Chapter 7 #2
I shake my head. “Your book needs better standards for victory.”
“My book needs you to get out of my room and stop interrogating me about my sketches.”
We’re standing closer than I realized, maybe three feet apart, both of us tense and ready for…something.
I’m not sure what.
An argument, probably.
Maybe for her to throw something at me again.
The air between us feels charged in a way that’s probably just mutual animosity.
“Fine,” I say, stepping back and hating how that feels like losing. “Keep your sketches. But if you’re drawing plans for an escape route, just remember that I have guards on every exit and they’re all armed.”
“Noted,” Emma says coolly. “Now get out. You’re ruining my creative process.”
I leave, locking the door behind me, and try not to think about the fact that I’m already looking forward to coming back this evening.
It’s later that afternoon when I remember that Emma takes long showers in the evening.
At least an hour, sometimes more, which seems excessive but I’ve learned not to question it because it’s probably the only time she feels like she has any privacy.
Which means her room is empty.
Which means I can finally see what she’s been drawing.
It’s just a security check, I tell myself as I try to walk sedately to her room.
I need to make sure she hasn’t figured out how to turn art supplies into weapons or escape tools or drawing detailed layouts of the property that she could somehow smuggle out to Connor.
These are all lies and I know it, but I unlock the door anyway and step into the empty room.
I don’t hear the sound of running water, but that could be because the room has excellent insulation.
The sketchpad is still on the desk where she left it, closed but not hidden.
I pick it up and flip through the pages, expecting to see sketches of the gardens like she claimed, or maybe drawings of the guards that she could be using to memorize faces and routines.
Instead, I find her mother.
Teresa Brennan rendered in careful detail—the waves of her hair, the pearls at her throat, the soft sadness in her eyes that the rest of her face tries to hide.
It’s a good drawing. Actually, it’s really good.
Emma has talent I didn’t know about.
I flip the page and find Connor, her father captured in harsh, angular lines. He looks exactly like what he is: utterly ruthless.
I wonder what it says about Emma that she draws her father this way, with such unflinching honesty.
The next page makes me stop.
It’s me.
Or rather, it’s a caricature of me.
I’m drawn with reasonable accuracy; she got the scar through my eyebrow right, the shape of my jaw, even the way my hair falls across my forehead.
But she’s added ridiculous devil horns curling up from my temples and a villainous mustache that looks like it belongs in a silent film.
I stare at it for a long moment, then I feel a laugh bubbling up in my chest.
She drew devil horns on me.
And a stupid mustache.
I can picture it perfectly: Emma sitting at this desk, furious at herself for drawing me too realistically, grabbing the pencil and defacing the sketch in petty rebellion.
The image is so perfectly Emma that I have to press my hand over my mouth to smother the laugh before it escapes.
It’s childish but somehow endearing in a way I should not find endearing.
I flip the page, still smiling, expecting to find more sketches of the gardens or maybe more defaced drawings of me.
Instead, I find another portrait.
It’s me again, but this version is different.
I’m drawn in harsh, unflattering lines, the same as her father’s portrait.
My eyes are cold and my mouth is set in a cruel line. I look like exactly what I am: a man who kidnaps women and holds them prisoner and makes them suffer to hurt their fathers.
I look like a monster.
The smile dies on my face.
This is how she really sees me.
Not the man who trades verbal barbs with her or makes sure she’s eating or brings her the books she asks for.
This version—cold and cruel and utterly without redemption.
I should be fine with that.
I want her to see me as a monster.
It makes everything simpler, cleaner.
She’s not a person I’m holding captive, she’s just leverage against Connor.
A tool.
A means to an end.
Except I don’t like it.
I don’t like seeing myself through Emma’s eyes and recognizing the truth in her perspective.
I don’t like the way the drawing makes me feel exposed and ashamed in a way I haven’t felt in years.
I tear the page out and crumple it up, shoving it in my pocket to throw away later.
Then I close the sketchpad and put it back on the desk exactly where I found it.
I’m almost to the door when I hear something strange. I cock my head to the side, mulling over it.
What is that sound?
Turning, I head toward the bathroom door instead and press my ear against it.
The sound is faint at first—just irregular breathing that could be mistaken for crying.
But then I hear the gasping, the sharp inhales that aren’t getting enough oxygen, and I recognize it immediately.
Panic attack.
Valentina had them constantly after Gabriel died.
She’d hyperventilate and shake and sometimes pass out because her body literally forgot how to breathe normally.
It took months of therapy and medication to get them under control, and I learned how to recognize the signs and how to talk her through them when they hit.
“Emma?” I call through the door, keeping my voice calm even though my heart is racing. “Emma, I’m coming in.”
I don’t wait for permission because people in the middle of panic attacks can’t give coherent permission.
I push open the bathroom door and find Emma curled on the floor next to the bathtub, her arms wrapped around her knees and her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
She’s still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, the bathtub full of water like she had just finished filling it.
Her face is pale and her eyes are wide and unfocused, and she looks terrified in a way that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with whatever’s happening inside her own head.
For the first time since I kidnapped her, Emma’s not fighting. She’s just scared.
“Hey,” I say quietly, kneeling beside her on the bathroom floor. “Emma. Look at me.”
She doesn’t respond.
She keeps gasping for air that doesn’t seem to be reaching her lungs.
Her hands are shaking and I can see her lips starting to turn blue at the edges.
“Emma,” I say again, more firmly this time. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re okay. You’re safe. I need you to focus on my voice.”
Still nothing. She’s too deep in it, too far gone into whatever spiral her brain has created.
I remember what Valentina’s therapist taught me—ground them in reality, give them something tangible to focus on, walk them through their breathing until their body remembers how to regulate itself.
And sometimes, physical touch helps.
Valentina always needed someone to hold her hand during the worst of it.
She needed that anchor to reality when her mind was spiraling out of control.
“Emma, listen to me.” I keep my voice low and steady, the same tone I use when talking Valentina through her attacks. “You’re in the bathroom. You’re on the floor. I’m here with you. You’re safe. Nothing is going to hurt you right now.”
Her eyes flicker toward me, just for a second, and I take that as progress.
“I’m going to touch your hand,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm and clear. “Is that okay? It helps. I promise.”
She doesn’t respond verbally, but her eyes focus on me for just a moment and she gives the tiniest nod. That’s enough.
I reach out slowly and carefully take her hand in mine.
Her hand is small and delicate, and it’s shaking so badly I can feel the tremors running through her entire arm.
Her skin is clammy and cold, her fingers like ice against my palm.
I wrap my hand around hers, covering it completely, and apply gentle pressure, grounding her, anchoring her.
The difference in size is striking.
My hand engulfs hers, and there’s something about that—about how fragile she feels right now, how different this is from the woman who calls me a psychopath and throws forks at my head—that makes my chest tighten.
“Good,” I say, not breaking eye contact and keeping my grip firm but gentle. “Now I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Copy me.”
I demonstrate, taking a slow, exaggerated breath in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Emma tries to copy me, but her breath hitches and she gasps again, her hand clutching at mine tighter.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, staying calm even though seeing her like this is fucking with me more than it should.
I squeeze her hand back, trying to give her something solid to hold onto.
“It’s okay that it’s hard. We’re going to try again.
In through your nose”—I breathe in slowly—“and out through your mouth.” I breathe out.
This time she manages it.
Barely.