Chapter 25
ONE DAY BEFORE SAWYER’S ARRIVAL…
Trauma bonding is a phenomenon that occurs between a victim and an abuser after a period of “love bombing” followed by a sudden withdrawal or cruelty by the abuser.
The victim craves the affection she once received, so oftentimes, she works hard to be exactly what he wants, to do exactly what makes him happy. Such as keeping house, cooking homemade meals or screwing the abuser’s friends at his sex parties.
I think that’s how Sawyer Hansley did it.
And it is not as easy as it sounds.
I stare at one of a hundred of the sociopath’s photos on my bedroom wall while the woman whimpers in her cage by my desk. She does that when she sleeps. I’ve asked what it is she dreams about, but she refuses to say. She refuses a lot of things.
She refuses physical touch. She refuses conversation. Half the time, she even refuses to eat. Despite all my effort to follow the formula, she doesn’t associate me with comfort—only pain.
Untacking one of the photos, I set it on my desk. Then another. And another. Until there’s a huge stack of useless photos, notes, information that thus far has gotten me nowhere. I was a fool to think I could replicate something so delicate without direct training.
The metal cage rattles as the woman flips over, restless. I grind my teeth and try to block out the noise.
When the wall is bare, I step back; swat hair from my face; run my gaze over the tiny dotted holes.
I forgot what this wall looked like. What this room looked like, before it became a depraved museum.
Books I’ve studied for two months lay on the floor in a neat row, opened to the most relevant pages—yellow, orange, and pink highlighter accompanying margins filled with notes.
Four are on the manipulation tactics of abusers, one is on the neuroscience of addiction and trauma bonding, three are case studies of famous con artists and serial manipulators, and one is a basement dweller’s account of what women want.
I’ve gotten desperate. I’ve even taken to watching internet videos on a platform called YouTube just to understand the mechanics of love-based dependency. Too much of it strikes me as sexist.
“Your Grace?” the woman squeaks, apparently awake now. “C-could I go to the bathroom?”
My eyes close at the tremble in her voice. I try not to groan or sigh or do anything to show my displeasure.
It’s not her fault that she’s weak. It’s mine.
She’s the fourth captive I’ve attempted to replicate Sawyer Hansley’s methods on. My fourth failure, though this is the first since I’d learned of the supposed effective ‘trauma bond.’
I started with love bombing a month ago, when Thorne first found her sleeping underneath a bridge in New York City. I gave her more food than we ration for our people, a hot shower every morning, and even tried to smile when she spoke, to reward good behavior as one Youtuber put it.
It didn’t take long to realize that was never going to work.
I moved onto phase two within the week, and while it’s done a fine job of forcing her complacency if you don’t mind a lot of crying, it’s apparent that it isn’t the way forward. She’s weak and scared and—sadly—pathetic.
I can’t in good conscience pass down her blood to the next generation or let her carry an infant in a state of duress. It’s not good for the baby. It isn’t acceptable to my people. It isn’t even acceptable to me, and as established, I’m desperate.
We need complacent women.
Women who will acclimate. Who don’t require cages or torture and are enthusiastic about being a part of something so much bigger than themselves.
I don’t know how to accomplish that.
I don’t have the right knowledge.
“Your Grace?” the woman calls again, sounding more like a girl this time.
On an exhale, I push energy through my fingertips, then walk to her cage and unlock it. She looks too stiff as she crawls out, and when she stands, she cringes as if in pain. I try to tell myself she could use a walk, but what she really needs is mercy.
She trudges to the door and lingers in front of it, picking at the lace on her white dress while she waits for me to lead her.
“You’ve been very good, Lila… You can go without an escort this time.”
She swallows. Her eyes widen without looking up from the floor. She nods too many times and stutters out a breath like she’s going to cry again. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
I frown while watching her leave. This has worked miserably.
How could I have tried so hard and come up so short?
Because I’m a woman? Because I’m ugly? Must it be romantic love the women feel in order to be happy?
Or do I simply not have the necessary tools?
I walk to my desk drawer and pull out a bottle I’ve kept specifically for this moment, the moment I choose mercy. I crouch and pull out the dropper from the bottle, yellow liquid filling it halfway.
It feels like admitting defeat when I drip the liquid into Lila’s water bowl. In a way, I am. It’s clear I can’t do this on my own.
Just as I’m putting the bottle away, a knock sounds on my door.
Thorne tries to smile, hip cocked against the doorjamb. “I see the girl is roaming the halls. Does that mean…?”
I could laugh.
“Failure, my love. Not success.”
Thorne frowns. No one is as saddened by the necessity of Sawyer Hansley as him.
Bringing a thief into the compound… I agree, it’s unpleasant.
Sauntering into the room, Thorne takes a bottle of pills from his pocket and sets them on the desk. “I had to buy these from a drug dealer, just so you’re aware…”
Pulling the bottle toward myself, I try to smile—just to practice. “Thank you for the effort.”
Thorne perches on the desk. “So… If Miss Lila is a failure, does this mean I should head back to the city? Or are we going to let the trafficker pick the girl?”
Movement draws my eyes over Thorne’s shoulder. Lila stands in the doorway, head down, arms wrapped around herself. Her thin body quakes with what I imagine is fear, more than typical.
I frown, snap my fingers, point at the cage. She hurries toward it and crawls inside.
“There’s no need. We’re finished with the experimental captives.”
I truly don’t think I can stomach this again. Not without the promise of success.
“What? I thought his initiation test was—”
“It is.”
Thorne’s head tips to the side. He waits—patiently—for me to explain, but like a coward, I hesitate.
Father knows.
My sisters know.
The other Keepers know.
But Thorne… For him, I am a mouse.
“I’ve decided to use a woman inside the compound. There’s little doubt he won’t take the challenge seriously, so I’d like to spend the initiation simply learning his methods. Who better for that task than the woman he’s conditioning?”
Thorne’s brows raise. “Smart.”
“Yes… It’s been brought to my attention that he might have an issue opening up to a personality like mine, so I’m going to have Raven conduct his interviews.”
Thorne shifts. His arms cross over his chest. “Raven?”
“Or you, my love. If you prefer.”
“Are you really going to be okay with that?” he asks, clearly confused.
Tell him.
Just say it.
“I’ll manage.”
He doesn’t look convinced. But he nods. “Which woman are we using?”
“Zephyr volunteered.”
He tenses—predictably. But he’s kind enough not to object. Always so considerate, my Thorne.
Lila sputters, choking on air. She draws my eyes, but Thorne stays pinned to me, waiting for me to confirm his lover’s fate.
I wasn’t lying. Zephyr offered. And it would be like her to steal away Sawyer Hansley, just for the sake of taking what’s mine.
She thinks I’m obsessed with him.
Sometimes, I’m scared that I am.
Lila flips onto her back. The cage rattles as her choking intensifies. Then gradually weakens.
It’s sick, but part of me is grateful for the distraction.
Her arms are awkwardly bent beneath her body as she finally silences. Thorne taps the desk.
“Are we sure it’s safe?” he asks, unable to wait any longer. “What if he hurts her?”
I huff. “Of course he’d hurt her. That’s the point.” I shake my head. “But that’s not… It’s not Zephyr. She’s too weak. His methods would probably work on her.”
“Then who?” He squints, no longer worried but curious.
I don’t answer. I just stare at him until he gets it, until his eyes bug, his shoulders slowly falling with dread. He points his stare at the sleeping pills, the very illegal contraband I had him sneak into the compound. For me.
“No,” he whispers.
This is going to be the biggest challenge of our relationship.
Yet some part of me, deep down … is excited.