Chapter 17
ROWAN
Having a taste of freedom downstairs with Darragh has left this room feeling smaller than ever, and my pacing has my thighs burning. I had no idea Liam would lose his shit the way he did when he got home.
How do I beat a man who doesn’t know what he wants anymore?
Darragh and Liam returned a couple hours ago, but he hasn’t come anywhere near my room. The quiet after the storm feels worse than the storm itself.
He’s more controlled than I calculated. Men who lose control are predictable. Men who hold it choose exactly when to break you. It’s woken something in me that should probably stay buried. Something I can’t name but feels like a dangerous thrill.
Like a lightning bolt to my brain, it hits me that tomorrow is my in-person check-in with Brian. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I dart into my en suite, turn on the tap to drown out noise, and pull out the burner. The battery power is hovering somewhere around half. Which means a few days left. A week if I’m lucky before this thing dies. Then Brian starts looking for me.
Will he even think to come here? After five years, that’s quite a leap, but I’m not exactly thinking logically right now. And if Brian does come here, what will happen?
My stomach sinks.
What will happen to Liam?
There’s a single message from Brian sent on Thursday letting me know he’s back from his secondment and to not forget our regular in-person meeting on Sunday. Fuck.
I type out a message, my eyes blurring with tears. Liam already thinks I betrayed him. If Brian brings the entire police force to his door to rescue me, he’ll either end up in prison or in the ground, and that is something I will have to live with for the rest of my life.
My fingers tremble. I’ve never tried this before, but it’s the only card I have to play.
Me: Hey, I have to give tomorrow a miss. I’m so sick. I have a temp, my snot’s green, and I’m dizzy when I stand up.
I expect an instant reply, but it doesn’t come. Brian is a germaphobe and fucking hates getting sick.
The phone rings in my hands. Thankfully, it’s on silent, even the vibrations are turned off. I can’t risk being overheard here, not now. I watch until he hangs up and type out a message before he can call back.
Me: I can’t talk, my throat hurts too much. Everything hurts.
He’s the kind to offer to have soup delivered—from a distance. He’s too afraid of catching something to come to my place. At least I fucking hope so.
Relief floods my veins when his answer appears on the screen under the fake name he made me save his number to.
Carol: Seems there’s something going around. Three people are out of the office with the lurgy. You want soup? I can order something?
Me : No thanks. I can’t stomach anything—not to get too graphic. I just need rest. Can I check back in with you in a couple days?
His response takes longer this time, as though he’s weighing up whether or not to say yes. It’s always a fucking power play with these men. It might be different tactics, but it’s the same fucking leash.
Carol: The higher-ups don’t do exceptions.
Me: They can come check on me if they want but they’ll get covered in puke. Or worse.
My heart rate has ticked up, fear prickling my skin. Please just let it drop. Please just let it fucking drop, Brian.
Carol: Fine. Check back in three days. Don’t make me regret it.
He sounds more like a boss than a lover, but that’s how it’s always been. Brian doesn’t want my heart, not anymore. He only wants my compliance, and because I felt grateful, I gave it to him. And in this world, gratitude is the closest thing to love I thought I was allowed to have.
Me: Thanks so much. I appreciate it. Going back to bed.
The squeal of the lock to my bedroom door can be heard from the bathroom, and my heart stops dead.
I hit the power button, holding it down until the screen switches off, and shove it in my sock right as someone tries to push the door open into the bathroom.
The wood presses against my spine, making me hiss.
The only sound I can hear is my pulse in my ears.
If he finds my phone, this will go very badly.
A loud knock rings out. “Row-Erin?” Liam’s voice has an edge. “What are you doing blocking the door?”
Time to satisfy the second captor in my life.
I push to standing, smooth out my new clothes, turn off the running water, and plaster submission all over my face before pulling the door toward me.
“Why were you blocking the door with your body?” Suspicion drips from his voice and his unfairly gorgeous features as he takes me in head to toe.
I heave out an overly dramatic sigh. “Can’t a girl want some privacy after a week of having her dignity taken from her?”
“Five days actually.”
“Five days, my mistake. Is that all? It feels like a lifetime.” I snap my mouth shut in case more of Rowan slips out from between my lips.
Something unreadable flickers across his face. It’s gone before I can name it, but it was so far from warm and fuzzy, I double down, looking at his shoes and dropping my voice. “It’s where I go to think. And cry.”
“Is that why you’re costing me a fortune in running water?” He gestures at the tap. His tone might be light, but his eyes aren’t.
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms tightly across my body. “You don’t pay for water usage here.”
“Is that why you cost me a fortune in new clothes instead?” He tips his head to the side.
Ah… he’s figured out that Sorcha took his credit card. He doesn’t look mad about it, though, and that in itself is a concern. What’s his play here?
“Did I spend too much?” Please say I left you bankrupt. We both know I didn’t, but I’d love to have at least made a dent with this overpriced new wardrobe of mine.
“On the credit card Sorcha stole from me?” He snorts. “No. Not even close.” He runs his gaze over me. It’s not what I’d have picked out for you.” His assessing gaze lingers for a beat too long. He hates what I’m wearing. Good. It takes everything in me not to laugh in his face.
I do smile at him, though. “I disagree. I love the colors.” I’m talking out my hole.
These clothes are nothing like the ones I’d pick out.
They’re softer fabrics, muted undertones, practical cuts, and nothing overtly sexual.
They hide everything he remembers wanting, which feels far more dangerous than showing skin.
I did pick up a few items that I might have to pull out when I’m around his brothers, given that Darragh’s attention on me drove Liam to damn near break his face. That’s something I can use in my favor.
He gives a non-committal grunt, like it might pain him to agree with this bland outfit being colorful. But why he’s holding back his opinion is anyone’s guess.
Oh, wait. Is this his next tactic? Be nice to me to get me to talk? You’ve got to be kidding. Does he think I came up the Liffey in a bubble?
But this might work in my favor. I could get a little more freedom around here, more open-door time, oooooh a couple puzzles or a book of crosswords, some Blu-rays or a fucking gaming console wouldn’t kill him. I’m going out of my mind with boredom.
He leads the way back into my room, the folded letter on the bedside table draws my attention. Okay, fine, if he wants a fragile peace between us, I can do that. But first, I need to at least set the record straight on that damn letter.
“Was there something you wanted to talk about?”
He shakes his head. “It’s dinnertime.”
“And you didn’t send a minion to get me?”
He opens his mouth to say something but thinks twice and snaps his mouth shut, offering me a headshake instead.
I steady my breathing. This could go really fucking badly, but I pick up the letter and hold it out to him. He flinches away from it, curling his lip like it makes him physically sick to look at.
“I don’t need this anymore. You can have it back.”
He looks from the paper to my face and back to the letter. When he doesn’t take it from me, I press it against his chest. And I don’t for one minute miss the firmness my hand meets as I do.
“I know you think I’m a monster. Or that I did you wrong with this.
” I push the paper against him. “But I can assure you, regardless of who you think I am. I didn’t write that.
” I implore him with my eyes, willing him to see that no matter what he thinks I’ve done, no matter the list of crimes he has against me, this isn’t one of them.
Something shifts behind his eyes as he searches mine for deceit.
He’s calculating, running over the possibilities so I repeat myself for emphasis.
“I didn’t write this, Liam.” It might be the first time I’ve used his name directly, because it felt too intimate, but here and now I need him to hear me, to know that no matter what happened all those years ago, I never played him.
Someone played us both.
The silence that stretches between us is heavy, constricting, even tighter than the Erin corset wrapped around my ribs.
“What about the phone call?”
I frown. “What phone call?”
“The one where you told me you were hurt. Begged me to come and get you. When I did, I got met with a gang of thugs instead.”
His declaration almost knocks me off my feet. “I never called you.”
It’s a regret I’ve had many times. If I hadn’t bumped into Brian and let him take over, Liam would’ve been the first person I called.
But as soon as the witness protection program swallowed me whole, the idea of calling him became impossible.
That program insists you leave everyone and everything behind. Forever.
He snorts. “I might be able to buy a typed letter as fake, but I know your voice, Rowan. It was you.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Still keeping up with the lies.” With a grunt, he shoves the paper in his pocket and leaves my room, the open door behind him the only invitation I get to follow.
The more he shares, the more confused I am. A letter I didn’t write and now a phone call I didn’t make, yet whoever it was sounded enough like me to convince Liam. None of this makes any sense, and until I can get him to believe me, I’m on my own trying to figure it out.
The dining room is set for two, which sets alarm bells off in my head.
It’s too close for comfort, too private, too…
us. “No one else here for dinner?” The hope in my voice crumples when he shakes his head and pulls my chair out on his way to his own.
His hand brushes my back as I sit like a reminder I’m exactly where he wants me to be.
“Just us tonight, Erin.”
Great craic. Can’t wait to sit and stare into his mesmerizing as fuck eyeballs and lie to his face all evening. And what’s with him calling me Erin? Another card he’s playing from a deck stacked in his favor?
I keep expecting him to bring up the letter or the phone call, but he doesn’t and, if I do, I risk alienating him further. Better to let him sit with it and, hopefully, he’ll come around to the truth.
We eat in silence, dinner feeling like a test I didn’t study for, one I don’t know the rules to or what I’m being judged on. The perfectly polished cutlery is heavier than I expect. My grip shifts—just slightly—and the fork slips from my fingers, clattering against the plate.
I still, not looking at him, my heart racing from the unexpected clang.
“Nervous?” His voice is too quiet.
I try to steady my breathing, reaching for the fork like it’s nothing. “Clumsy.”
“You weren’t before.” He doesn’t touch his food, just watches me as I reset after my mistake.
“What bar did you say you worked at?” The question lands casually, but it’s a measured, carefully placed question. Another test.
I open my mouth and pause. Just for a second but it’s long enough.
His gaze sharpens.
“The—” I force a small laugh. “God, my brain’s fried. King’s Arms”
Silence stretches across the table.
“You hesitated.”
I shrug, reaching for my glass. “I’m tired.”
“You’ve never had a memory problem before.”
I force another laugh like he’s bang out of order for even bringing it up. “You kept me tied to a chair in a warehouse for two days and then swapped that prison for this one. Forgive me if my memory’s not sparkling.”
Another beat of assessing silence hangs heavily between us.
“Right.” But he doesn’t look convinced. His thumb slides the length of his knife. “We’ll come back to that.”
Despite twenty questions, it’s oddly domestic with Titan at our feet and a meal between us on the table, but the air is tense, like he’s waiting for me to trip myself up with my lies or contradict myself. Or break.
Throughout the entire meal, he barely moves, he just watches me like a hawk, keeping this dance we’re doing tight and personal without giving anything up—or winning anything either.
But he’s got an air of smugness about him, like if I fuck up, he already knows what comes next.
And he’s not only waiting for it, he’s excited by it.
As I make my way upstairs, he follows, and when we get to my bedroom door, he opens it for me. “No more deadbolt. For now. Don’t make me regret it.”
I fight the wince at the way he echoes Brian’s words.
Two captors, two cages.
And when he turns and leaves me to shut the door by myself, the realization hits that Liam doesn’t need to threaten me tonight. He already has.