want, but I knew you were meant to be here. With me."
The intensity of his words, the absolute conviction in his tone, makes my heart stutter in my chest. No one has ever wanted me like this—with this single-minded focus, this unshakable certainty.
"You don't even know me," I say, echoing my words from days ago.
"I know enough," he counters. "I know you're stronger than you think. I know you've survived things that would break most people. I know you're smart and observant and afraid to trust anyone because everyone who should have protected you has failed you."
He's right, and that knowledge is both comforting and terrifying. In three days, he's seen more of the real me than Raymond did in two years.
"And I know," he continues, one hand leaving my arm to cup my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone, "that you feel this too. This pull between us. This connection that makes no logical sense but feels more real than anything else in your life right now."
I should deny it. I should pull away, maintain the anger that kept me going all day. But I can't, because he's right about this too. There is something between us, something I've never felt before, something that keeps me here even when my brain tells me to run.
"I don't want to be kept like a possession," I say instead, my voice small but steady. "I don't want to be someone else's thing to control."
"You're not a possession," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "You're a revelation."
Before I can process those words, his hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, firm and possessive. "You belong here," he says, and it's not a suggestion or a request. It's a statement of fact, delivered with such conviction that for a moment, I almost believe it.
"I don't belong to anyone," I whisper, but even I can hear the lack of certainty in my voice.
His lips curve in a smile that's equal parts triumph and tenderness. "Don't you?"
And then he's kissing me, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that takes my breath away. There's nothing gentle about it—this is a kiss meant to stake a claim, to prove a point, to break down my defenses.
I should push him away. I should fight. I should do anything but what I actually do, which is melt against him, my hands clutching at his shoulders as my knees threaten to give way.
His arm bands around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the hard planes of his body pressing against every soft curve of mine. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry, and I open for him without conscious thought, surrendering to the invasion.
The kiss deepens, grows more desperate. His hand tightens in my hair, angling my head to give him better access. I make a sound—half moan, half whimper—that should embarrass me but only seems to spur him on.
I've been kissed before, awkward teenage fumbling behind the school gym, but nothing like this. This isn't just a kiss; it's a claiming, a branding, a rewriting of everything I thought I knew about desire.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. My lips feel swollen, sensitized, and his eyes are nearly black as they bore into mine.
"Now you understand," he says, his voice a rough growl that sends heat spiraling through my body.
And I do. I understand that whatever this is between us, it's far more powerful, far more dangerous than I ever imagined. I understand that I'm playing with fire by staying here, by allowing myself to feel this way about a man who clearly sees me as his.
But I also understand that I've never felt more alive than I do in this moment, with his taste on my lips and his hands still holding me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
"I still can't be a prisoner," I say, needing to assert some kind of boundary despite the way my body is still humming from his kiss.
His thumb traces my lower lip, his eyes following the movement. "Then don't be. Be my guest. Be my..." he hesitates, searching for the right word. "Be my companion. Stay because you want to, not because I make you."
"And if I want to leave sometimes? To go outside, to breathe fresh air, to feel like a normal person?"
He studies me for a long moment, as if weighing how much control he's willing to relinquish. "We can arrange that," he finally says. "With certain conditions."
"What conditions?"
"You don't go alone. Not until I'm certain your stepfather isn't looking for you." His hand slides down to encircle my wrist, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. "And you come back to me. Always."
It's still a cage, just with a longer leash. But as I look up at him, at the intensity burning in his eyes, I realize it's a cage I'm willing to accept. For now.
"Okay," I whisper.
His answering smile is both beautiful and terrifying in its satisfaction. He pulls me in for another kiss, gentler this time but no less possessive.
"Say you're mine," he murmurs against my lips.
The words should trigger every alarm bell in my head. Instead, they send a thrill through my body, a rush of something that feels dangerously like belonging.
"I'm yours," I breathe, and somehow, it feels like the most honest thing I've ever said.