Hero

Hero - 1

by

Leighton Del Mia

1

As quickly as it starts, it’s over: a flash of snowy screen and a brash assault of noise that sounds the way ripping off a Band-Aid feels. Then, a video plays.

Frida and I lean forward at the same moment, our heads tilted and our bodies at the couch’s edge. The onscreen figure is shadowy, but I can just make out the signature charcoal-colored armor that’s the rubbery second skin of a towering, powerful frame. At his boots kneels a silver-haired man, his brown skin lined with experience. Despite the man’s age, he is solid and sturdy, even with his hands knotted behind his rigid back. He lifts his face skyward, and where fear should be, there is only defiance.

There have been impostors before, but there’s no mistaking who commands him to his knees. Even in the haze of falling dusk and grainy footage, Hero is raw. His movements are deliberate and calculated as he closes a merciless hand around the man’s neck. I’ve never watched a man die, but I know that’s what I’m seeing. Life seeps away in dreamlike slow motion, his struggling and bound body growing slack.

Hero’s head turns toward us. I squint to see better the eyes behind the thick, dark mask, but after his short nod, the camera falls to the ground. All we see is pavement until the lifeless body drops into the frame, and all we hear are retreating footsteps.

The television screen rips to snow again. Black and white pixels dazzle as seconds tick by, the noise still grating but somehow appropriate. Finally I glance at my roommate with wide eyes. Orange embers flare as she sucks on the joint pinched between her fingers. She reclines lengthwise on the sofa, tossing her sharp, black bob over the arm and crossing her ankles in my lap. “Damn,” she says on an exhalation.

The anchorwoman on screen wears a dour expression, but excitement sparks in her eyes. “You’ve just watched footage recorded yesterday evening. Witnesses attest New Rhone’s own Hero took down renowned drug lord, Ignacio Riviera, and two members of his crew without a single weapon. Riviera was the head of the Riviera Cartel, an association known for their drug dealings south of the border and whose presence in the city has recently increased. Their leader’s death comes weeks after the discovery that the Cartel has been recruiting American youth into their developing prostitution ring.

“To date, it’s only the third time our masked avenger has been caught on camera since it’s known he prefers to work under the cover of darkness. Even with protests earlier this week, the police force continues to call for the unveiling of Hero, labeling him a bad example and a disruption to their efforts to clean up New Rhone. We go now to Police Headquarters for a press conference with Police Chief Strong.”

I don’t even breathe as the woman disappears from the screen and is replaced by a statuesque, older man. “The removal of Ignacio Riviera from New Rhone’s streets is a step in the right direction,” he says, “but no matter Hero’s intentions, the fact is that three men are dead by his hand. He’s a citizen who’s not above the law and who’s not exempt from punishment. We’ll be offering a reward for tips that lead to his arrest.”

A woman’s voice comes from off screen. “Chief, you’ve been after the Cartel ever since they started dealing here. The FBI has called Ignacio Riviera ‘untouchable’ and ‘one of the decade’s most dangerous men.’ Shouldn’t you be thanking Hero for completing a job no one else could?”

“If every citizen took justice into his or her own hands, we’d have chaos. The FBI has spent years quietly gathering intel on the Cartel to lower the hammer of justice. Now we’re all back to square one. Hero may have solved a problem temporarily, but the Cartel will thrive regardless. As it is, Riviera leaves an heir behind. Hero sets a poor example—”

“Is it that he’s a bad example, or that he’s once again highlighted NRPD’s incompetence?”

“As I was saying, Hero has been a presence in New Rhone for long enough. The eyewitnesses we’re currently interviewing and the video you’ve just seen cannot be ignored. Hero will be apprehended because he’s a criminal.”

Injustice burns through my veins. “How can they do that to him?”

Frida shakes her head slowly against the arm of the couch. She aims the remote at the TV to mute it. “I know you don’t want to hear it, Cataline, but they have a point. When everyday citizens take things into their own hands like Hero, avenging every injustice they encounter, it creates problems. Last week is proof of that.”

“That was a fluke.”

“A man went to the East Side dressed as Hero to find the gang member who mugged and beat his wife. He’s not the first person to pull that and end up dead.”

“The answer is not removing Hero. He’s good for this city. Not only does he keep criminals in line, but he also puts fear into would-be criminals.”

“Look at the facts. Hero may be the good guy, but he’s an outlaw. He just murdered a man on camera. That wasn’t self-defense, and he’s not law enforcement. He’s just a guy.”

“He’s not ‘just a guy,’” I retort. “He risks his life daily for this city. They should show some gratitude for his service, not crucify him.”

“Okay, fine,” she says. “Just be prepared if they catch him.”

“They won’t,” I say.

Frida takes another hit of the joint and studies me from across the couch. “You were quiet on the walk home. Everything okay?”

“Same as usual.”

“How was work?”

My head rolls along the back of the couch, my gaze fixing on the ceiling. “I’m grateful to have a job, right?”

I can hear the smile in her voice. “Yes. Especially at Parish Media. For not having a college education, the salary’s pretty generous.”

“And yet, I’m still indebted to you.”

“Once your credit cards are paid off, we can figure that out.”

I smile at her, and she shrugs.

“You’re too good to me,” I say. “Hale, on the other hand, seems to hate me a little more every day. Maybe he’ll promote me just to get rid of me.”

She starts hacking without warning, waving her joint in the air as she gasps for breath. Finally, she wheezes, “Good luck with that.”

“One day the landlord’s going to smell that and call the cops,” I say.

“You think they give a shit about a stoner like me? This city is huge.” She half nods at the TV. “And they got bigger fish to fry. Want a hit?”

I purse my lips at her.

“Right,” she says through a grin. “More for me.”

She flips through the channels with the TV on mute. Images flash by, but I’m not watching. Frida tells me all the time I can talk to her, yet I still find it difficult to open up. No matter how many times I swallow, my throat feels dry as a desert. “Calvin Parish is sleeping with Lyla.”

“Oh, shit,” she says, looking at me with huge eyes. “Wait—who’s Lyla?”

“She works in accounting. I overheard her bragging in the break room about ‘boning the boss.’”

“Crap. That sucks.” She pushes her big toe into my side. “But how’s he supposed to know you want to sit on his face if you won’t even talk to him?”

I simultaneously laugh and cringe. “I don’t want to ‘sit on his face.’ Anyway, he’s the one who won’t talk to me. I’ve been there a year, and he’s hardly ever said a word to me.”

She drums the fingers of one hand on her stomach. “I think this is a good thing. From what you’ve told me, the guy sounds like a jerk. Plus, I have a beef with him. I got all dressed up for your lame office party just to catch a glimpse of this supposed god, and he didn’t even have the decency to show. His own company’s party.”

“He’s private.”

My answer gets me a raised eyebrow, but it’s the truth: Calvin Parish likes his privacy. If it weren’t obvious from his permanent scowl, it is in the way he tenses when anyone gets too close to him.

The fortieth floor reeks of stale coffee and is congested with half-walled cubicles, but none of that matters during Calvin’s daily visits. I work hard. I run every morning and attend Mass most Sundays. I’ve never smoked pot, despite the fact that Frida offers it weekly. I only allow myself one vice, and it’s Calvin Parish. Thick, wavy brown hair that falls over his forehead, even though he constantly brushes it back. His expression is perpetually grim, and his eyes permanently hooded, like there’s an entire universe behind them. Even shielded by bulky, black-rimmed glasses, his olive green eyes smolder. I’ve imagined that looking directly into them is such an experience, I’d come out a different person. I’d do it anyway, even knowing it could be my undoing. Just to see what would happen.

“I’m sorry about Lyla,” Frida says. I wonder how long she’s been watching me with her inquisitive look.

“It’s okay. I should concentrate on other things right now anyway. No time for boys.”

“Boys? Isn’t Calvin in his thirties?”

“Okay, no time for men,” I say. “For now, I’ll have to settle for appreciating his beauty from afar.”

At some point she’d stopped switching channels and unmuted the TV. Bugs Bunny is on the screen, sleeping and snoring though his rabbit hole floods. Even focused on the cartoon, I sense the disapproval in Frida’s glare, as though it’s a thing that might reach out and knock me over the head. Finally she says what I already know she’s been thinking: “I’m going to get you laid.”

“Nope.”

There’s frustration in her sigh. “You need this. You know I think it’s sweet that you’re holding out for the right guy, but that’s fairytale stuff, Cat. This is real life, not one of your books. I promise, your first time is not as big a deal as you’ve made it out to be. It’s just messy fumbling in the dark.”

I look at my fingers, picking at the chipped, midnight blue polish. “Waiting until I’m in love is not making a big deal out of it.” I drop my hands back on the couch and look at her. “You act like I’m some kind of freak for wanting that.”

Her feet wiggle in my lap. “You’re a twenty-two-year-old virgin. Nowadays, that makes you a freak.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “I admit, it’s a little old-fashioned, but when I meet ‘the one,’ he’ll appreciate it.”

“Screw ‘the one.’ Here’s what you do: bang a lot of guys before you find the love of your life. That way when you finally meet him, he won’t be able to resist your sexpertise.”

I giggle. “That’s messed up, and you know it.”

She giggles too, and her head falls back toward the TV. A green-skinned evil scientist with an oversized head enters the frame. “Oh, dear, delays,” he says, “delays, nothing but delays.” The scene cuts to a steel, blue dungeon door with “MONSTER” stamped across it. It rattles with beastly growls, but the scientist unlocks the door calmly. “Come, Rudolph,” he instructs as the looming, heart-shaped monster is revealed. His pulsing, vermillion fur is marked only by large, scowling eyes. “There is a rabbit loose in the castle, Rudolph. Return him to me, and I shall reward you with a spider goulash.”

Frida bursts into a seemingly endless fit of laughter. She points at the screen as Rudolph grins and disappears on his rabbit hunt. “Cataline,” she sings madly at the screen. “My virginal Cat-uh-leen, who walked into my life at eighteen, with just a single bag, what a terrible drag.”

As I watch her laugh so hard that she almost falls off the couch, I’m only thankful. Four years earlier I boarded a bus alone from my high school graduation ceremony to this doorstep knowing only the grand things I’d heard about the big city. I dragged a bag in one hand and in the other, clutched New Rhone’s “Classified” section with this address scribbled across it in red pen. Frida opened the door, all jet-black hair, piercings, and bossy attitude. But it was only minutes before my shoulders relaxed, and she was gossiping about Russ across the hall’s affair.

Tonight as I fall asleep, thoughts of Lyla from accounting plague me. She has fine blonde hair and yellowish skin that stretches over high cheekbones. Her eyelids sag under periwinkle eye shadow that gathers in the creases around her eyes. She is things I'm not: brazen, pushy, confident. She finds cheap thrills in alcohol and late nights. She doesn't seem to have trouble finding men, only keeping them.

Men like Calvin, who would take her home and bestow her with a smile I’ve never seen, something sweet and personal. A smile just for her. He’d trail his fingers through her hair and down her naked back. I shiver wondering how his touch would feel against my skin, and suddenly I’m Lyla. It’s my spine his fingertips drag down and then back up until reaching the ends of my long, murky mane. He’d remove his glasses to look into my blue eyes and take my jaw in both palms. I can almost feel his lips on mine now, opening me up as his fingers slide into my hair to play in the tangles. His kiss would mean something. Behind his glasses, as I stripped away the brusqueness of him, the curtness of his every move, I’d find tenderness. People like him are hard because they have something to protect. Even from a distance, I know that something is worth protecting. Goodness that’s buried like treasure.

2

There are two things that get me through my workday—meeting Frida for lunch and staring at Calvin Parish. Currently, I’m doing the latter. The office is my dreamland and Calvin, my star. At the moment, he’s sexy-prowling toward my desk, irradiated by ribbons of sunshine as he passes by each window.

“Cataline,” Mr. Hale hisses.

I jump, and my chair groans as I whip around to the cracked door. “Yes?”

“I’m not here,” he says before disappearing back into his office, locking the door after him.

My fantasy disintegrates. Calvin is striding in my direction, and since the sky is currently overcast, any sparkling sunshine was merely a figment of my imagination.

“Mr. Hale isn’t in right now,” I say barely in time.

Calvin grunts, sparing me no glance as he continues forward.

Fear propels me out of my seat to block the door. I splay my arms across it just as he reaches for the handle.

“I need to leave this for him,” he says to a spot above my head. He slices a Manila envelope in front of my face. His body heat practically fuses my back with the door. I’m spellbound by him, his scent, the proximity of him, all the while seeking out his eyes. Just as I open my mouth, his gaze drops. His glasses slide a millimeter as his head tilts, and for one vibration of a second, our eyes connect. Even behind the glass shield, I see the worldliness in him—a soul that seems equal parts calm and stormy. I have no breath, though my lungs burn for it. His glance is so quick that it ricochets off me, but it leaves me heady nonetheless. “Do you mind?” he asks, anger edging his voice.

“I’ll see that he gets it, Mr. Parish.”

“He’s not in?” Calvin asks. “You’re sure?”

His hand dashes by me, brushing my waist to turn the handle. The lock breaks with a loud snap, and the door swings open.

Mr. Hale’s voice comes from behind me. “Mr. Parish. Can I help you?”

I shrink down as Calvin glares over my shoulder and then at me, this time holding my gaze. “No. I’ll just leave this with your secretary.”

“Executive assistant,” I correct automatically.

“Mouthy for someone who just lied to the man who holds her fate in his hands.”

“Fate?” I repeat.

“Your job.” He says job as though I’m the most incompetent person he’s ever encountered. He pivots away, tossing the envelope on my desk without a backward glance.

My muscles liquefy, a belated reaction to being within inches of the subject of my frequent daydreams. His scent lingers in my nostrils, intoxicating my already whirring mind. Or perhaps it’s just the memory of him? My urges morph between laughing and crying with each rapid heartbeat.

I might’ve stood there all day if not for Mr. Hale’s barking. “Miss Ford. Come in and shut the door.”

My shoulders square before I turn around and seal myself in his angry bubble.

“What the hell was that?”

“He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“He waltzes in here all the time unannounced. Just because he owns the company doesn’t mean he can do whatever he damn well pleases.”

“Actually, I think it does.”

“Then I guess I don’t need an assistant, do I? If you’re not there to take my messages or to prevent people from treating my office like their own, maybe I should just manage the desk myself.”

I cross my arms behind my back because my hands involuntarily curl into fists. “Yes, sir. You’re right. I won’t let it happen again.”

I meet Frida downstairs for lunch, gasping for lungfuls of air like they’re my last. Smog suffocates, and the sky has been clouded grey for a week, but I’m thirsty for all of it after the stifling fortieth floor.

“Let’s eat somewhere new,” Frida says. “I’m tired of Armando’s.”

“But I really like Armando’s.”

She takes my hand and pulls me in the opposite direction. “Didn’t you move to the big city to experience new things? Get away from suburbia and that awful excuse for a family?”

I hurry to keep up. “They aren’t as bad as you make them out to be.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Putting a roof over your head and making sure you didn’t starve to death wasn’t doing you a favor.”

My sideways glance is reproachful, but she doesn’t see it. “You’re exaggerating. Things could’ve been much worse. The Andersons were a gracious foster family.”

She snorts. “Graciousness cannot replace love.”

“I wasn’t their own,” I say.

She squeezes my hand in hers. “Here we go. Taco Shack. Still Mexican for you, and something different for me.”

The wait is longer than Armando’s, and it’s twenty minutes before we’re finally making our way to a booth in the corner. Mouth open wide, I lean in to take a bite of my chicken taco. Before I can, I meet a pair of clear blue eyes across the restaurant. They’re openly staring, which turns my cheeks warm, but I can’t look away. It’s a moment before I notice the vibrant tattoos that sleeve his arms. Sculpted arms, actually, that strain the sleeves of a button-down shirt the same golden-khaki color of his hair. Another man nudges him while balancing a tray of food.

Frida’s words snip the moment in half like scissors. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation a couple weeks ago. You know, where you admitted you needed a good lay?”

I scoff. “Might want to take it easy on the pot. Your memory seems to be failing you.” I take a mouthful of taco.

“I worry about you,” she says. “You’ve been in this city for years, and I’m your only real friend. Your last date was, like, six months ago.”

I roll my eyes at my taco as I chew. “Feigning an emergency and ditching me with a co-worker is not a date.”

She smiles proudly. “But it is sort of brilliant.”

“You don’t need to worry,” I say, ignoring her. “I just do things differently. Dating for the purpose of dating doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Your confidence is low, and your standards are high,” she continues. “You’re making excuses so you don’t have to put yourself out there.”

I bristle and drop my taco into its basket. “That’s not true. I am ready for a relationship, I just haven’t met anyone decent.”

“What about Cal—”

“Shut up,” I say, ducking my head and scanning the room. “What if someone from my office is here?”

“That’s it,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m setting you up with this guy from work who—”

I straighten my shoulders when I spot the blond man weaving his way through the tables, a tray in one hand and a soda cup in the other. “Hey,” I call to him, shooting Frida a triumphant glance. “Looking for a table?”

Frida follows my gaze and mutters, “Holy fucking bad boy.”

His blond hair is long enough to slick into perfect obedience, contrasting the chaotic colors that paint his tanned olive skin. Liquid blue eyes are soft, kind even, as they meet mine, but there’s something unsettling in the slow spread of his smile. Before I can decide how to feel about it, he’s nearing the table with his friend close behind.

“Nowhere to sit,” he says.

I nod, sliding deeper into the booth and gesturing next to me. “Lunch rush. Sit with us.”

Frida finally shuts her gaping mouth and smiles at the other man. “Please,” she invites. “We know what it’s like to spend half the lunch hour waiting for a table.”

“This is Juan,” says the man with mesmerizing blue eyes, nodding across the table. “And I’m Guy.”

I wipe my hands on a napkin to take his outstretched one. “Cataline.”

“Cataline.” He smiles as if the name itself is inherently amusing. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing a Cataline. Do you work around here?”

I nod, swallowing my mouthful. “A media company nearby. How about you?”

“Finance,” he says, adjusting the knot of his invisible tie. They both belly laugh over the hum of the crowd. “I’m kidding. We deal in body parts.”

“Body parts?” I exclaim.

“Yeah, the auto industry. Fenders, radiators, bumpers—boring shit like that.”

“Do you eat here often?” Frida asks while I stare at him.

“First time,” Guy says, winking at me. “Something on the menu caught my eye.”

Frida is watching my every move, so I hold Guy’s gaze, despite the heat creeping up my neck. “You seem a little out of place,” I say.

“Cat,” Frida admonishes.

“It’s cool,” Juan says. “She’s right. We’ve got business in the area.”

“You’re not from around here, Cataline, are you?” Guy asks.

“I grew up a couple hours away, actually.”

He leans back against the booth, studying me. “What brought you to New Rhone?”

I gesture toward the large window behind Juan and Frida. “I love this place. My whole life I’ve watched it from the outside, wishing . . .” I shrug. “I don’t know. Who wouldn’t want to be here?”

He inclines his head toward me and grins. “The crime rates don’t scare you?”

I shake my head. “We walk through downtown every night to get home. Never had a problem. We just steer clear of the East Side.”

His answering chuckle coats my skin with goose bumps. “Pretty girl like you ought to be more careful.”

“And there’s Hero,” Frida says.

Guy’s smile falters with a twitch. “Hero?”

“She’s sort of got a thing for our masked avenger.”

“Interesting,” Guy says.

“You see that thing on the news recently where he killed the Cartel guy?” Juan asks, his eyes darting between each of us. “That was fucked up.”

“Cataline didn’t think so. Justice being served makes her hot.” Frida looks at Guy. “Maybe over a dinner date she can tell you all about it.”

I mutter under my breath, and she scowls when I kick her shin.

“So men in masks do it for you, huh?” Guy asks.

“Don’t tease her. He’s her knight in shining armor. If you, say, ever wanted to see her again, I’d recommend playing nice.”

Guy holds his palms up and this time his laugh is lighter. “Message received.”

“We should get back or we’ll be late,” I say.

Both men stand from the booth. “Thanks for letting us crash your lunch.”

I smile at Guy. “No problem. Enjoy your meal.”

Outside the restaurant, the early-fall breeze is nothing compared to the icy look on Frida’s face. “Goddamn it. What was that?”

I squint at her. “What?”

“You’re all talk, Ford. You should’ve asked Guy out.”

I glance back through the glass doors of the restaurant, but I only see my own reflection. “I don’t know. There’s something a little off about him, don’t you think? Did you see all those tattoos?”

“They’re super hot.” She leans in and lowers her voice. “Also, I need to switch professions. He was wearing a Rolex.” She raises her eyebrows. “Go back in. Get his number.”

My teeth imprint on my bottom lip as I consider it. “Really?”

“Definitely.”

I sigh. Before I can decide, the door flies open so I have to jump out of the way.

“Sorry,” Guy says, running a hand through his hair. “I came out here to ask you on a date, not knock you down.”

His candor leaves my mouth hanging open.

“She’d love to,” Frida answers for me.

I snap my jaw shut. Guy is laughing melodically, showing off a perfect row of white teeth. The smog breaks, and the gilded undulations of his gelled hair glint under the sun’s attention. Time seems to stop as we all look at each other, appreciating the moment, and then the sun disappears again behind its black cloud.

Guy clears his throat. “I’m not in the business of forcing dinner dates on girls, no matter how pretty they are. I’d like to hear it from Cataline.”

That’s twice he’s called me pretty, and twice more than I’ve heard it in a long time. It makes me smile. I’m having a hard time deciding if he’s just what I’ve been looking for or if he’s something to run from. Frida’s voice is in my head, telling me I’m making excuses.

For no reason at all, I tilt my head back and look up. Three enormous crows are making a leisurely circle above us, evaporating behind the smog, then reappearing. Three black silhouettes of flapping wings and pin-sharp beaks. I glance over my shoulder expecting something, but nothing’s there.

Frida’s watching me with an eyebrow raised as Guy waits patiently.

“I don’t even know your last name.”

He smiles. “Fowler. Guy Fowler. So, what do you say? Can I take you out?”

Frida sighs.

“Sure,” I say finally. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll call you,” he says with a warm smile as he backs away.

“But you don’t—” I stop when he disappears into the restaurant and look at Frida. “He doesn’t have my number.”

“Hale’s going to go ballistic if you don’t move your ass.”

My entire body freezes suddenly as a chill runs down my spine. I’m motionless and braced for whatever’s behind me, but nothing happens. Frida’s already halfway down the block, so I run to catch up with her without looking back.

* * *

I’m shutting down my computer when my desk phone rings. I debate sneaking out, but it’s still two minutes to five o’clock. “Mr. Hale’s office.”

“Cataline? It’s Guy Fowler.”

Stunned, I don’t answer right away.

“You there?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m impressed with your stalking skills.”

He laughs. “Fortunately, there’s only one major media company near Taco Shack. I won’t keep you. I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed meeting you, and I hope to take you on that date very soon.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

His voice drops suggestively low. “If it didn’t go against conventional dating rules, I’d take you out tonight.”

“Tonight?” My hand is sweating around the receiver when my eyes are drawn up from the desk. Calvin is standing rigid near the office entrance, glaring coldly in my direction, maybe even at me.

“Don’t worry,” Guy says. “I can be patient. I’ll see you again soon.”

There’s a click, but it takes me a moment to hang up. The conversation leaves me unsettled, but it’s Calvin who’s making me squirm. Lyla approaches him, waving her hands in front of him, almost blocking him from my sight. I keep staring, feeling as though I’m trying to receive whatever message he’s sending.

I faintly register an echo, a blurred-bokeh din. It’s a rude disruption to my moment with Calvin. By the time I feel for the receiver, I have no idea how long the phone’s been ringing. “Mr. Hale’s office.”

“Cat, it’s me.”

“Frida?”

“Going to happy hour, want to come?”

“It’s a work night.”

“Hey, guess what? You were right about Guy Fowler.”

“What? Why?”

“At lunch I thought the tattoo on his forearm looked familiar—a small rose. Well, just now I remembered where I’ve seen it. All the Riviera Cartel members have that—”

A finger drops in front of me, landing squarely on the phone’s hook. “Frida?” Mr. Hale asks, cocking his head. “I realize it’s after five, but do you think that allows you the luxury of personal calls?”

“No, sir. It was my roommate about something important.”

He lifts his finger, and I replace the phone in its cradle. “Your roommate?” he asks, scratching his chin with a crooked index finger. “The girl from the holiday party?”

I nod, and he grunts. “So what was it? What did she have to say?”

“I’m not sure. She didn’t finish her sentence.”

“Was it about her latest crush? Or maybe she bought a new lipstick?”

I stare at him dumbly. The word unemployed lights up in my mind, a flashing reminder of what will happen if I react how I want.

He sighs, clearly frustrated by my lack of response. “Save the girl talk for your living room, okay?” He thumbs over his shoulder at the clock. “You’re free to go.”

I take my purse from under the desk as Hale watches. On my way to the exit, my eyes go automatically to Calvin, whose back is to me. That feeling from outside the restaurant is back, a shift in the air while Guy waited for my answer. Even turned away, he draws me. The day almost calls for something as tragic as me finally approaching Calvin Parish. I swivel and push my shoulder into the office door, heading for the elevator.

Night falls all at once. Oncoming pedestrians with downcast eyes and shuffling feet force me to weave down the sidewalk. White steam ghosts from manholes, deceitful cottony clouds masking my surroundings. It becomes so unusually thick that for a moment, it’s all I see. When it dissipates, the slick streets are yellow again with the reflection of streetlamps. As I get further from downtown and closer to my apartment, people darken into silhouettes.

My heels puncture the night, a mocking clickety-clack that echoes off the concrete. I’m about to cross the street to my building when I stop mid-step. My heart flurries into a rapid beat. Our corner is oddly empty, not a person to be seen. Just this presence I’ve been feeling all day.

I fumble in my purse and whip around, pepper spray raised to attack. I heave a deep breath when nothing’s there and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. When I call out, it ricochets off the buildings. “Hello?”

The street glistens with recent rain, and pockets of amber light spot the sidewalk. Nothing feels real. Even the sky, black and starless, seems to end beyond my sight as if I’m under a dome. I step backward and connect with a wall that wasn’t there a moment ago. Arms of steel surround me, squeezing my breath away. My scream is silenced by a damp rag and an inconceivably large hand. Something harsh and chemical fills my nostrils when I inhale. My heels thrash as I’m lifted in the air and spun around. The last thing I see before everything dissolves into black is the door to my apartment building, just outside my grasp.

3

It takes several long blinks of my heavy lids for a hazy world to come into focus. My eyes adjust gradually to blackness as dense and opaque as my sleep. I’m just horizontal floating numbness, perhaps on a bed, though I feel nothing beneath me.

Materializing in the dark is a silhouette. I can’t tell how close or far it is, or even if it’s moving. My mouth ignores my brain’s command to scream. My limbs only sink further into the mattress when I try to lash out.

There is a terrifying maleness about the shadow as it watches me. Inside, I’m trembling, waiting for him to act or speak. My fingertips and toes tingle. But he simply remains there, and I’m plummeting back into myself, clawing at nothing, slipping away, darkness advancing, and I’m being sucked down, down, down.

* * *

I sigh and hug my pillow closer, satisfied from a deep sleep. The bed is a cotton ball cloud that swallows my heavy limbs. My smile becomes a yawn. My foot glides between the sheets like a knife through butter.

I vault upright as my lids tear open, and I have to fist the comforter to steady myself. My eyes adjust to a lavish room. Dread dispatches through my system, flooding right up to my pores until I’m bloated with it. Until I think I might burst.

On my street corner, somebody took me.

My fingers wrap around the base of my throat. It burned, struggling for breath—I don’t remember screaming, but it’s sore. I press the hollow there until my erratic heartbeat vibrates the pads of my fingers and I almost choke.

I back up against the headboard, drawing the comforter close. The harder I try, the less I’m able to catch the small, fleeting breaths stuttering my chest. My tongue fills my mouth like a fat slug.

My surroundings ooze luxury and highbrow indifference. The room, with its dark-stained cherry wood floors and high ceilings, must be half of my apartment. It’s rich with burgundy velvet, gold silk, and intricate, carved moldings. The massive, four-poster bed I’m in sits beneath a white, gauzy canopy.

My brain struggles to connect the broken pieces of my thoughts. Those unforgiving arms I struggled against in a deserted street—they brought me to a place like this? And how? Was there a car, a second person? I fight the impossible explanation though it crushes me flatter by the second. Kidnapped.

Dread shades into fear. I’m certain my skin will split open, I’m shaking so violently. My hands rush to my body and touch silk. The slinky, red nightgown clashes with the room’s almost-plum interior. A sob hitches in my throat because I’m braless. I feel my body for signs of mishandling, lifting the sanguine fabric and running my fingers over matching lace underwear.

My vision sharpens with tears, and my head swims. Whatever was used to knock me out leaves a misted veil over my memory. Since before I was a teenager, nobody’s ever seen me completely naked. Not Frida, not my foster parents. Now a stranger has.

I swallow back what’s rising in my throat because crying will only slow me down. I need to think clearly.

It takes me a moment to ease out from between the sheets. My limbs move at their own lazy pace, separate from my brain. I should be sore from running for my life last night, but I never even had the chance. I glance at the door. Fear of what’s behind it sends me in the opposite direction to a large bay window. I climb onto the cushion, and my body thrills when the window gives way to my push. I peer over the sill into what appears to be the backyard. It’s a sharp drop without even so much as a ledge to balance on. I assess that I’m on maybe the third or fourth floor. Below, stone paths carve a maze between manicured green grass and trim rosebushes that bloom deep red. The lawn is expansive, like my room, and ends at a wall of large trees that continue until the horizon.

I take a lungful of fresh air and decide that the window is a last resort.

On the bare balls of my feet, I cross the room. My eyes furtively scan as I tiptoe. There’s a small sitting area between the window and a fireplace, one closed door, a set of French double doors, also closed, a desk, and nightstands that flank the bed. Because of its size, it takes me longer than it should to cross any room.

Everything in my chest evaporates when I touch the door handle, my throat painfully dry as I swallow. My blood churns through me as I apply pressure to the knob. It turns, and keeps turning. It doesn’t stop. I can hardly believe when I pull and the door slivers open.

It hits me then that I’m wearing an expensive negligee and sleeping in a heavenly bed in what appears to be a very large home. Could I possibly have jumped to conclusions? I’m still frozen with my fist curled around the knob when a man speaks.

“Are you decent?”

My mouth opens. Sense flees me. I scream.

An elderly man bustles into the room and closes the door behind him. “Dear, please, don’t scream. You’ll alarm the staff.” The man wrings his hands, his face reddening as he waits. “I’m sorry to startle you. Please, do not be afraid.”

I stop abruptly, my chest heaving. The man is hunched forward slightly, his eyes wide with concern. His thinning white hair is parted and combed to the side. He’s dressed in a suit and waistcoat that perfectly fit his small frame. I decide that I can take him.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Archibald N. Hughes the Third. But you may call me Norman—that’s what the ‘N’ stands for.” He bows with a smile. “I’m the mansion’s butler.”

“Butler?” I repeat. “Where am I?”

“The mansion.” He waves as if I should know by my surroundings, but my eyes are trained on him. My hands attempt modesty, one splayed across the thin layer of silk covering my chest and the other tugging on the hem.

“No, where the hell am I? What city am I in? How did I get here?”

He purses his lips at me. “There’s no need to get hostile. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You kidnapped me,” I shriek.

“I cannot comment on that,” he says resolutely, clasping his hands in front him. “What I can do is help situate you. This is your bedroom.”

My heart drops into my stomach. Mybedroom? Mine? “You didn’t tell me where I am.”

He hesitates before indicating the door furthest from us. “You have your own private bathroom,” he says and then glides his hand to the next set of doors, “and a closet full of the finest clothing available. As I said, you can call me Norman. I am at your beck and call.”

Spots cloud my vision. I walk backward, feeling behind me until I touch mattress. I lean against the bed’s edge. “I don’t understand,” I say. “I grew up in Fenndale. I live in New Rhone. My name is—” My eyes cut sharply to his. “I want to go home.”

His already mild expression softens. “Oh, dear. Don’t worry. As I said, I’m here to help, not hurt. You have a maid as well. She’s called Rosa. We’ll see to it that you’re comfortable during your stay.”

My cheeks flare with heat. “What stay? Why am I here? Did you bring me here?”

He straightens up as much as his aged back allows. “Now, do I look capable of such a thing? You’re here at the request of the Master of the House.”

“Who?”

“The Master of—”

“And that would be?”

“Sadly, I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. And neither is Rosa, though she doesn’t speak English well anyway.”

My eyes search the room helplessly.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “You slept quite long.”

“I want to leave.”

“You cannot,” he returns gravely.

“So I’m-I’m what? A prisoner?”

He blinks slowly at me. “You cannot leave this house.”

I inhale up at the ceiling. “Why won’t you answer my questions?” I ask. My legs quiver, and Norman edges closer to me. I slap his forearm when he reaches out, and he withdraws.

“Perhaps you should lie down again. It would be my pleasure to bring you your breakfast in bed.”

He leaves, and somehow I get on the comforter, crossing my legs underneath me. I will myself to think. Norman said I was confined to the house but not the room. I look to the closed door. Last night someone was in this room, standing near the bed, watching. Waiting. It wasn’t Norman. It was a phantom, a shadow. It was a beast.

4

Norman returns to the room, fumbling with the knob and pushing the door open with his back. He spins around to reveal a tray weighed down by food. “Let’s try this again, Cataline,” he says.

“How do you know my name?”

“I wasn’t sure of your preference this morning, so I had Chef Michael make a variety of things. I also don’t know when you’ve last eaten.” He raises an amused eyebrow at me as he nears the bed. “Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and a bowl of Shredded Mini-Wheats. The cereal I prepared myself,” he adds with a chuckle. He shows me the tray again and nods. “Well, go on. Sit back.”

I maneuver so my back is against the headboard, but I don’t let him out of my sight.

“Is this like fattening up a pig before you eat it? What is all this?”

“Not at all. Just trying to make you comfortable.”

“Is it drugged?”

“It might be,” he says, “and this might be a gas chamber disguised as a luxurious bedroom. What choice do you have? If we wanted to hurt you, we would.”

My stomach rumbles loudly, and he stifles a smile while placing the offering across my lap.

I sniff the orange juice, swirling it in its glass. I look at him over the rim and set it back down. My eyes shift to the door and quickly back to him. On the tray is a vase with a single rosebud. “Is that from the garden?” I ask.

“Try to enjoy your breakfast.”

I shovel a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and chew, glad he at least picked my favorite kind.

“There you are,” Norman says. “I’ll let you eat.”

“No,” I cry. Milk dribbles from the corners of my mouth, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “Stay. Answer my questions.”

“I’m afraid I’ve told you everything. There isn’t much more information I can provide, aside from a tour of the house. Eat your breakfast, and I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

“Did you take off my clothes?”

His face mars with a grimace, but he schools it. “Heavens, no. Rosa dressed you in that. The sleeping gown was chosen by the Master of the House.”

“Why does he care what I wear to bed?”

“I can assure you that I would never violate you in such a manner,” Norman says as though he didn’t hear me. He looks about to speak when a telephone’s earsplitting ring sounds from the hallway. He straightens up and darts away, taking only enough time to lock the door behind him. I stare after him until salty tears streak my cheeks, pooling at the corners of my lips.

When I escape, there’s no knowing how long I’ll be without food, so I eat everything. I survey the empty tray, my eyes resting on the silverware. I pick up the butter knife and run it along the fattest part of my palm. It leaves a wrinkle. I toss it in favor of the fork.

I leave the rest on the bed and slowly, carefully, walk to the door. Hoping the click of the lock was my imagination, I grip the knob. It’s a cold, brass mass in my fist, like the hardened knot of a heart. I wrench it forcefully, trying to push through the resistance. I twist it until my hand stings from the metal’s burn.

With a sigh, I turn back for the bed but find myself heading to the fireplace instead. I lean in and inspect wood that’s clearly never been used. There’s a knock at the door, and without thinking, I stick the fork in my mouth and use both hands to pull a log free. Somebody raps twice more, the handle jiggles, and I panic. I balance the fork between to fingers and rush toward the door as it opens.

“Cataline?”

I raise the log when Norman enters, but in the doorway behind him looms a brute—as big a man as I’ve ever seen. He glances over my head and rolls his eyes.

The lines in Norman’s forehead deepen as he sighs. “Cataline, listen to me. There is no escaping this situation. Best that you don’t resist, or you’ll make things harder on everyone. The Master of the House—”

“Is that him?” I whisper, staring at the tattoos peeking from his shirt’s collar. His neck is red in a way that I think it might be all the time.

“No. That’s head of security, Carter. The Master is kind but impatient. Order and control are important to him. Anything outside that displeases him.”

My arms quake from the weight of the log. I’m unusually weak with fatiguing muscles and wobbly legs. My breakfast rises up the back of my throat. I lower the log in front of me.

“You can go, Carter,” Norman says. “I trust Cataline.”

Carter shrugs, staring back at me. “Can’t. I’m supposed to make sure this one doesn’t pull anything.”

Norman turns his head over his shoulder. “I said you’re dismissed.”

“No can do. Boss’s orders.”

Norman huffs and returns his attention to me. “I assure you, none of us intend on harming you; we want only to make you comfortable. But as you will see on the tour, there is no escape. The exits are sealed and security is top of the line. The house is under lockdown. My advice to you is if you’re told to do something, do it.”

His words anger me, tiny, hot needles piercing at the hope in my heart.

Norman looks back at Carter. “I suppose you’ll be joining—”

The log hits him squarely in the chest when I heave it, thudding on the floor. He stumbles back as I blow past him into Carter’s grasp. I stab the fork into his shoulder, and he releases me instantly with a guttural noise.

His angry curses echo until I’m halfway down the hall, heading for a staircase. I take the stairs two at a time, almost face planting before I reach the ground level. I race across the foyer to the front door, but it’s locked. My entire body fights with the handle until I hear hurried footsteps on the stairs.

I sprint for the nearest door in the hallway. It won’t budge either, but it’s less solid. I pull on the handle like I hate it, like it’s my worst enemy, and throw my shoulder into the door over and over until it finally pops open. In the room I spot a phone on a desk and a window. I close the door behind me. The lock is busted, so I wedge a chair under the handle like I’ve seen in movies.

The window is either locked or stuck beyond my strength. I pick up the phone and dial 911 while dragging another chair with me to the window. I yank the receiver from my ear and glance at it because there’s no sound on the line, not even a dial tone. I throw it at the desk, and the whole phone flies off the edge, scattering papers everywhere.

A folder hits my feet, and I crouch down. “Riviera Cartel” is scrawled across it. I pick up the newspaper article next to it. Black marker circles Carlos Riviera’s name and down the page, more names and details.

My heart stops. My fingers crunch the newspaper in a fist. Why hadn’t I thought of it already? The Cartel was recently accused of kidnapping young girls. Belated nausea washes over me. I swallow down the urge to vomit and pick up the chair. My hands shake violently, but I slam it into the window. It thuds dully. I do it again and again until a wooden leg breaks off.

I turn in time to see the chair under the door handle skid across the floor when Carter bursts in. I dive under the desk, huddling there and grabbing the leg as he snatches my ankles. He pulls. My grip tightens. The desk is so sturdy, it doesn’t move even an inch. I only let go when I’m sure my shoulder joints are about to pop out of their sockets.

* * *

I wake up squeezing my eyes shut. My knees, shoulders, and elbows pulse like they have been for hours. My right ankle is heavy and cold. It’s a moment before I remember where I am, squinting into a room streaked sepia by the setting sun. I’ve slept through the first day of sunshine in over a week, and I decide if I’m still here tomorrow, I’ll make use of my windowsill.

After my attempted escape, Carter carried me up the stairs by my waist. There’s a sharp throb in my heel when I remember kicking his shin repeatedly. He locked a cuff around my ankle while Norman held my wrists, assuring me it was temporary. A chain attached to the metal cuff was secured to the other end of the bed. They forced half a sleeping pill down my throat. All I could wonder was why they had such things readily available.

The chain was cumbersome, but it was also long. I paced, relentlessly searching the room and my memory for clues. I passed my hands across every surface, even snaking them behind the headboard and pushing furniture aside. I don’t know what I hoped to find. A crack. A hole. A mistake. There was only smooth disappointment beneath my fingertips.

I opened the doors to a large, walk-in closet to find bars filled with hangers of clothing. I fingered dozens of different fabrics, checking the sizes of garment after garment. Everything was my size. Every piece was beautiful, things I’d choose if ever given the chance to buy designer clothing. Overwhelmed, I stepped out and closed the doors after me.

My thoughts became foggy. Maybe my call had gone through, and the police had heard the whole struggle. I kept thinking I heard sirens. Eventually I closed my puffy eyes and gave in to the drug.

In bed, I turn onto my side, wincing from where Carter threw me on the ground earlier. This is one of those news stories that start with an ending. Because who would take another person with the intention of ever letting them go? But if it’s money they want—revenge, or to send a message—then there must be some mistake. I live my life quietly. I’m not worth anything to anyone.

The question overwhelms my mind—why?

It’s only in the tranquility of the late afternoon and the wearing off of the sleeping pill that my sense recalibrates.

I can still feel the smudged clues on my fingertips from that newspaper. Frida’s voice is close enough to the surface that I can recall her exact tone when she said the words Riviera Cartel.

“At lunch I thought the tattoo on his forearm looked familiar—a small rose.”

Tall. Broad. Threatening. Our taco lunch. I was justified in the uneasiness he inspired. He knew I walked through downtown to get home.

“Hey, guess what? You were right about Guy Fowler.”

Our eyes met in the restaurant, and I blushed under his flattery. I practically threw myself at him despite the warning in my gut. I thought he was interested. I thought he liked me. He stared at me like he wanted me. And now he has me.

5

When there’s a knock at the door, I sit up. It takes ages to cross the room for all my hesitating. The chain scrapes the wood floor behind me. My bottom lip is almost bloody. I brace myself when I ask, “Who is it?”

“It’s Norman, dear.”

I exhale to ease my racing heart, but my relief is tinged with frustration. Norman won’t give me the answers I want. Or, worse, he can’t.

“Have you had enough time alone?” he asks when I crack open the door.

I blink at the sinister-sounding question.

“Come downstairs for dinner.” He looks at my feet. “Or I can bring it up here. Your choice.”

I follow his gaze. If I told him I knew the truth about the Cartel, would it help or hurt? In my situation, knowledge is power. I decide to keep it to myself. “I don’t want to stay in here anymore,” I say.

“Very good. Then I’ll take that off.” He rubs his chest. “Please don’t try anything. Carter is eager to keep you locked up, and I fear the Master of the House won’t hear my argument against it.”

“You don’t want me locked up?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. I believe your reaction was out of character. Wasn’t it?”

I glance down.

“Why don’t you change into something more appropriate, and we’ll get you fed.”

The way he says appropriate turns the silkiness of my gown grimy. “Change into what?” I ask.

“You have a closet full of clothing. Surely you can find something in there?”

I look over my shoulder at the closed doors and then back at him. “That’s for me?”

“Of course it’s for you, Cataline. I already told you so.”

“Why?” I ask through a painfully dry throat. “Why me?”

His expression is sympathetic. “I’ll send Carter up with the key to the shackle. When you’re ready, I’ll be at the base of the staircase. Take your time.”

I close the door, set my forehead against it, and inhale. I take time to look through the closet’s contents. There’s something for every occasion, from soft t-shirts and jeans to cocktail dresses and ball gowns. There are shoes, handbags, even fine jewelry. I pull open the top drawer of the built-in dresser. Delicate, lacy underwear is carefully sorted and separated into neat piles. Each piece, no matter the coverage, is sexy and sheer. The following drawer holds matching bras, stockings, and knee-high socks. Tears surface when I reach the bottom compartment. Intricate, stiff lingerie feels sturdy and structured in my hands. Black, red, and white variants of lace, satin, and gauze. All of it would fit me; even the bras are the correct cup size. I can’t fathom, won’t fathom . . . I squeeze the garment in my fists until the corset stays bite into my palms.

Frida and I assumed we were immune to the city’s seamy side because we were poor and quiet. My stomach turns when I realize the only valuable thing someone like me has to give. Guy knew all along I was ripe for the picking.

I unclench my hands and finger the fine lace with the delicacy it deserves. I might’ve liked to wear this for someone like Calvin one day, though there’s a good chance he’d not even notice me in it.

I chase the thought away and throw the garment on the floor. I slam the drawer shut, praying I’ll never have to open it again.

* * *

I choose an outfit and wait until Carter knocks. He comes in and goes straight for my ankle without looking at me. The cuff unlocks with a loud click, and he stands.

“This is my job,” he says.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to stab me with a fucking fork. I got a family, you know. There’s no escaping, not unless the Master of the House says so. So just chill out.”

“What does he want with me?” I ask, unintentionally glancing toward the closet.

He shrugs. “Like I said, I’m just doing my job. Easier for me if we lock you in a room all day and feed you pills, but they say it’s okay for you to wander around. Fine, but that can be taken away. You know? I got no problem doing what I have to do. Norman’s an old man. You hurt him, and I might be forced to hurt you back.”

I turn my face away, and he leaves. He doesn’t take the cuff and chain with him. I change into a chunky sweater, hiding my hands in the sleeves. Jeans cling like a second skin. I expect resistance when I pull on the bedroom door, but it opens. In the empty hallway, I venture the opposite direction of the stairs. Socks, purposely chosen, mute my steps. Even in the unlit corridor, I can see the house is magnificent. I gently try the handle of each door I pass with no results.

Defeated, I trudge back the way I came. Down two flights of curving staircase, I take each step slowly, as though I’m descending into hell. Norman is there as I reach the final bend, and when I hit the bottom, he holds his hand out to me. I automatically place mine in his, jerking it back just as quickly.

“When the Master of the House is in, dinner attire is required. But when it’s just us,” Norman says with a friendly wink, “this will do.”

His attempt at comfort is lost on me. All I hear is someone I don’t know telling me what to do. He ignores my scowl and leads me through a gold-lighted foyer into a high-ceilinged dining room.

Calling attention to the center of the room is a sturdy table with fat, carved legs. It’s long and imposing, with a high-backed chair at each end and ten in between, five on each side. The red runner down the middle is edged with gold trim. I feel insignificant when I sit in the oversized end chair that Norman directs me to. As soon as I hit the cushion, a considerably rotund man is setting a dish in front of me.

“Normally Norman will deliver your food,” he says, shoving his hand between us, “but I’ve been waiting all day to meet you. I’m Chef Michael.”

I can almost feel the dark bags sagging under my eyes when I stare blankly at him.

He straightens up and clears his throat. “It’s not often that we have guests.” He laughs in a quick burst, touches his strawberry-blond hair, and shrugs at Norman. “Not often at all, actually. I’ve made this especially for your arrival. Asian-style quail on a bed of wild rice.”

His tone is irritatingly proud, so I say, “I’m a vegetarian.”

Norman looks down his nose at me. “No, you are not.”

I frown, incensed that he’s called my bluff. I look up at the chef with pleading, watery eyes. “I’m being held hostage,” I tell him. “Please. You have to help me.”

He visibly tenses, but his gaze shifts from mine. “Can I get you anything else, Ms. Ford?”

I just shake my head.

Whatever they gave me turned me ravenous. I clear my plate quickly, along with the warm chocolate soufflé delivered immediately after. The only sound in the room is the echo of my fork clinking against the plate. I’m satisfied, but I eat until the last bite and set my silverware down. I wonder why Guy isn’t here for dinner and when he’ll finally show up. Crude ideas of what our meeting will be like come easily because of an afternoon spent agonizing.

My gaze flits around grand surroundings, noting the long, skinny windows that frame freedom like a painting. Where would I go? Where am I? Am I even near New Rhone anymore? When I look over my shoulder, my eyes land on Norman in the doorway. “I’m ready for the tour,” I say.

His reply comes with a clasp of his hands. “Delightful.”

Carter appears from the kitchen as if he’d been waiting there. My fists shove into the shallow pockets of my jeans as I follow Norman and Carter follows me.

“If a room is unlocked, you are free to enjoy,” Norman explains cheerfully. He takes me around the ground floor, and I count doors and windows. None of the closed doors are included on the tour. There’s a chapel specially installed for the staff at Norman’s request. When he tells me to use it anytime I want, I can’t tell if it’s an invitation or a suggestion. Carter is our silent shadow and makes neither invitations nor suggestions.

Norman seems excited to show me the second floor, which has a game room, home cinema, gym, and another smaller, more intimate dining room. His smile vanishes when I don’t react. But then his eyes light up. “I saved the best for last,” he says.

He leads me down the marble stairs, back to the ground floor. On the way, I think how if I weren’t forced to stay here, I’d have died and gone to heaven. But I don’t realize how true that is until we reach my first slice of happiness in twenty-four hours: the most impressive library I’ve ever seen. Endless books line the walls of a room that somehow manages to be both overwhelming and cozy.

My lips part, inching open until I’m gaping. My head tilts to take in the sheer quantity of books surrounding me. I trace my finger over leather binding, embossed titles, glossy authors. Everything from Atlas Shrugged to Interview with the Vampire to The Velveteen Rabbit. My hearts skips and swells as I recognize stories I’ve read, ones I want to read, and even more thrilling, so many I’ve never heard of.

Norman’s voice disrupts my literary worship. “Perhaps it’s time to rest again. You’ve had a trying day.”

I sigh. “And still no answers.”

“I can’t promise you will ever get your answers; that’s up to the Master of the House. For now, dear, that will have to be answer enough.”

I swallow down the curse I’m tempted to hurl at him. Despite his involvement in keeping me here, I’m not so sure he has any more choice in the matter than I do. So far he’s been kind to me, and though I’m distrustful, it doesn’t seem that taking my anger out on him gets me anywhere. I decide to reserve that for Guy Fowler.

Even having slept much of the day, Norman is right that I’m exhausted. Sleep sounds welcoming. Carter fades into the shadows after a warning look, but Norman follows me up the steps to the third floor.

“Cataline,” he says when we reach the landing.

I turn and face him.

“There’s nothing much to see on your floor. It’s mostly guest bedrooms and storage. However . . .” He points up stairs that fade into darkness, where not a light that I can see shines. “Do not go to the fourth floor.”

“Why not?”

He inhales deeply. “That floor is meant only for the Master of the House, and when necessary, staff. He is very particular about his space.”

I shrug my shoulders with defeat. “Whatever. Goodnight.”

With that, I leave Norman and his sudden grimness at the mouth of floor four.

6

Master of the house

The equipment’s hum suits the room’s grey, steely surroundings. Machinery that never rests heats the space, but warmth seems inherently wrong for all the sharp edges. Indiscriminate file cabinets filled with data close us in. Files are labeled, alphabetized, slid, shut, and locked into place. Cameras guard the most important corners of the mansion and transmit here. From this underground security chamber, I am even more transcendent than usual. My shoulders depress with a deep and overdue exhale.

“I can handle this, sir,” Norman says to my back. “You have more important things to worry about.”

I ignore him as screen number four of twelve distorts, erratic scribbles marring the black-and-white dining room.

“I know how this type of behavior upsets you,” Carter mutters as he rewinds the footage.

“You say this isn’t the first time?”

“She has fits now and then. So far only during the day when you aren’t around.”

“She should be thankful for that.”

“Give her time,” Norman says. “There’s bound to be some wreckage until she settles.”

I turn to face him with an arched eyebrow. “It’s not the wreckage that concerns me. It’s the disregard for your authority and the lack of a routine. We don’t ask much of her. It shouldn’t be so difficult to acclimate.”

“Put yourself in her shoes,” Norman says under his breath. “It’s only been a week.”

“This is the time for authority. There’s no room for mistakes in our world, you know that. Even the smallest one can change everything. If I could ignore her antics, I would. I don’t give a damn what she does with her days. But disobedience has to be cut off at the source.”

“I understand, but all I’m suggesting is some patience. Maybe I can give her something to make her feel more at home. Is there anything in her apartment she can have?”

“Like I have time to go snooping in her apartment. She seems to like Mexican food—why don’t you have Michael make her some of those chicken tacos?” He frowns when I laugh. “Don’t treat her like such a child, Norman. She’ll adapt. If she doesn’t, I’ll just have to put myself in her path. How’s that for an idea?”

“Not a good one, Master.”

“If she behaves this way while I’m here, it’ll come to that. Once she sees tantrums won’t be tolerated, she’ll have no choice but to accept her situation. However, if she snoops, or if she insists on being difficult, she might unknowingly walk into a world she couldn’t even dream up. A world where I’m this,” I say, touching my chest and lowering my voice, “and that’s information she can never know.”

“Sir?”

I glance down at Carter and then the screen. Cataline sits in a tall chair at the dining table. She’s still for so long that I find myself studying her face. The camera turns her unblinking blue eyes a shade of grey. Her cheeks are probably pink to match lips that are too feminine, too shaped like a heart for my taste. As though she picked a rose from its vase and rubbed it over her white skin. In monochrome, her hair is a tangled inky web waiting for prey. Waiting for me.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Norman asks.

“Why?”

“You made a noise.”

I raise my eyebrows just as Cataline’s body jerks into motion. Without warning, she lunges across the table, reaching out for something.

“Here we go,” Carter says.

7

Cataline

I’ve been bad. Locked in my room for five days because I tried to smash a dining room window with a candlestick. And when I noticed cameras in every shadowy corner of my room, I broke them all. They were replaced by the next morning, but I’ve been imprisoned ever since.

Days are beginning to blur together. I watch time pass on a desk calendar I sneaked into my room from the library. Each day I tear away a page, thankful that it isn’t one of those calendars with jokes or images of baby animals. I know I’m almost two weeks into captivity, and I can spend up to an hour tracing the bold, red date with my finger.

True to his word, Norman is either out of information or refuses to give it to me. Guy obviously pays him well, and I have nothing to tempt his loyalty. The thought always makes my shoulders slump, and my posture grows poorer by the day.

Norman brings me the things I ask for and checks on me from time to time. For good behavior, he has Carter free my ankle after a couple days. But he won’t engage me in conversation. Before I was confined to my room, Chef Michael was easier to get talking, but only to a point. It’s as if there’s a barrier in our conversations that nobody will leap—and it’s not very far from the starting line.

Tonight, I’m in bed, staring up at the mesh canopy. The more I want sleep, the more I need escape, the harder it is to catch. Every night I try to understand my new reality. If I’m to be sold or prostituted, why am I here? Shouldn’t I be locked up in a room with other girls, stripped of even my most basic rights? Is there some other use for someone like me I haven’t thought of?

My mind plays a constant loop of scenarios, mostly what I could’ve done differently. I imagine not holding Guy’s eye contact in the restaurant and not inviting him to sit with us. Not inviting danger into the booth next to me. I dissect my current situation, examining it for loopholes in much the same way I run my fingertips along all the mansion’s walls.

Before my outburst, I spent hours in the library finding escape in the pages of books. I also discovered a darkroom and asked Norman for a camera, which he promised to try and get from “the Master of the House.”

Since my punishment does not allow me even books, boredom infiltrates the days in my room—but anticipation rules them. I’m growing desperate to know what Guy’s planning, so much so that I’m tempted to investigate the fourth floor once I’m released back into the mansion. Sinister thoughts feed off my ennui, breeding fear and paranoia. I wonder if the cameras broadcast to the entire world. Maybe I’m an experiment, and people are watching me right now from their living rooms.

I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up to screams. Realizing they’re my own brings me no comfort. In my nightmare, the cameras transmitted footage right into people’s living rooms. They shoveled TV dinners into their mouths, watching as I stacked furniture to reach the camera in the corner. “Pretty girl like you ought to be more careful,” they said, ignoring my screamed begs for help.

I’m panting as the dream fades into the night and reality comes into focus. The bedroom window is open, and a breeze fondles the bed’s white drapes. My tight chest staggers with short breaths as sweat trickles down my temples. I pull off the comforter and take the few steps to the window, my only tenuous connection to the real world.

With my knees on the cushioned seat beneath the window, I hang the upper half of my body outside. It’s dark tonight, the mean moon a curved slash in obscurity, beginning and ending with two sharp points. I close my eyes to the night air’s caress. If I jumped, could I latch onto that crescent in the sky? Hang there until the sun rose? I wonder if it would matter, if daylight would frighten the monsters away or merely expose them.

I look down and down and down because darkness swallows everything beneath me. Still, I know the rosebushes are there. How fitting it would be to have my fall broken by a thousand thorns, painting crimson roses black with my blood.

I descend from the windowsill and go to the wall where I’ve defiantly marked the days I’ve been in this room. The slashes blur together, and I scream. My fingernails scrape away the wallpaper, peeling a path of coiled ringlets.

I’m at the bed, pulling at fistfuls of gossamer until my palms burn. Its heavenly appearance is unaffected by my earsplitting screams; it continues to invite, deceiving me to sleep under its feathery veil and awaken in velvet red and sunlight gold.

I release the stubborn fabric and sprint to the door where I alternate between beating on it with my fists and pulling the handle with my entire body. And it continues without breaking, this horrible screeching that starts in my stomach and destroys my throat. I want out. I want my freedom.

Relief hits with metal on metal, a key in the door. The old man has come to calm me. My throat is raw and dry, but I choke, “Please, Norman. Let me out.”

The answer I get is gritty, rolling with incredulity. “Norman? No such luck.”

I’m stunned into silence, barely leaping out of the way when the door opens. A flash of low light illuminates a silhouette, the same one who stalked my bed the first night. When the door slams, we’re plummeted once again into darkness. Thinking only of escape, I lunge forward and dodge to what I hope is his side. Despite the blackness of the room, he catches my waist with surprising accuracy.

“Run, and I’ll chase you,” he says calmly. “Believe me, you don’t want that.”

I squirm in his tightening hold, my elbow stabbing into his side repeatedly. My screamed protests are incoherent with panic; my body’s never felt more alive and more foreign, every frantic thump of my heart diffusing fear and adrenaline through me. My fist thumps against his chest, pain shooting from my wrist, but he just grunts.

“Let go of me!” He does, and I launch myself to the ground from the force of my struggling. I retreat, crawling backward to the bed, seeking refuge in what I just sought to destroy.

“Do I not provide everything you need?” he asks. My eyes search the nothingness desperately as menacing footsteps close in on me. “Why do you insist on throwing a tantrum like a child?”

His voice is made of pure threat, so low I feel it underneath me in the floor. “Are you the M-Master of the House?”

“Get back in your bed and keep quiet,” he says. “Don’t make me come back to this room.”

My arms are trembling so hard they’re on the verge of giving out. I don’t know when I began crying, but it’s turning hysterical.

“Did you hear me?” he asks. “I said get back on the goddamn bed.”

When I don’t move, his presence abruptly surrounds me, his fingers wrapping around my bicep. I thrash more, kicking his shin, slapping his firm grip with my free hand. My teeth and nails hunt wildly for exposed skin.

He pulls me to my knees, yanking so hard my face collides with his leg, and my hands grasp his pants. For a weighty moment, there’s only his heavy breathing and my whimper. His hand leaves my arm to seize my hair, and he shifts my cheek to the side fractionally. He curses under his breath. My skin scrapes against coarse denim as he gyrates once. His fingers curl into my roots, urging me closer.

My scream is silenced with a harsh tug of my hair. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I warned you,” he says with another sinuous motion.

My mind can’t compute how we went from fighting to him humping my face. I attempt to back away, but the result is only futile struggling. The teeth of his zipper hiss, and I have to clench to keep from urinating all over myself. My hands rip at fabric as I wrestle with his legs. From this angle, Guy is no longer the golden boy I saw on my last day of freedom. He is a black shadow, towering from where I sit underneath him. I’ve never been in the presence of someone so commanding, so fear inspiring.

His hand still clutches my hair while he hastily shoves down his pants. He rubs himself against my cheek; the disparity of soft and hard makes my body shake and pulse like my heart.

His loud groan spirals through my body as he presses the tip against the corner of my mouth. “Open.”

“No,” I plead through gritted teeth.

He yanks my head back and bends at the hip. All I can see are the shadowed ends of his hair curling away from me. “Do as I say. You’ve earned this lesson in obedience.”

I jerk back, but he shoves himself in my mouth. He pushes deep, ignoring any muffled objections. I close my teeth around him but hesitate too long, and he catches my jaw. “You’d instantly regret that,” he says. “No teeth. Just leave it open for me.” Holding the back of my head in both hands, his hips urge forward once and then again, his pace increasing with each repetition. “Good girl.” I’m stretched open all the way and still can barely taste all of him. “You’ve always been such a good fucking girl, Cataline.”

He thrusts until my mouth is full and my throat constricts around him. Hot tears flood my eyes. He doesn’t relent until I begin to choke, gasping and begging for mercy by shoving his unyielding thighs.

When he pulls out, only a thread of saliva connects us. It droops and eventually breaks, swinging back onto my chin.

“Have I come?” he asks. “Don’t shut your mouth yet.”

“Fuck you, Guy,” I cry through my burning throat.

He freezes instantly. There’s an eerily deafening silence as his fingers pull so tightly on my hair that I squeal. “What did you say?” I stare at him in awe. His body seems to grow bigger as he crouches over me. “What the fuck did you say?”

I flinch, and a noticeable tremble laces my whispered response. “I know you’re Guy Fowler.”

He shoves me away so I fall onto my outstretched arms. Immediately, I ball into the fetal position, flinching with each of his heavy, retreating footsteps. My quivering is uncontrollable while my mind scrambles to catch up. When it does, the thoughts come as easily as the tears: violated, used, disgusting. I hate this place, my situation, but most of all, I hate Guy Fowler. My fingers bury in my hair.

“You’ve always been such a good fucking girl, Cataline.”

It’s true; I’ve spent my life trying to do the right thing, see the positive in people, find light in the darkness. This is where it’s led me. Now that I know I’m right to be afraid, all I want to know is how far this will go. I have to find out whether I’ll ever be free again, or if it’s my fate to die here in this breathtakingly beautiful mansion.

8

The light slam of the door rouses me. Footsteps vibrate in my ear because I’m still on the floor, curled tightly into myself. I’ve moved to the side of the bed furthest from the room’s entrance, mostly underneath it.

I’m my seven-year-old self again, hidden under a new bed in a new home. Fear manifested as silent sobbing while my small hands clung to a bedpost, hoping, impossibly, my dead parents could still come for me.

“Come out from there, Cataline,” says a man’s voice. He waits, unmoving, until I go to him. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m afraid.”

“You’re braver than that, aren’t you?”

“I miss them.”

I’m lifted by my armpits and put under the covers. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is, “You’ll be happy here. I promise.”

Despite the obscure country night, despite the crystal-sparkle of my tears, I’d known it wasn’t my foster father. When a new, valiant hero surfaced in New Rhone years later, my scalp tingled remembering my first night at the Andersons’.

As the steps draw nearer, my mind spins a silent prayer, my ears heat with a sudden rush of blood. I cease breathing, blinking, and all other basic functions as I attempt invisibility.

“Oh, dear. Cataline?”

My relief is a loud exhale, but my throat protests as words shred from my mouth. “I’m over here.”

Norman comes around the bed and heaves a sigh. “Thank goodness. For a moment, I thought you were gone, but, of course, where would you go? Did you sleep there?”

I ease my stiff back from the floor to sit up. “I slept. That’s all that matters.”

The wrinkles that stripe his forehead deepen. “I wasn’t aware you weren’t sleeping well. I’ll bring you calming tea in the evenings going forward,” he decides. “Perhaps that will help.”

“Help? If you want to help, open the front door. That’s it.” I get to my hands and knees and crawl to Norman’s feet. “I won’t go to the police,” I say, looking up at him. “You don’t even have to tell me where I am or how to get home.” My voice cracks as I whisper, “Just open the door.”

He stares down, impervious to my groveling. “Why, Cataline? Look at all you have here. You have nothing like this at home, not even a family.” His harsh words are delivered gently, and instead of enraging me, they weigh down my already-heavy grief.

“I do,” I say emphatically, and my hands go to his legs, fisting the fine fabric of his pants. “I have a family who loves me, and I love them. They’ll miss me so much, Norman. I’m sure they’ve reported me missing. My mother will be devastated without me.”

I’m forced to release his trousers when he drops into a squat. He rubs my shoulder with papery fingers. “None of that is true.”

“Yes, it is,” I say. I continue to list the members of an imaginary family as he peers at me, his head angled while he listens. I don’t know where the lie comes from, but I tell him the names and locations of siblings, cousins, grandparents. He’s bluffing. He doesn’t know the truth about me or where I come from; he couldn’t possibly.

His response comes moments after my plea finally ends, and it sends a chill down my spine. “You have a foster family in Fenndale and a roommate called Frida. Isn’t that true?”

I blink, too dumbfounded to form an answer.

He looks at the floor. “Come. It’s time for breakfast.”

“How do you know about Frida?”

“You must be hungry.”

My back teeth grind together from his bullshit. Though I want to rail against him, I can’t seem to raise my voice above a whisper when I say, “Do you know what he did to me last night?”

The coward refuses to look at me, but at least he doesn’t pretend not to hear me. He glances at the door and subtly at the nearest corner of the room. “My advice is not to rile him. He only came to your room to stop your tantrum, not to torment you. If you behave and stay out of his way, I’ll do my best to ensure he stays out of yours.”

“If I cooperate, I won’t have to see him again?”

He furrows his brow at the floor as though the question requires deep thought. “Only he knows the answer to that. But I believe it’s your best option.”

Learning that Norman knows more about me than I thought causes me to miss his invitation downstairs. When I’m allowed out of the room, my chest seems to expand more easily with each breath. I insist on helping clear the table after breakfast. Chef Michael’s cheerfulness is contagious as we wash dishes, even if our conversation is stunted.

Norman instructs me on how to use the cinema, though I’m certain it would’ve taken me less time to figure it out on my own. There’s an entire library of movies to select from, but I end up watching animated children’s classics all afternoon to dull the memory of last night. A tuna sandwich and Coke are delivered to me between features, followed by popcorn at my request.

It’s early evening when the third movie ends, and my mind feels restless. I’m learning the best cure for that is the library. I eject the film and replace it where I found it. Upon studying the shelf, I notice it doesn’t matter where I put it; the movies are in no particular order. I decide that one day I’ll devote time to organizing them. I leave the cinema pondering if I should arrange them according to title or genre when Norman stops me.

“We have an assignment from the Master of the House.”

I bite my thumbnail absentmindedly. “Okay.”

“He requires that you call your family and Frida to assure them you’re okay.”

At the mention of her name, my hand touches my heart. “No. Frida has nothing to do with this.”

“I’m sorry. There’s no getting out of it.”

“It’s been too long. She’ll have called the cops by now.”

“Indeed she has. Please, follow me.” He turns his back and walks to a closed door on the ground floor. My heartbeat skips as he unlocks it, my mind conjuring up the possibilities of what’s hidden in this mansion. When I step inside, I’m disappointed by the blandness of a simple study that’s almost identical to the one I broke into. He walks to a desk that holds a large, clunky, black phone and gestures for me to follow. I nearly salivate when he hands me the receiver.

“Go on, dear,” he says when I hesitate.

“I’m not calling my family.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll call Frida. She can call them for me.”

“We’ll see.”

“What do I say?”

“You’re instructed only to tell them that you are alive and well. Also—and this is important—that you’re happy. Nothing more.”

“She won’t believe that.”

“Make her believe it, and hang up. It’s part of doing what you’re told.”

There are times when Norman is short with me, but somehow I know it’s his way of helping. I stare down and dial the numbers. In the early evening Frida is most likely at the apartment, stretched out on our couch. Part of me hopes she’s out with friends, but the part of me that wants to escape—a very large part—hopes otherwise.

Her voice is immediately familiar. “Hello?”

“Frida?”

“Cat—oh, shit. Where are you?”

“I’m safe,” I say, nearly choking on the word. “I’m only calling to let you know that.”

“Where?”

I glance up at Norman. He shakes his head but smiles and points to his mouth, indicating that I should do the same. No matter how hard I try, my smile is not convincing. “I can’t say, but—”

“What do you mean you can’t say? I’m calling the cops, just tell me where you are.”

My swallow echoes in my ears. “Frida, I–I don’t know where I am, please call them, I’m in a m—”

The phone is snatched from me like lightning.

“No, please,” I say, attempting to wrestle it back and finding that Norman is surprisingly strong.

“I trusted you, Cataline. I’ll have to tell the Master of the House about this, and he won’t be pleased.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” I say and storm away.

I know my mind; it can’t be distracted with reading now. I return to the cinema, dropping movies from the shelves onto the floor until I can’t take the silence another second. I sit cross-legged on the floor directly underneath the enormous screen as the credits for Hitchcock’s The Birds begin. Squawking fills the dark room as the screen flashes black and white. That might as well be all this is: broken flickers and flashes of a disintegrating existence. I can’t follow the story anyway as I bawl myself deaf and blind.

The look of betrayal on Norman’s face was the same one he had when I threw the log at him. He’s been kind to me, as has Rosa, my motherly maid, and Chef Michael. Norman’s disappointment feels real and palpable. I vehemently tell myself I don’t care what he thinks. But what exactly do they want with me? And how can they be so equally accommodating and cruel?

9

It takes time, but I eventually realize that Norman was right. I haven’t seen Guy since the night of my tantrum. I’m granted a second and final chance to call Frida, during which I understand she needs to hear I’m okay as much as I need to tell her I’m not. The threat of being locked in my room again is all I need. I give her the Andersons’ phone number while Norman nods but hope she won’t use it. I’m just convincing enough, and I’m rewarded with a camera. I recognize the Leica M6 as high-end and far more expensive than anything I could ever afford. I smile when I open the gift and thank Norman. He promptly reminds me it isn’t from him but that he will pass on my gratitude to “the Master of the House.”

I’m at the window in my room when a hand touches my shoulder. I jump, my entire body alerting.

“I apologize,” Norman says. “I called your name several times. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I shudder, brushing my hands over my sleeves. “It’s okay.”

“Shall I close your window? It’s getting colder as we head into winter.”

“No.”

“What do you look at when you sit here day after day?”

“I’ve been wondering. Does the exterior of the house have gargoyles?”

He laughs cautiously. “Gargoyles?”

“Those carved, stone, nightmarish things.”

“No,” he says quietly.

“Seems like it should.” He doesn’t respond but looks out the window, so I do too. “I wish I could touch those roses.”

“They have nasty thorns, you know.” I glance up at him, and he gestures to the nightstand. “I can bring flowers for your room.”

“It isn’t the same thing.”

“I see. Why don’t you photograph them with your new camera?”

“Sometimes I do,” I say. “My favorite—” I pause.

“Go on,” he says with a small smile. “Which is your favorite?”

“It was taken on a wet day.” Raindrops pounded the window, forming liquid sheets that distorted the red roses just beyond the glass.

He clears his throat when I don’t continue. My palm smooths over the hardcover book in my lap.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“The book?”

“No. The bookmarker.”

I slide out the torn paper, uncaring that I’ll lose my spot. Yesterday’s date screams at me. Eight weeks here feels impossible. “I’m sorry,” I say, peeking furtively at the desk drawer where I’ve stashed the calendar. “I took it from the library.”

He makes a thoughtful noise. “It’s been some time since you visited the cinema. Perhaps a movie will lift your spirits?”

“My spirits are fine,” I say and return my attention out the window. “Anyway, when I’m not forced to be in here, I like it.” I don’t mention that I do more than look from my window; I wait. When Hero hears about this and finally comes for me, I’ll be here, at the open window, ready for him.

“Very well. The Master of the House has requested your presence at dinner this evening.”

My head whips back to him, and he chuckles lightly. When the reverberation of his words dies, I’m left with two warring feelings: instinctual fear and a visceral need for answers.

“Please don’t argue or ask to decline,” Norman says.

“I won’t.” I’ve given up my quest for answers with the staff, but I can’t help feeling a new door has finally opened. I’ve been tempted to ask about Guy, but keeping my secret feels like the only thing in my control.

“You’ll need to dress appropriately,” Norman is saying through my thoughts. “Please choose something semi-formal. I’ll send Rosa in to help you.”

When he closes the door behind him, I leave my windowsill to go to the closet. I examine each piece with new appreciation. Money was tight for me growing up, but sewing was a hobby of my mother’s. I never took to it, but I’d often keep her company as she worked. I touch chiffon to my cheek and smile.

In the shower, I overload a sponge with soap and scrub with purpose. I wash my hair twice and condition. Afterward, I take time painting my face, trying not to think of what it means that I want to look nice.

Rosa is in a good mood when she shuffles into my room. I close my eyes and relax as she gently drags a comb through my wet hair, tugging lightly to free any tangles. Her sturdy fingers pull hair off my face, grazing my temples. It’s not often that anyone touches me anymore. My head falls forward, hair creating a dark veil as she brushes. I haven’t even touched myself. My mind makes up for it with occasional wet dreams, sometimes about a shadowed man abusing my mouth. I am guiltiest when I catch myself replaying them during the day.

The floor-length, tea rose pink dress I choose resembles a nightgown. In a way, it’s a small step up from what I’ve been wearing around the house. I’m oddly excited when I slide into heels, even if it’s just to wear them downstairs. I ask Rosa twice in halting Spanish if she’s sure I should wear them at all, and she confirms with a nod.

She accompanies me out but vanishes once we reach the base of the steps. I don’t need her anyway; I could find my way around the mansion, at least the parts I’m allowed in, with my eyes closed.

But no amount of time exploring this place could’ve prepared me for what I see next.

As I round the doorway into the dining hall, everything I know, all my myriad theories, anything I believed to be true shatters to pieces. Beautiful olive-green eyes framed by black rims bring my world to a halt. Where Guy Fowler should be sits Calvin Parish.

10

My hand spreads over my stomach and clutches my dress. I try to inhale, but air comes in short, impossible wisps. “Mr. Parish?”

“Have a seat,” Calvin says, his voice dripping with heart-stabbing indifference.

I take a step backward and make jolting contact with the doorjamb. “Where’s Guy?” I ask, my head shaking out of my control. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my home.”

“How?” I whisper.

“I’m not sure I understand your question. Have a seat, Cataline.” He removes his glasses with a heavy sigh. “I’m certain you’ve been warned about my patience?”

With tentative steps, I inch my way to sit at the opposite end of the table. As I do, his eyes drop from my face.

“Norman?” he calls, and instantly Norman appears. “What is this? She looks ridiculous.”

“It’s customary for dinner guests to dress as such in your presence, Master.”

“No need for formalities that will only confuse the girl. We’re not playing house here.” His attention returns to me. “Going forward, come to dinner as you are. And on that note, don’t call me Mr. Parish. Calvin will do.”

I swallow, running my hands over my silk-sheathed thighs. It wasn’t long ago that my mouth stretched from his throbbing dick. I shake my head quickly. “This can’t be real,” I say softly to the table. “This whole time—these last two months, I thought . . .” My head overflows with questions faster than I can keep up. I look up again. “Why are you doing this? What do you want with me?”

For rarely having ever made eye contact, his gaze is unnervingly fixed on me. It’s almost more shocking to have him stare at me so directly than what I’ve just learned.

“Norman,” he says without looking away, “excuse yourself.”

And again we are alone. He leans forward with agonizing slowness to set his elbows on the table. “I won’t answer those questions.”

“Why not?” I pause, awaiting a response. “Are you working with Guy Fowler? Is this because of what happened at the restaurant?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “No.”

“No what?” I cry. “No, you’re not working with him, or no, it’s not my fault?”

“Please, don’t get hysterical. Remember your place.”

“My place?” I repeat. “I don’t know my place.”

“The fewer questions you ask, the better. They’ll only lead to disappointment, as anyone you come in contact with has been instructed not to answer them.”

“For how long?”

He shakes his head, an admonishment.

My nails dig painfully into my palms, but I can’t seem to unfurl them. “You’re going to jail for this, and then to hell.” I falter delivering the words, but my need for information is quickly eating away at any fear. “Who do you think you are?”

“That’s a question I will answer. You know me as the founder of the company where you work, your boss . . . but I’m more than that to you now. I hold your fate. As such, you should do as I say if I care enough to say at all.”

“How long have you been planning this?” I ask quietly.

His eyebrows rise lazily.

“You’re psychotic,” I say. “How many other girls have you done this to? And what does this have to do with Parish Media?”

He sighs. “Nothing, I can assure you.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re still in New Rhone.”

Something in my chest breaks loose and relief manifests with a jagged sigh. I am triumphant, clutching to this nugget of reassurance. I lean forward in my chair and open my mouth.

“You’re a glutton for disappointment it seems,” Calvin says. “Go on, ask it.” Slowly he rises from his chair and stalks toward me. My eyelids beat rapidly, and my head tilts further and further until I’m looking up at him. He inclines over the arm of the chair so he’s hovering above me. His nearness is something I’ve furtively wished for in the past, and now that I have it, I don’t know what to do with it. “Why you?” he asks. “That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

I nod breathlessly.

His head slants to the side. “I often ask myself the same thing. Why you?”

Time slows. My lips split apart to breathe him in. I’m swimming in green, unfamiliar green, fighting a war I’ll never win. I reach up and feel his jaw, put my finger in his mouth. My arms are too heavy to move, though, and I’m drowning. My hands remain lifeless in my lap, where they always were. We are a mirage, but separately, he and I are real.

I’ve been silent too long. “Were you the one who came to my room?”

His Adam’s apple springs up as he swallows, but his gaze never wavers.

“Am I here for . . . for—”

“Sex?” he finishes. He reaches out but pauses midair when I flinch. “You aren’t afraid, are you?”

My heart is thudding against my ribcage, eager to escape and leave me to the dogs. I break our stare and shift my eyes to his extended hand.

“You’re blushing,” he murmurs as his fingertips graze my cheekbone. “You’ve gotten away with this behavior because of the circumstances, but after tonight, I’ll have no more questions. I’ll only tell you one more thing. All right?”

I agree with a fractional nod.

“This is in your best interest.”

“My best interest?” I say. “I don’t believe you.”

“So be it.”

“When you came to my room—that was in my best interest?”

I’m frozen while he fingers a piece of my hair and moves it behind my ear. “No. That was for me.” He backs away, returns to his end of the table, and sits. “We’re ready to eat,” he says levelly. He slides his glasses back into place, but he continues to watch me. Norman appears within moments, dishes in hand.

“I’m not hungry,” I say.

“I don’t care. You’ll eat.”

“I’ll eat if you answer my questions.”

He chuckles. “It doesn’t work that way. You’re not in charge here.” He takes a bite of food, his head down as he chews.

When I blink, there’s wetness on my lashes. After weeks of waiting for this conversation, I’m left with no real answers and many more questions. It’s a minute or so before I speak again, and I hardly recognize my voice through the grit. “Hero will come for me.”

His head snaps up as suddenly as his eyebrows draw together. The stare he pins me with is so piercing that I sink into my seat. I always knew I’d find something grave in his depths. But my imagination never scratched the surface of how it feels to have him actually look back. It’s as if he’s trying to see harder, to dive inside me through my pupils.

“Hero will come, and when he does,” I pause to deliver my next words with a snarl, “you’ll regret your existence. I hope he shows you no mercy.”

There’s a marked passivity in his face that knots a hard and guttural pit in my stomach. Just when I’m sure he’ll fly into a rage, he bursts into loud, bellowing laughter. There’s nothing joyful about it, though; it’s taunting, echoing through the massive dining hall. He shakes his head and gives me a look a parent might give an amusing child. He forks a bite of his steak and points it at me, a drop of blood leaking from the meat. “You’re funny.”

“You’re cruel.”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” he says, shoving the food in his mouth.

11

It’s the kind of stillness that only exists in the unshakable hours before dawn. I sit up in my oversized bed, rubbing my eyes for a while until they adjust. It used to be that almost nothing would wake me once I’d finally fallen asleep. The comforter is fluffed, inviting me to bury deeper, but I push it away and slide off the bed.

I ease open my bedroom door and slip down the hallway. My eyes and my imagination are on the fourth floor. The cold air assaults my thin nightie, but that’s not the reason for my shudder. Whatever’s luring me to the forbidden darkness is impossible to ignore. The only real answer I got at dinner was that I’m not getting any answers at all. I’ve been so fearful of learning my fate that getting nothing hadn’t ever crossed my mind.

Each barefoot step is careful, and my fingers trail the railing as I climb. I never take my eyes off the shadows, expecting someone to appear and send me back to my room. At the top, I hold my breath. A squeal rips through the quiet, and rakes over my jittery bones. My heart pounds, my body a statue, until I’m sure nobody’s coming. I’m drawn closer to the squeaks and feminine yelps coming from behind a sturdy pair of double doors.

His jaw at dinner was set sternly, even as he chewed. His brown hair obedient except when it fell over his forehead. Those stormy eyes. Calvin Parish fits the role of captor too well, and my mind has already reconciled my mistake. A bass growl jerks me back to reality. My front is molded to the wood doors and my ear to the sliver where they meet.

Warmth behind my ears prickles its way up my scalp. My teeth dig into my lower lip. Calvin’s grunts are virile venom injected into my bloodstream and surging between my legs. There’s a sharp slap. My hand curls around the doorknob. It turns. Adrenaline courses through me faster than disbelief or sense. I push it open.

The woman on her knees has her cheek on the mattress. Calvin’s muscles are tight, and his ass flexes as he thrusts into her. He smacks her backside, and she jerks, but he holds her to the bed with a hand around her neck.

My dry throat turns my cry for help into a stunned whisper. Calvin whips around anyway, jarring me from my trance. “Help,” I screech suddenly as he jumps from the bed. “Please h-help, I’ve been kidnapped, my name is Cat—”

In a split second, my back is pulled against his front. His hand clamps over my mouth. My screams don’t relent as the woman looks over her shoulder. She’s blindfolded with fabric that almost covers her entire face. I’m fighting Calvin’s strength, trying to ignore the hardness digging into my back while he drags me from the room. He throws his shoulder into the next door we come across, and it pops open. He kicks it shut with his foot before throwing me further into the room.

Before I can even right myself, he picks me up and tosses me. I land with a bounce on a mattress. He’s on me in a second, his long body covering mine, his hand back over my mouth. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The harder I wriggle, the heavier his torso gets, but even when my breath runs out, my screams don’t stop. His fingers seem to go through my cheeks to my molars.

“Shut up,” he snaps, pinning my arms to my body with his elbows.

My hips rear to shove him off. My screaming dies instantly because he moans, a pained but lustful sound. It’s then that I notice his length has slid up my inner thigh, under my nightgown. His mouth drops to the curve of my neck, and his hand muffles my gasp. He bites my shoulder, pulling skin between his teeth like he’s about to dig into a meal.

My protests are pathetic gurgling under his gag. I yank at his wrist, trying desperately to free my mouth.

He lowers his hand to trace the line of my underwear. “If you don’t stop squirming, I’m going to fuck you.”

He shifts my panties aside. I shake my head hard, pleading with eyes swallowed by pupils. He fixes my thigh against the mattress with a firm hand. He’s everywhere at once, making me his doll. There’s pressure at my entrance, and it’s burning hot. My legs fight to close. His fingers squeeze into my thigh. My pussy grasps for his crown, but my teeth try vainly for the skin of his hand.

His hips roll in waves. “Come on,” he says, his jaw so tense it could snap. When he’s worked his head in, I’m groaning from my chest, my face flushed. “You like that,” he says.

I want to hit him, slap him, push him away. More than that, there’s this visceral need unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It’s so thick I’m choking on it.

He lowers his mouth to my ear and waits there. His breath seems like it could blister my skin. “Tell me you like it.”

I shake my head hard.

His tongue traces the shell of my ear until it reaches my lobe. He takes it between his teeth. “No?”

I’m certain my tightly-coiled body is going to break in half. His head rises to hover above me. He removes his hand, and my mouth tilts up. He laughs something base and gritty and stands in a flash, leaving me open and bared to him. His gaze drops between my legs, and his dick is thick in his large hand. He takes another step away from me.

“Do not pull a stunt like this again,” he says. “This is your warning. Go back to your room. Stay there until I say you can come out.”

The next thing I hear is the slam of his bedroom door. I’m stunned and alone, my chest heaving with deep breaths. I fix my nightgown, my underwear. I follow his scent until my ear is back at the doors where I hear muffled voices. A hand on my shoulder makes me spin around with a gasp and flatten my back against the wood.

“Shh, Cataline.” Norman’s eyes are sympathetic in the dark. “I’ll escort you back to your room.”

My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him. Had he heard me scream? Did he see anything? “You don’t have to escort me,” I say. “I’ll go.”

His head hangs slightly as he shakes it. “It wasn’t an offer.”

I descend the stairs with him behind me.

“I’m sorry, dear, but I have to lock it.”

“Oh,” I say, clasping the doorway’s molding. “Please, Norman. Don’t lock it. I can’t stay in this room alone any longer.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not up to me.”

He pulls the door shut once I remove my hands, sliding the lock into place after him. Alone, I am unable to fight the feelings of confusion washing over me. I slip between the buttery sheets feeling filthy. There is a strain of anger coursing through me—anger for my missed opportunity, anger with Calvin. But my hottest anger stems from the fact that underneath him, my fight wavered. My body threatened to give in. I began to melt.

12

Calvin

I get fleeting satisfaction from the way my bedroom door splinters down the middle when I slam it. My control is proving slippery around her—a first for me. I’m too strong, too powerful for that. I’m not built to lose control, except when it comes to those who deserve it. Criminals. Killers. People who hurt the innocent. Even whores, who can sometimes fix what a good kill can’t. Cataline is none of those things.

The woman is still in position on my bed, her ass red with my handprints as it wiggles in the air. Unlike Cataline, she knows better than to move an inch without my permission.

“Who was that?” she asks, searching for me behind the blindfold.

“Nobody.”

“Did she say something about being kidnapped?”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose as I cross the room. “It’s my niece. Got into some trouble at home, so her parents sent her here for the school year.”

“Oh.”

I snatch her clothing from the floor and toss it at her. “Get out.”

Her bottom lip puckers. “But you paid for the whole night.”

“Consider it a generous tip.”

Her body sags before she huffs and leisurely gets to her feet. She pulls off the makeshift mask, and I cringe, wishing she’d leave it until she’s out of the room. I recline on the bed, my arm behind my head, watching as she pulls a tube top over her gigantic tits and squeezes into jeans. She shoves a hand into her pocket and tosses gum in her mouth as she prowls toward the bed.

“You sure?” she asks. She pops the gum and leans over to wrap her hand around me. She winks and drops her gaze as her fist moves up and down. “Pretty thing like this should be in the movies.”

“Call my cock pretty again, and you’ll regret it.”

“But you’re the best client I’ve had in years,” she says. “Hard to come when some fatass is pounding me, but you, baby, you’re nice to look at and you fuck good.”

I’m silently thankful for blindly ripping off the condom before getting within feet of Cataline with my dick. I catch the whore’s wrist mid-stroke and squeeze until she stops chewing and inhales.

“Out.”

She draws her hand to her chest and leaves without another look back. I listen until she’s in the cab I paid to wait downstairs. It’s not long before I regret sending her away, though. My small taste of Cataline leaves me with a dangerous craving for more. That’s a fuck-up that can’t happen.

Pink satin remains on my skin, the ghost of her still on the tip of my dick. When my balls constrict painfully, I grab myself. Within moments, I could be downstairs and fucking her silly. She’d come apart at the seams if I let myself have her.

Meanwhile, Cataline is sniveling in her room. I’ve worked hard to block out the things I don’t want to hear, but a crying woman is something I’m trained to pick up on. Her fear is reassuring. She’s here for her safety, but if I let myself too close, there will be nothing to protect her from the monster that lives in me.

It’s not her usual sobbing, but soft, stuttering gasps. Everything else falls away as those gasps morph into sexy moans. I realize she isn’t crying at all. My entire body tenses. I’ve seen her almost every way imaginable, but until she got here, never in the heat of the moment, never so close to me. I can feel her every movement in my bones, her scent strong in my nostrils. She’s always been jasmine-scented; I know because my survival depends on the cultivation of my senses. Norman doesn’t understand my overbearing involvement in choosing her toiletries, but it’s because I’m addicted to that goddamn jasmine.

To prevent myself from breaking down her door, I get out of bed and punch my code into the control panel across the room. The hidden elevator delivers me to the basement—or my lair, as Norman boldly jokes—and the furthest spot I can get from her. Control is the one thing I must always maintain, and at the moment, it’s a tenuous string inside me, easily snapped.

“I’ve told you,” I say when I hear Norman enter behind me, “you don’t need to get up at this hour. Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

“I’m aware.”

I glance over my shoulder at him across the dimly lit space. “Since you’re here, any news on the Cartel?”

“Not since we last spoke about it.”

“Right,” I say, removing my armor from the closet. “I just have to watch them even more closely.”

“Or you could back off a bit,” he says. “It’s a big undertaking.”

“You know I can’t.”

“You’re only one man, Master Parish.”

“That’s not true.” I lean over to the security desk and fling the “Opinions” section on the floor near his feet. “I’m both ‘venerated savior’ and ‘single-minded killer,’ depending on who meets my mask.” I shake my head. “I can’t let the Cartel remain in New Rhone. Ignacio was a smart man. Carlos isn’t, but he could still become as powerful as his father. They’ll continue to grow unless I take out their key players—making Carlos my next target.”

“Maybe now that Ignacio is dead, Carlos will rethink their presence in the States and return full-time to Mexico.”

“Maybe.” I glance at the wall clock. “Go back to bed, Norman. I’ll wake you if I need your help.”

“Actually, sir, I didn’t come down here to help.”

I turn all the way around and arch an eyebrow at him. My arms cross. “Go ahead.”

“About the scuffle earlier. Pardon me for speaking out of place, but I feel compelled. Might I recommend a little gentler handling with the girl. She’s still adjusting to her . . . situation.”

“Despite your silence on the matter, your disapproval hasn’t gone unnoticed. But as always, you’ll have to trust in my decisions.”

“As always,” he echoes, “your decisions are thorough and precise. In this case, however, I’m concerned you’re too close to see what you’re capable of.”

“Too close?”

“While you care for the girl, you can’t—”

“I don’t care for her,” I state. “You know what she is.”

“It’s normal to feel confused, Master Parish. She has no idea who you are, yet she’s an integral part of your life.”

“Get to the point.”

“After all this time, surely her feelings mean something to you.”

“They don’t. She’s a duty, an obligation. Another citizen, except that I owe her my protection. Just like New Rhone needs to be looked after, she does as well.”

“That’s not to say you can’t care for her too. Don’t you care at all for this city though you consider it an obligation as well?”

“No. My purpose is simply to keep watch over New Rhone to the best of my ability. Frankly, having Cataline Ford under this roof is a relief. For once, I don’t have to concern myself with her childish affairs.”

He shakes his head at the ground and sighs. “Then let her be. You have no shortage of women to meet your needs. If you’re bored, I’ll find you something new.”

“It’s not that,” I say to myself. When Cataline was a small girl, she was quiet. As a teenager—observant and somewhat skittish. Her fight, this inexorable disobedience, is unexpected. It gets under my skin in a way things just don’t.

“Master,” Norman interrupts my thoughts, “I must insist you leave her alone. Or at least permit me to answer some of her questions. She’s still quite confused.”

Norman knows arguing with me will get him nowhere. And as it is, time itself is never time enough. I cannot even justify his request with a response. Instead I turn my back and go to change, his dismissal made clear by my silence.

It’s only hours before sunrise, but tonight, release is essential. The aggression Cataline has stirred in me can lead to mistakes, and mistakes can change everything.

My bulletproof rubber one-piece is thin but dense, specially developed by engineers, scientists, and ballistics specialists with speed, accuracy, and resilience in mind. It’s one step ahead of the armed forces and costs me a fortune. Especially considering I don’t actually need it.

The people of this city—they call me Hero. Their nocturnal vigilante needed a label, and that’s what they gave me years ago. The suit of armor is extra padding, but more than that, it’s for the public. They believe that underneath it, I’m a man like any of them. It’s a lie, but it’s the only truth they can ever know.

Because I’m not like them at all.

I am stronger, faster, and more powerful. K-36, a formula developed for over a decade and a half, fortifies my skin, hones my intuition, and sharpens my senses like the most predatory of Mother Nature’s night prowlers. When injected into my bloodstream, it makes me superhuman. I have the instincts of a killer, but the intentions of a hero. And a hero’s what I’d be if not for my human impulses and urges—like the ones that threw Cataline onto that mattress.

I pull on my gloves. My metal-grey eye mask latches behind my head, secure but conforming instantly to my face. My blacked-out Lamborghini is the car of choice for patrolling, and my agitation settles once the engine revs to life. I enter the limits of New Rhone with my mind buzzing and my muscles warming. This is what I do. This is what feeds me. I hunt.

New Rhone’s silver skyscrapers are even colder against a black sky—soothingly monochrome like it’s always been. My parents would bring me to the city as a boy, and the weekend would go by too fast. Until it was childish, my parents would hold each of my hands, and we’d get lost between the buildings. They’d tell me about growing up two blocks apart but never meeting until their twenties. I’ve long forgotten the names of the plays we attended or the high-end restaurants where we dined, but whatever’s mixed into the concrete of this city is inescapable.

It’s not long before I hone in on an escalating argument. The hour after the bars close is always busiest; fortunately, distinguishing between harmless drunk blathering and slurring that drips with bad intention comes naturally to me now. The car screeches when I yank the steering wheel, and my foot weighs on the pedal when a woman screams. Every muscle in my body strains as if to split my skin. My unsatisfied arousal sits too close to the surface. I almost welcome the stench of the East Side’s garbage—garbage that exists for me to clean up.

I throw the car in park and exit swiftly. An easy jump has me hanging from the fire escape. I haul myself up and take the stairs two at a time until I’m outside an apartment window. I put my fist through the glass, and instantly the woman’s piercing screams become surround sound. A man’s alcohol-laden curses hurl at me as I barge in. In my youth, the barrage of noise, thick with fear, despair, and desperation, would’ve been too much for me. Now I compartmentalize and manage it without even realizing.

I stride across their kitchen’s yellowed tiles. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Who the hell are you?” the man asks. His arm draws back dramatically, but I catch his fist when it flies toward my face.

“I suggest you answer my question,” I say, squeezing his knuckles until his knees give out. I glance at the woman cowering in the corner and then down at the man whose bones begin to crush under my strength. “But since you’re indisposed, I’ll take a guess as to why her face is swelling up, and you can tell me if I’m right.” With lightning speed, I release his fist and capture his neck. “You had a little too much to drink, took it out on her.”

“She’s my wife,” he wheezes. “It’s the first time, I swear.”

I compress his throat. “That true?” I ask the woman without looking at her.

“Yes,” she sobs.

I cock my head to the side, watching him as he gasps for breath. “Want me to kill him?”

“No,” she says. “He’s my husband . . .”

“Are there children here?”

“They’re grown up,” she rushes the words out, “moved away years ago.”

His eyes blink lazily as his life circles the drain. This is the time to let go and leave him with his warning. But I’m assaulted by the disturbing image of Cataline crouched in that corner. I block it and force myself to refocus.

I drop him on the floor before he loses consciousness. I catch his arm on its way to his throat and swiftly wrench it at an unnatural angle. More screaming when it cracks, but this time it’s his.

“That’s nothing compared to what I’ll do if I have to come back here.” I dig a card out from a hidden pocket and set it on the table. “This is a battered women’s shelter nearby,” I tell her. “They’ll take you in, no questions asked.”

“Hero?” she calls as I turn away.

I don’t wait to hear what she’s going to say next. I’m out the window and downstairs in seconds. I don’t believe she’ll take my advice; many of them don’t. But that just gives me the excuse to come back and finish what I started. My body thrills at the thought, my heart pounding even harder than it just was.

I don’t normally let myself go so far. My code of ethics was developed by my parents and Norman to ensure justice is served only to those I’m certain deserve it. I need the boundaries because years spent cleaning up this kind of mess has made me a fiend for justice—and if I’m not clear-headed about every kill I make, my system will fail. But I have a special void to fill tonight, something I’m afraid is Cataline’s doing.

13

Cataline

Norman sets a tray table next to me, but my eyes remain focused out the window.

“You should eat your breakfast,” he says.

“I will.”

“All right, dear. I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

Staring past the lawn at the thicket of trees, I wonder what I’d do if I ever made it there. How dense is it? How far does it span? Is that even what I want? I blink after what feels like minutes. Of course it’s what I want. To escape this hell, made even worse now I’ve met the devil. I’m ashamed for all the days and nights I ever fantasized about Calvin. All the times I defended him to myself.

He’s not mean.

He isn’t cruel.

He’s just private.

Under his cool exterior, he’s a good man who needs patience, understanding, and love, just like anyone else. If I had him in my clutches, I would peel away those layers until I’d exposed the beauty of him.

How could I have been so wrong?

The reality of my situation roils through me, settling in my gut: Calvin Parish is dangerous. And now that I know the truth about him, how can he ever let me go?

Heat creeps up my neck as I relive the crush of Calvin’s hard body on mine. The pressure of him between my legs, begging to enter. I get mild comfort from the fact that in the end, he respected my request to stop.

“You’re not going to fly away, are you?” I hear.

Calvin’s voice is smooth and deep, but he startles me just the same. I wait for my heartbeat to calm before turning to face him. “And if I did?”

His arms cross over his chest, punctuating his rigid posture. “Have you got hidden wings underneath that robe, Little Sparrow?”

“I might be willing to find out.”

His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”

With a heavy sigh, I deflate deeper against the wall. “Nothing.”

“About last night,” he says. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t?” I ask.

“No.”

“Does that mean I can go?”

“I’m sorry?”

My thoughts scatter. “Isn’t that . . . ,” I start. “Why else would you . . . ?”

Silence follows, long and strained. His eyes drill into me without giving anything away.

“Then why am I here?”

“I’ve warned you about questions.”

“But what else could it be? I thought—”

“You are purposely trying my patience. Do you want to see what happens if you push me too far?”

His words leave a coat of goose bumps on my skin. I’m beginning to understand what he’s capable of physically, but it’s not knowing what’s underneath his exterior that scares me most.

“I have to return to the office. It’s important for us both that I maintain my routine. I recommend you eat,” he says, gesturing to the tray, “seeing as how you’ve slept until noon.”

“The office,” I mutter. “What do they say about my absence?”

He clears his throat and turns his face to the bed, his eyes resting on my mussed up sheets.

I can only laugh. “They haven’t noticed, have they? Hale probably replaced me right away. Such is my life, coming and going without anybody noticing.”

“That’s not true,” he says with surprising tenderness.

“You don’t know anything about me, so fuck off.”

I brace myself for a reaction. As seconds tick by, his impassive expression has me growing regretful of my comment. His eyebrows rise. “You ought to be careful, Cataline. Mouthing off can get you into trouble.”

Any regret vanishes. “More trouble than I’m already in?” I ask. “I’ve been kidnapped to fulfill some pervert’s sick fantasy. And since I know who you are, where you work, and where you live, I suppose you’ll have to kill me at the end of all this. So perhaps we move things along, and you make me do whatever it is I’m here for so I can have some relief from this hell.”

“As I just said, I won’t touch you again. Even,” he pauses to ensure my attention, “if you beg for it.” He takes a step forward, and I push back against the window frame. His large hand wraps gently around my throat until I’m covered with him. “And like a little sparrow, it would take nothing to snap your neck. I assure you, if that’s what I wanted, it would be done.”

He removes his hand, but I still feel his cold touch there. “I want to go home,” I say through a quivering chin.

With him so close, the shift in his demeanor is obvious. “Look around,” he snaps. “I’ve stocked the kitchen with your favorite foods, filled the library with books you love, and bestowed on you a closet any woman would die for. I’ve instructed everyone be at your beck and call.” His voice rises, falling heavily over me from above. “What is it you want? What more can I do?”

“I want my freedom.”

“Why, so you can go back to that shit apartment on Breaker Street and work for some ungrateful asshole at a job you don’t even want?”

I draw my knees against my chest, pulling my heels tight so as not to expose myself. “How do you know where I live?” I whisper. “Or what books I like?”

He scowls before storming away. When he reaches the door, he twists to look back at me. His voice is as intense and mesmerizing as his stare. “This isn’t hell; hell is what I rescued you from. I’ll have no more sulking, no more sneaking around. Am I understood?”

I agree with a mindless nod.

“Answer me,” he clips. “If I catch you doing either, you will be punished. Do we have an understanding?”

I don’t consider my options because it’s becoming clear I have none. So I can only answer, “Yes, I understand.”

14

Calvin

The new executive assistant stares back at me as her teeth carve into her bottom lip. She’s not bad to look at, petite like Cataline with dark brown hair. I think it might be all right to turn her around and take her from behind. I lick my lips as I think about Cataline bent over the sharp lip of that desk, my hands bound by long strands of her silky hair.

Back upstairs in my office, I automatically pick up my desk phone when it buzzes. “Parish.”

“Master Parish, you’re needed on the East Side.”

“Go ahead,” I say, reaching for a pen and paper to scribble down Norman’s message. My staff is the scaffolding of my secret identity, and their most important job is making sure no call to our private, direct line goes unanswered. I’ve told them countless times that minutes can mean the difference between life and death.

“Where you off to today, Parish?” Hale asks when he enters the elevator.

My attempt at a smile is pathetic. I hate this motherfucker because he’s a shit person, and because he’s always sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. “Got a meeting.”

I shrug off his irritating attempts at conversation before exiting the elevator and heading for my car. Cataline doesn’t know, but I only started spending more time in the office when she was hired over two years ago. Most decision making is done by the board and the president of Parish Media, who was a friend to my parents and one of the few who knows the truth about Hero’s identity. He runs my company because he’s trustworthy, but what I pay him ensures he stays that way. Together, we manage as best we can what the city sees about Hero.

My car glides smoothly out of the underground garage, and I’m traveling toward my destination. There’s no time for a costume change or to switch cars, so I go as I am in my suit and tie. The seedy underbelly of New Rhone, also know as the East Side, is my most common playground. If I removed its entire population, something I’ve considered, New Rhone would be better for it.

I park the car and remove everything from my pockets, tossing the contents and my glasses under the passenger’s seat. From outside, the warehouse I’ve been directed to is still and quiet without a person in sight. I shield my eyes against the afternoon sun and scan the deserted lot on New Rhone’s outskirts.

The building is seemingly empty when I enter, but I immediately tune to hushed voices and shuffling feet in the maze of aisles. It’s not until I hit a clearing that people appear. I recognize the approaching men as Cartel members by their signature rose tattoos with “Riv” scripted across the middle. Having just murdered their leader and some of their crew, there’s no question what they want from me. I ball one fist into my other palm and crack my knuckles as the thrill of attack burns its course through my body. Today’s turning out better than I expected.

As if prompted by some silent cue, each of the five men draws a gun. “Where’s your costume?” one asks as they encircle me. “We were hoping for a Hero, not a yuppie.”

I relax my stance, my trained reaction to danger. The first shot rings out, catching me in the shoulder. I inhale deeply, drawing on the pain to fuel my anger—and smile. They look to each other as I advance. Two more shots are fired, one landing in my upper thigh and the other deflected as it comes at my head.

One yells in Spanish to slow down because they need me alive. I only laugh as I grab the two men nearest to me, easily lifting one in each hand by his shirt collar. Footsteps echo in the warehouse as someone I didn’t see runs for the door. My instincts will me to chase after him, and I know I should, but I’m salivating over what’s right in front of me. I launch one man into the nearest wall then seize the other’s head between both hands, snapping his neck with a satisfying crack. In the moments it takes me to kill both men, I hear shots outside.

The bullets I took are just starting to slow me down. The two biggest men grab each of my arms, pulling me back. The third slams his fist into my stomach. “Hijo de puta,” he curses, withdrawing quickly and cradling his hand. I kick him swiftly in the chest, sending him to the concrete, and rip one arm free. I use it to snatch a gun at my feet and shoot the three of them before they know what’s happening.

I tell myself I can catch the absconder, but it’s been too many minutes since he took off, and my body is weakening. I stop dead in my tracks though when I see the busted window of my car, the result of several bullets. The only thing missing from under the passenger’s seat is my wallet—and since it contains my identity, it’s the only thing of any real value.

15

Cataline

When I sit up, the book I’d been reading before I fell asleep slides off my chest and thumps on the ground. The room glows orange as the setting sun filters through the large windows. Voices prompt me to the library door, where I lean out into the corridor. Norman and Chef Michael huddle with Calvin near the mansion’s entrance. His words are short and rumbling, and concern blooms in my stomach. When they move across the foyer, I follow quietly, nearly tripping over a rug in my haste.

They disappear into the room I’d broken into my first day here. Curiosity propels me forward. Chef Michael exits in a rush almost immediately after, sending me hiding behind the staircase. When he’s gone, I tiptoe closer and crouch to peek inside. Calvin is shirtless and slumped in a chair, his legs spilling out in front him.

Pressed against his naked body last night, I could feel the steel in his muscles, but now is my first time seeing his bare chest in the light. His shoulders are sprawling and muscular, anchoring his towering frame. His strength is clear, but his body conveys only a fraction of the power I felt. He’s several inches over six feet tall, and even in repose, his abs are clearly defined, his arms brawny and solid—but bruises darken parts of his body.

“It was a setup,” Calvin says.

“Setup?” Norman repeats. “The tip was anonymous, filtered by the uptown sector.”

Calvin winces as Norman wipes his shoulder with a cloth. “Can we be sure our uptown contact is still with us?”

“I’ll have Carter look into it since he took the call. They assured him danger was imminent, or I never would’ve sent you out during the day.”

“Well, now I’m fucked. Whoever took that wallet has a death wish. I need more intel on the Cartel and its members. Is Carlos still in Mexico?”

At the mention of the Riviera Cartel, my body tenses.

“Yes, sir,” Norman says. “We’re tracking him closely.” Norman seems to hesitate, glancing at Calvin as he pulls on rubber gloves. “How many?” he asks.

Calvin barely nods. “Five. Had me cornered.” He looks up. “I had no choice. My identity was compromised. I had to kill them.”

Behind my hand, I inhale sharply. Calvin’s eyes cut right to me as he shoots out of his chair, sending it back into the desk. “What the—”

I scramble backward, falling on my ass just as the door bursts open and collides with the wall.

Calvin menaces above me, a tempest brewing in his eyes. “What did I tell you about sneaking around?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was worried—”

“I don’t give a fuck.” He bends over and seizes my upper arm, hurrying me to my feet. “Up to your room,” he says as he marches me to the staircase. “You’ve bought yourself a week in there, and you can forget about camera privileges.”

I glance at the sizeable, purple lump on his shoulder.

“Listen to me,” he intones. “Stay out of my business. It’s for your own good.”

“What is?” I cry. “You won’t tell me anything, and I’m scared, Calvin. What does the Cartel have to do with this, and why did you kill people?”

He shakes me hard, forcing the pools in my eyes to drip onto my cheeks. “That’s enough. Another word, and I’ll lock you up in the basement without your precious books or thousand-count sheets.”

“I don’t care,” I scream. I fall to my knees though he keeps his grip on my arm. “You’re going to do what you want anyway. Take me down there. Let me rot!”

With large strides across the room, he drags me kicking behind him. I yelp as my nightgown rides up and cold marble shocks my skin. He kicks open another locked door with a heavy foot. “Up,” he demands.

“I-I’m not going down there.”

“I thought you didn’t care? Thought you wanted to rot down there?”

I wiggle in his grasp, trying to free my arm. When he releases me, I start to get to my feet but his hands are swiftly under my armpits. He hoists me off the ground and carries me down the stairs as I kick and scream. An overpowering, musty smell chokes me as we descend into the basement. He drops me on my knees in a small cell and pulls the gate closed behind him.

“No, Calvin, please,” I sob, crawling forward and pulling on the bars. “Please, I promise I won’t sneak around anymore.”

His lids grow suddenly heavy as his hand grasps the front of his pants. “You’re making me so hard, Sparrow. Keep begging like that, and I’ll gladly find a way to shut you up.”

My stomach flips with charged nerves, and I can’t keep the shock from my face.

He laughs. “That’s right. And I’m not joking. I’m thinking a good fuck might finally do the trick.”

“I’d never let you,” I say.

He cocks his head. “If I wanted you, you’d know it, and you’d be right where you are, begging for it. Lucky for you, I don’t.”

I recoil, oddly hurt by the dig that’s delivered with a look of disgust. “Calvin, please,” I say as he turns away.

He sighs and pivots back, striding to me. “If you insist.” He grips the insides of two steel bars, and I swear they budge when he pulls.

“No,” I say, retreating further into the cell. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.” My leg knocks into something that clatters loudly against the concrete floor.

He pauses and releases the bars, his eyes glued to me. “Your toilet,” he says, pointing to a white, plastic bucket on its side. “Your bed,” he adds, nodding at a thin, dirty-looking mattress and pillow in the corner. With that, he jogs up the stairs, leaving me openmouthed and staring after him.

16

As a teenager, under my parents’ guidance and with unrivaled determination, I learned how to manipulate my temper to my benefit. In my line of work, it’s an asset, but one I continually work to control. Cataline aggravates it, and apparently it’s grown worse in its dormancy. My rising urges to punish her, fuck her, and make her submit are at odds with my duty to protect her.

I shut and lock the door to the study before returning to my chair. Norman hasn’t moved, still frozen with a towel in his hand.

“Master Parish—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I snap.

“You’re scaring the girl.”

“She needs to learn. That behavior is unacceptable.”

“She’s not like the women you know,” he says with emphasis on the last word. “You must be more careful. She’s fragile.”

I steeple my fingers in front of my face and inhale deeply before looking up at him. “You think you know her?”

“I’ve spent the last two months with her. She’s strong-willed, but she’s a good girl. And she deserves the truth. I assure you she’ll understand—”

“You know I can’t.”

“You can trust her.”

I bolt up from the chair to pace the room. My hands are in my hair, pulling as if it will give me answers. “I’d rather she were terrified of me than know the truth, Norman. If the Cartel gets ahold of her, it will be far worse than her treatment here.” I pause at a wall and outstretch my arms against it. Sometimes at night I can still feel the burn of smoke in my lungs. Melting flesh is something nobody should ever have to smell. Because of me, she experienced those things too. My fist slams into the wall. “How am I supposed to tell her that her life is shit because of me? That I’m to blame for her parents’ death? And that I’m the reason the Cartel wants her in the first place?”

“None of that is your fault.” It’s Norman’s mantra, but it always falls on deaf ears.

“It is,” I say. “I should’ve been there. I could’ve saved them, but I was selfish.”

“You were so young. You learned more from it than you could have with years of preparation for this role.”

I drop my hands to my sides and look at Norman as though I’m seeing him for the first time. “It’s no excuse,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I was strong enough, even at seventeen. As long as the Cartel wants Hero, they’ll want her. I owe her parents her safety.”

“You owe it to them,” Norman says, raising his chin, “or yourself?”

“Meaning?”

“Atonement binds you to Cataline. Forgiveness can cut those ties, but only you can be the one to do it. The guilt you harbor is unhealthy.”

“Forgiveness?” My mouth warps with the word’s venom. “You think I deserve to be forgiven? You think I want it?”

“I know you deserve it. And I don’t think you want it, but I think you need it. Telling Cataline the truth will be a step toward moving on.”

“This discussion is over.”

“Forgive me for saying, Calvin, but if you keep this up, you’ll only do damage. To her and to yourself.”

“You’ve taken enough liberties tonight, Norman,” I warn. “With me and her. You’re too friendly. You’re not to let her out of the cell until I say so. And don’t forget that your conversations are purpose-driven only. Make sure she has what she needs. As long as she’s cooperative, she can have what she wants. But do not forget, information is a privilege.” I cross my arms. “And I want her window locked going forward.”

“In her room?” he asks. “Why in the world?”

“I don’t like that she sits there all day, nurturing whatever ridiculous fantasies she entertains. I’m not entirely sure she won’t try to escape and hurt herself in the process.”

“If I may—”

“You,” I cut him off, pausing for emphasis, “may not.”

He purses his lips, the wrinkles around his mouth exaggerating with disapproval. “Very well. Shall we see about that shoulder?”

I sit back in the chair. My hands curl around the arms as Norman’s scalpel tears into my skin.

“You heal too quickly,” Norman says. “A disadvantage only when there’s something under your skin that shouldn’t be. Does it hurt?”

“More than the shots themselves, but not much.”

He’s spent enough time as my personal doctor to see through my casual response. He knows, as my muscles lock up, that it hurts like a bitch.

Norman is the only person to visit Cataline for the next two days, and it’s just to bring her food or replace her bucket. I review security footage to ensure he isn’t indulging her attempts at conversation and am pleased with his restraint. On the third day, I determine her sentence served. After a late evening in the city, I loosen my tie as I cross the foyer toward the basement.

I smell the blood the moment I hit the doorway. In seconds I’m down the stairs and at the gate, fumbling with the lock, as Cataline lies unmoving. “Cataline,” I say, dropping the keys. “Get up.”

“Calvin?”

“What happened?” Finally, I give up and rip the lock open with a yank.

She sits up and rubs her eyes as I fixate on the small black stain underneath her. “Ah, shit.” I kneel next to the bed. “What’s hurt?”

Her chin quivers slightly, and she covers her face with her hands. “It’s nothing. C-can you get Rosa? Or Norman?”

Ignoring the sharp pang from her request, I pull her shoulder gently to inspect her back. “What is it? Where are you hurt?”

She seems to struggle with words behind her palms. “I’m not hurt.”

“This is not the time to be shy. You’re bleeding—”

“It’s my period,” she cries, shrugging me off. “I got it this morning but have nothing to st-stop it. Please, just leave me alone.”

Relief floods me, and my forehead falls into my palms as I exhale. “You’re not hurt?” I ask, standing. She sniffles and curls back into a ball, inching toward the wall to avoid the stain.

“Answer me, Cataline.”

“I’m not hurt.”

After a deep sigh, I hold out my hand. With her face buried in the pillow, she looks small and weak, more pathetic than I’ve ever seen her. “Come,” I say, beckoning once. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

After a moment, she swipes hair from her cheek. Her lashes flutter up at me, revealing frightened and innocent blue eyes. There’s tenderness in her voice when she asks, “Really?”

“Yes. Come on then. I haven’t got all night.”

She’s gnawing on her bottom lip. I’m tempted to tell her to quit it or to free it with my own fingers, but I inhale and refrain.

“No,” she says at last. “I don’t want your help.”

My outstretched hand drops to my side. “Excuse me?”

She flips away from me to face the wall. She doesn’t respond, but the yellowed pillow gnarls in her grip.

“You’d rather lie here in your own blood,” I state.

“Yes.”

My eyebrows are a thousand pounds as I stare at her, anger heating me from the inside out. I’ve never hit a woman like Cataline before, one who didn’t want it or deserve it, one who wasn’t expecting it. But my palm burns with the urge to put her over my knee, lift her nightgown, and spank the shit out of her. “Have it your way,” I say.

I spend the next twenty minutes in bed attempting to block out her whimpering, relieved when sleep finally begins its descent over me.

17

Cataline

“Do you know how much I love you?”

“More than the sun?”

“No . . .”

“More than the moon?”

“No . . .”

“More than the stars?”

“No . . .”

I frown. “How much, Mommy?”

“I love my little Cataline more than the sun, the moon, and the stars combined.”

I squeal and jump into my mother’s embrace, throwing my arms around her neck. “I love you that much too, Mommy.” When her skin under mine turns icy, I draw back to find her eyes are closed. “Mommy?”

Her blue-tinted face is slack, her body unnaturally still. My once-white nightgown is soaked red and clinging to my body. I swipe at my mother’s blood as I scream, but when I reach for her again, she’s gone. It’s my own blood sticking to my hands.

A man’s far-off voice says, “Oh, dear.” I cry out to him for help, but he just continues to repeat the words.

Darkness is splintered by harsh, yellow light, and I have to shield my eyes with my elbow. “Turn it off,” I say. I’ve been in shadows for days, even during my meals, and the light’s assault is painful.

I recognize the voice as Norman’s when he yells for Rosa. Peeking from under my arm, I see the stain has spread on the mattress. I can’t help staring at it until Rosa appears, one long string of Spanish words flying out of her mouth. She coaxes me from the mattress and urges me up stairs upon stairs until we’re in my room.

The space is blindingly bright, but not so much that I don’t notice it right away. “Rosa,” I say, pointing. “My window. Why’s it closed?”

She pushes me until we’re in the bathroom, where she helps me strip off my clothing.

The shower steams over quickly. In the foggy, distorted mist of heat, I pretend I’m in my apartment bathroom. I wipe my hand between my legs, scrubbing at dried blood as I think about what I’d normally be doing. I don’t know what day it is, so I pretend it’s Friday. I’d work and then go home either alone or with Frida, depending on her plans. It makes me regretful of all the times I declined her invitations to spend time with her work friends. I don’t fit in with them, though. Or anyone, really. But if it somehow meant I’d be somewhere else in this moment, I wish I’d done it.

After, Rosa thrusts a box of tampons at me, forcing my hands around it as though I might throw it down. I promise myself I’ll never take the little things for granted again. Or the robe she wraps me in, or the way she lovingly combs back my wet hair.

A half hour later, cleaned and fed, I sit in the main dining room awaiting instruction. When nobody comes to get me, I decide to search the mansion for Norman. Eventually I give up and go to the library, where I find him in an overstuffed chair by the window.

“Come in,” he says when he notices me, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I sit hesitantly and pull my robe tighter.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I’m not hurt, Norman. I just got my period.”

“I know,” he says, and we both look at our hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve been taking care of people for a long time, Cal—Master Parish included. I’ve never been so careless in my life.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “I didn’t know how to ask . . . I was ashamed.”

He touches the corner of one eye and nods. “I’m in a difficult position, Cataline. I’ve served the Parish family for many years. Calvin was still a boy when his parents passed—well, he was a teenager, but he wasn’t yet a man.”

My fingers run along the hem of my robe. “I didn’t know that.”

“He never discusses it. He feels a . . . responsibility to them and to this city.”

“A responsibility?”

“He’s not a bad person.”

“I disagree.”

“And he would say you’re right. He’s his own worst critic. Imagine a life where you never allow yourself a single mistake. That’s him. This has been difficult for him because you bring a sense of disorder to the mansion. He isn’t used to that. He likes things a certain way, and . . . you don’t always follow the rules.”

“I don’t understand any of that. If he hates having me here so much, why doesn’t he let me go home?”

Norman sighs, and his eyes scan the room quickly. “I’ve said quite enough. Just try not to upset him. I know you find it hard to believe, but he is a good man.”

I want to believe it. At least I did once, but now I know the truth. It seems Calvin has everyone fooled but me.

“I . . .” It’s silent while I determine how to respond. “I think you’re a good man, Norman.”

He swallows audibly as his eyes take their time meeting mine. When they do, I attempt a smile.

“Even after all this?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m sorry for being difficult. It’s just that I’m scared. That’s the only reason.”

“I know you are,” he says, turning his gaze back out the window. I’m not sure if I imagine it when he whispers, “I am too.”

“Will Calvin be mad you let me out?”

“Let me deal with him.”

My fingers in my lap are speckled with red, and I wonder how long I’ve been wringing my hands. The words I say to him, someone who hurts me even without laying a hand on me, are sweet, soft, and feathered. Someone else speaks them from my mouth. “Put me back in,” I tell him.

It takes a moment before he turns to me. “Pardon?”

“Up here, I don’t know what I am. The basement is the truth. My reality is dirty captive, not this.” I gesture around my shining, gilded library. “This is nothing but a lie.”

18

Even without windows or clocks, there’s no mistaking the dead of night, the perfect stillness. My breath seems to catch with every noise as I wait for sleep. I listen for Calvin’s footsteps on the basement stairs. I’m staring into such blackness that neon pricks the space in front of me as though I’m squeezing my lids shut. Maybe I am.

Eventually my chest deflates, and my fingers unfurl from my palms. I peer toward the stairs. Whenever the door opens, light slices through the darkness. The cell has been unlocked since Calvin broke the gate almost a week ago, but Norman has been sneaking me upstairs for meals and showers. I don’t ask how he gets away with it.

I frown. Will Calvin still be angry with me? Or has he forgiven the way I shunned his help? Norman’s statement continues to ring in my ears, though I don’t know why. There’s no truth to it.

“. . . he is a good man.”

A good man. What would that look like?

If I peeled away the ugly Calvin, would I uncover goodness? I let the fantasy play out. It doesn’t make me cringe. He’s not angry with me but regretful. He tells me what’s broken in him, and why he lives within walls. He explains why he’s doing this to me. I relish the feeling of his hair between my fingers as I comfort and kiss him. We slowly learn the insides of each other through our mouths, our eyes, our fingertips, our words.

“You’re awake.”

I gasp inelegantly and vault upright. My heartbeat reverberates through my entire body as I shift my back against the wall. Calvin’s silhouette sharpens, and I hear the squawk of the gate. “How long have you been there?”

“No more than a minute. I thought you’d be asleep.”

I’m trying to decipher the tone of his voice as I sniff for displeasure. “I don’t . . .”

“What?” he prompts.

“I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“No? Come on. Back to your bed. You’re free.”

My laugh is unnatural and base, something I’ve never heard from my mouth. “Free?” I ask. “I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.”

“I’m trying, Cataline.”

The sincerity in his voice that halts another snippy response. “I know,” I say. “It’s just that down here or up there, it’s all the same.”

“Why am I not surprised,” he mumbles to himself, “that after all this, you’re still fighting me?” His voice rises, an indication he’s now speaking to me. “I’m beginning to wonder if you even want me to be nice. Tell me, do you prefer me cross?”

“Nice,” I say. “I want you to be nice.”

“So then come to bed.”

My face flushes hotly; it sounds like an invitation, and I immediately picture the one time I’ve seen his bed. A woman on her hands and knees for him. There’s a pang low in my belly, something sharp and electric.

“Christ, it’s not like I’m inviting you into the pits of hell. You’ve been down here a sufficient amount of time to reflect on your behavior. Now it’s time to go back to your room.”

The heat recedes just as quickly as it flooded. For a moment I was there, at his mercy, just like her, scared but excited, pushing and pulling against him.

Hands under my knees bring me back to the moment. He pulls me from the wall and lifts me against his solid chest. His nose touches my temple as he inhales. “You smell awfully nice for being locked up over a week.” My shiver is a result of his breath near my ear and the insinuation that he knows of Norman’s and my indiscretions.

He carries me as though I weigh nothing at all. When we’re out of the basement and crossing the foyer to the staircase, my gaze shifts imperceptibly. Light hurts my dark-soaked eyes, but I can’t resist following the line of his strong jaw. I inspect the stubble shadowing his olive skin and the dimple in his chin before drifting to the hollow of his cheek. He’s always been incredibly handsome, but this close I can see the art in his beauty. We stop on the third floor landing.

He looks down, and cautiously, uncertainly, I reach up to pinch his glasses by their frame. They slide off into my hands in slow motion. Brightness still floods my vision, but now my world is an unearthly shade of green. His eyes are looking at my mouth, his own mouth slightly parted. I’m not only curious about how he tastes, but I want to know, and that thought catapults me back to reality.

“Put me down,” I demand in a hoarse whisper.

“We’re almost there.”

I’m upset, with whom I’m not sure. I push against his wall of a body. “I can walk.”

“Relax.”

My momentarily forgotten anger crashes over me all at once like a set of mad ocean waves. “Go to hell, Calvin. I mean it. I don’t want your hands on me.”

“Struggle all you like. It just turns me on.”

“You’re sick,” I say, stabbing my elbow into his chest.

“Sick?” he echoes, and his body vibrates against mine. “You’re the one who wants to sleep locked up in the basement by yourself.”

“Because in the basement I’m a prisoner,” I say. “Up here, I don’t know what I am. Am I your whore, your hostage, your toy?” My body pulsates from the tears I’m trying to keep inside. “I can’t live like this,” I continue, “not knowing my fate.”

“Do you want to be my whore?” he asks as he shoulders my bedroom door open.

“I just want to know what I am, whatever it is.” My voice breaks as heat pools at the edges of my eyes. “I don’t understand why I’m here.”

He stops mid-step when I break into tears, clutching his t-shirt to my face. His arms squeeze me even closer. “Cataline . . .” he says softly into my hair. “Don’t cry. I—”

“Stop,” I scream so loudly that he jerks back. I push against him with the entirety of my strength, and his immobility only infuriates me more. “I can’t take this back and forth. I don’t know who you are. Put me down. Now!”

“You want down?” His snarl stills my body. “I’ll put you down,” he says, “and that’s where you’ll stay until I’m finished with you.”

“Finished?”

With a stride forward, he tosses me so I bounce on the mattress. My pearl nightie bunches around my waist, and he’s staring between my legs, eyes riveted as his hands rip impatiently at his belt.

I gasp and slide off the bed, darting to his right. His arm shoots out to catch me, yanking me so my back is pressed against his front. He walks us to the bed until my thighs are flush against it.

“Get off me,” I screech. His hand pushes my upper back so my breasts mash against the mattress. His calm, controlled movements serve to remind me how easy it is for him to manipulate my body. He lifts my nightgown, exposing me as the sound of ripping fabric ricochets through me.

“What are you doing?” I reach up and claw at the sheets, trying to escape by pulling myself out, but he grabs my arms and forces them behind me. He secures my wrists at the base of my spine, and coarse lace digs into my skin as he winds my thong around them. He gives the fabric a hard tug and lets go, leaving me fighting against it, wiggling underneath him like a fish on land.

His hands slide between the mattress and my body, where they grasp my breasts roughly through the satin. He pulls me upright until I’m flattened against his body. “Relax,” he commands.

“No,” I say through gritted teeth.

He grips my hair in a ponytail and guides my head to the side. “Turn around.” When I don’t respond, he tugs so I have to swivel and face him. “Lie down,” he says.

“Calvin, please,” I say.

“Down,” he barks, and I flinch. I sit tentatively, pressing my thighs together so hard that they begin to perspire. I ease back onto the bed, my hair spreading everywhere, my eyes searching the ceiling. His hands push up the fabric of my nightie until it circles my waist. Firm fingers trail down my belly before parting my legs with little effort. The slide of his skin against mine pulls so deeply inside me that when it leaves, there’s a void, some dull, endless ache.

“It gets me so hard just thinking about touching you.”

My nightgown rides up underneath my breasts when he pulls me to the edge of the bed by my upper thighs. His hips find their place against me, and I feel the assault of his coarse pants between my legs.

“That feels amazing,” he says. “Don’t stop squirming.”

His words only bring my attention to the fact that my body is out of my control. The more I try to still myself, the harder my hips protest against his firm hold.

His eyes remain fastened to me as he removes his belt all the way. Metal clinks on the hardwood floor with finality. He leisurely continues undoing his pants while I snake myself backward against the mattress. I’m almost out of reach before he grabs one ankle and pulls me back. “I suggest you calm down, and try to enjoy this,” he says. “It will suit you best to relax.”

His pants drop, and with one hand holding my hips, he takes himself in the other. My whimpering is drowned by his long groan as he skims his crown slowly up my opening to brush my clit and then slides it back down. He squeezes himself between my ass cheeks and the bed, the length of his shaft rubbing my anus. After a split second of nothing, there’s considerable pressure between my legs.

“Spread wider.”

My legs shake in the air, unmoving. He grips my knees and forces them apart. He retreats with a large stride backward. “You should see yourself now.” His voice drips with amusement. “Hair all over the place, hands locked behind your back, tits in the air. Legs wide open for me.” He pauses to lick his upper lip. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sweet, pink pussy, Sparrow.”

My mouth dries with mortification, and just as I try to close my legs, he catches them.

“Do not, under any circumstances, close your legs unless I tell you to do so.” He lets go, and they hang there, trembling. “Very good,” he murmurs and crouches down. I feel his fingers pulling at my folds, opening me. He pushes one inside, pulls it out and when he inserts it again, it slides in more easily. “Getting nice and wet for me.”

He stands again and without warning, the pressure is back but it’s harder now as he pushes into me. He exhales, waiting there.

I take my bottom lip between my teeth, and my eyes squeeze shut. My legs are still suspended; they’re beginning to shake harder, but I barely notice because it’s taking all my concentration not to give in to the beg of my hips. My insides want this, to pull him deep and keep him there. But I don’t. “Please don’t,” I whisper. “I’ll do anything. I’ll be better.”

He anchors my hips to the mattress and thrusts hard, burying himself in me. I cry out just as suddenly, wiggling into the mattress, straining against my restraints.

“Oh, God,” I bawl. “My virginity.”

“Mine.” He stares down at my face as his chest heaves with deep breaths. My body adjusts to this thick piece of him that feels both foreign and familiar. When the pain lessens, I yearn for a soothing touch to replace it; hands on my face, a kiss, anything. He’s watching me so intensely that I think he might give me what I want, but his hips drag back instead and when he slides back into me, his abs flex.

“I’ve never had such a tight pussy.” He draws back again and thrusts harder. I squeal with each pinch of pain. As his rhythm increases, he falls forward onto extended arms. “I’m going to ruin you for every other man,” he says with gritted teeth. “You hear me?” His eyes fix on my chest, watching my breasts bounce with each contact of our hips. “Lock your ankles behind me.” It’s with relief that I rest my legs at the base of his back. “That’s it,” he groans. “God, I want this. To fuck you so bad.”

I’m overwhelmed with it all, the profound fullness of me, the rawness of his skin on mine, the shackle that keeps me from touching him. “But you are,” I say.

“This isn’t fucking,” he says. I gasp with a deep plunge, my head falling to the side. My cheek presses into the comforter to see his hand fisting it.

“What?” I ask, only half-aware.

“When I fuck you, you’ll know it.” One hand moves to my breast, and I yelp as he pinches and pulls my nipple. “You’re melting like butter.”

I am. I’m dissolving into the bed beneath me as a fierce and unrelenting force builds inside me. Each echo of a spasm draws me deeper into the recesses of pleasure.

“What is this?” I ask just above a whisper. “I need it.”

“Need what?”

“Fucking.”

He already fills me so hard and so deep that I can’t believe what I’m asking for. I brace myself for something that doesn’t come. Instead, he’s withdrawing, and I’m grasping desperately, my body and my mind, for what I’m losing. He steps back, his hardness glistening and bobbing between us.

“Why?” I ask. “Why are you stopping?”

He raises a menacing eyebrow at me. “Don’t forget who’s in charge here, Cataline. Get off the bed. I want you on your knees.”

It takes a moment for his command to reach me. I wriggle to the edge of the bed, but it’s so high that my feet don’t reach the floor. While he stands still as a statue, I slide over the edge and fall onto the ground.

“Faster,” he says. “Come here so I can stuff that smart mouth.”

At the hardness in his voice, I begin to tremble. My body contorts, and my ass juts into the air. I get on my knees as quickly as possible. I’m tempted to retreat under the bed and hide there until he leaves, but he looks just angry enough to snap if I disobey. I crawl to him. One hand finds the back of my head, and he presses his smooth head to my lips with the other. “Wider,” he says when they part.

He slides in, coaxing me open all the way, groaning as his shaft forces down my tongue and coats my mouth with my own sharp, metallic flavor. “I’m saving your pussy for last,” he says. “I bet you taste like goddamn cotton candy. Tell me how sweet you are.”

I flinch as I choke a response, my eyes watering. My wrists burn from fighting to get free. He uses my mouth faster, rumbling his approval. His eyes don’t leave me until he shuts them briefly and bites his lip.

He pulls out suddenly with an audible pop and grabs himself, pumping furiously. I wrench and twist my face, but he jerks my head back into place by my hair and comes on my mouth and chin. I try again to duck, but I’m immobile as he spurts all over my neck and collarbone, his cum dripping down my breasts. My cheeks flame, but the low, unearthly noise he makes almost sounds like a laugh.

19

Calvin

Below me, Cataline sits back on her calves. Her hair seems midnight blue in the semi-dark as it falls messily over her shoulders. In a raw moment like this, it’s easy to read the fear in her eyes.

Her body is sticky with me. Soon enough I’ll regret what I’ve done and what I’m going to do, but now, she is my wet dream come to life. And I’m hardening into steel again just from looking at her.

“Fucking.”

That word from her mouth will haunt me in the best and worst ways. I want to. I want to tie her to the bed and fuck the piss out of her until she begs me to stop. Then I want to flip her over and claim her tight ass like I did her pussy and her mouth until she milks me dry. I step away from her. Norman was right. I will destroy this girl.

“Stand up,” I tell her.

She looks at the floor a moment, thinking. Without her hands to balance, getting to her feet is a struggle.

“Earlier you asked me to fuck you.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“Do you still want me to?”

Her eyes dart from side to side as she chews on her lip. She blinks to my already stiff cock and away just as fast. I’m sick for the way I love watching her fight herself. Her thighs squeeze together discreetly. “No.”

“No? You look like you want to come.”

She shakes her head.

“You don’t want to come?”

“If I did, I would do it myself.”

My eyes roll back into my head, and I have to touch my dick to ease the ache. I recognize the grit in my voice for what it is when I respond, “I’d love to see that, Sparrow.”

She frowns. “What?”

I swipe my jeans from where they’re heaped on the floor.

“Can you untie me before you go?” she asks quickly, as though she isn’t sure she’s allowed. I watch her as I step into my pants unhurriedly and pull them up around my hips. “Please?” she adds. I zip them but leave the button undone.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” I say and back up with my eyes locked on her.

She blinks at me adorably as she shifts on her feet, and her shoulders twist, trying to free her hands. I turn to grab the desk chair and set it a few feet from the bed. I fall back in it with an ankle over one knee and sweep my hand out in front of me. “By all means. Do it yourself.”

Tears instantly leak from the corners of her widened eyes. She shakes her head hard, her hair cascading like a chocolate waterfall. I let myself have this moment. Stripped in front of me, I can’t help, don’t want to help, my gaze from scanning every inch of her. She’s leaner than I imagined, or, I wonder, has that happened since she’s come here? Her hair falls long past her shoulders, grazing over the mounds of her breasts so just her pink nipples push through. Her breasts—she’s hidden them well over the years. I’ve fantasized about them beneath the unflattering button-downs she wore in the office. They’re bigger, fleshier than the blouses let on. Her waist sucks in, her hips flare, her tummy is flat and taut. She has a small bush, and I wonder if she’s always kept it that way or just since she’s been here. I wish I’d checked the moment she arrived. I want to know what that pussy looks like completely bared for my mouth. I want to lick her and show her how good it can be, but first I want to shave her.

She’s crying without modesty now, unable to hide her face since her hands are still perfectly secure behind her back. She’s fucking beautiful, especially in her pain, and I want to bury myself in her. My cock up to the hilt, my mouth between her breasts, my hands wound through that mess of overflowing, disobedient hair.

“Dance.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t fight me,” I advise her. “You’ll never win, and you’ll only anger me. Dance for me.”

Her shoulders tremble with silent sobs, but her hips begin to sway. Her hair swishes around her shoulders and teases her nipples. She’s fluid, even when she doesn’t know it, even when she’s not. Her upper torso is stiff, but her hips call to me like a goddamn siren song. My hand is down my pants before I even realize it, my cock in a death grip as I watch. I relax my fist and begin to stroke. “Good, Sparrow. Turn around. Slowly.”

She rocks between both feet as she spins for my viewing pleasure. Her backside is full, maybe even plump compared to her lithe body.

I rub the scruff on my chin as I restrain from going to her. “How many men have you had in your ass?” I ask.

She gasps. “None.”

“Yeah, right,” I tease her. “I don’t believe that.”

“I swear.”

“None of your boyfriends ever tried?”

Her voice drops. “I never had any.”

My heart hammers, my thoughts blurring. “You’re lying.”

“I haven’t,” she insists quietly.

“Keep dancing.”

My command jumpstarts the swing of her hips again. She’s afraid of me. I haven’t truly hurt her, not the way I’m capable of, but she’s afraid. I like her this way, unsure and obedient. Everyone should be afraid of me, and she’s no exception.

Mesmerized, I say, “Now, make yourself come.”

Her movements falter, but she doesn’t stop. “Here?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t,” she says. “My hands . . .”

“If you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way.”

Her head bows toward the floor. “I can’t. Not when you’re watching.”

“I have all night,” I say. “The quicker you do it, the better you’ll feel.”

I half expect her to come sit on my lap, but what she does instead is even sexier. She trudges to one of the four posts of the bed and presses herself against it. She looks at me from the corner of her eye and hesitates. “Don’t make me.”

My pants grow tighter in the crotch with every second she’s up against that pole. “Disobeying me is what got you here in the first place. From now on, you do as I say. No backtalk. If I want you kissing my feet as I finger-fuck your asshole, you’ll do it. If I want to feed you nothing but my cock for a week, you’ll do that too.”

I can almost hear her objection, but she just pulls her quivering lip between her teeth. Finally, her hips roll forward, and she drops her head against the post with a sigh.

When she repeats the motion, I ask, “Does it feel good?”

Her response is the mere utter of an exhale.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” she snaps. She rises onto the balls of her feet. Her knees bend for a better angle, and I watch her calves shake as she humps the post. Her head falls back so her hair cascades down her back. She turns her neck and gives me a look I’ve never seen. “But you feel better,” she says.

My jaw clenches at the unexpected invitation. She might as well have licked my cock, that’s how hard her words make me. Cataline is sexy without trying, and it occurs to me for the first time that if she tried, she could possibly unravel me. This thought keeps me glued to my seat.

She’s moaning now, but there’s a stilted frustration in the noises she’s making. She steps away from the bed, flushed with desire, all traces of modesty stripped away. Her breasts rise and fall as she struggles onto the mattress. With her teeth, she drags a pillow to the center and lies down on top of it. It’s too much for me, and everything from my torso down tightens as she positions her hips over the pillow. With her first undulation, I know I’m about to come in my pants. Her toes curl, and her pace increases. I’m stroking myself fast, helpless to her show. Her guttural groan, her face shoved into the mattress, her ass flexing with each ripple—it’s my undoing, and I’m spilling shamelessly all over myself, reduced to a teenage boy by this girl without even touching her.

Even after I finish, as my throbbing mellows, my eyes remain riveted on her. When she sits up, frustrated tears spill down her cheeks. “I can’t do it,” she cries. “I’m so close. Please, Calvin. Do it for me.”

Her angelic voice is the devil’s words in my ears. I’d die happy if that were the last thing I ever heard. I could put my hand between her legs and have her coming all over my fingers in seconds. She needs me, and the feeling goes straight to my head. But no matter how many times I remind her, she still thinks she’s in charge. I stand up and swing the chair back into its place.

“I’ll be back to fuck you in the morning,” I say as I leave the room.

She cries out for me, but I just lock the door and head back to my room. I’m asleep in a matter of minutes.

20

For the first time in years, I wake up groggy. During a normal night, I sleep until I can’t anymore and spend the early-morning hours patrolling. It’s not lost on me that Cataline could be just as bad for me as I am for her.

In the shower, my favorite images of Cataline from the night before filter through my mind. A good night’s rest has done nothing to quell my fierce need to have her. I want her every way I can get. I want my cum to be the first to fill all her holes. I only bother with a towel around my waist before heading to her room. I can’t wait any longer.

I open the door without knocking, but it doesn’t matter. She’s sleeping on her stomach, her lips parted against the pillow for tiny breaths. Her hands are still fastened together behind her. A silk cobweb of shiny, brown locks spreads all over, some strands just at the corner of her mouth. In the early dawn, there’s only a filter of light coming through the gauzy drapes. I tread slowly to the bed, savoring my sleeping beauty until she wakes for her beast. When she doesn’t stir, I let the towel drop to the floor. My eyes follow the line of her body, lingering over the curve of her ass. I place one knee on the edge of the bed and keep going until I’m on top of her, her thighs between my knees.

My fingers almost shake with desire when I clear hair from her back and kiss the top of her spine. My cock twitches from the proximity to her thigh. With my lips just touching her skin, I glance up to find her eyes are still closed. I press another gentle kiss lower. Her hot skin is soft with fine golden hairs. I’ve never kissed a woman this way, never cared to wonder what every part of her feels like on my lips. Sitting back on my calves and straddling her upper thighs, I pry her ass cheeks apart, letting my thumbs graze lower toward her heat.

Fuck. That she can sleep through this both arouses and infuriates me. I hate the idea that just anyone can touch her while she’s at her most vulnerable. Myself excluded. I pull at the soft lips of her pussy, spreading her open. My hard-on is touching my stomach, and I can’t wait to soothe it with her smooth heat. I lean over her with one outstretched arm, and my other hand presses my head against her opening. With a firm push, my crown is inside. I continue inching until I’m halfway. I enlist all my restraint and only roll my hips into her.

She stirs, and her forehead creases. With a throaty noise, she opens her eyes. “Calvin?”

“Promised I’d fuck you this morning,” I say.

She’s growing wet, so I push deeper, and she gasps. “Oh, God.”

“I’m the one doing this to you. Use my name when you’re being pleasured.”

“Pleasured?” she repeats. “This is rape.”

My hips pulse, trying for deeper. I wait before I thrust again, still gently, but this time I don’t stop. I bend my mouth to her hair, maddeningly aware of the sweet, shallow breaths escaping from her separated lips. “I’ll stop, Sparrow,” I whisper. “Just say the word.”

Her mouth opens to speak, but her eyes squeeze shut as I give her a long, deep drive. I take her ear between my teeth and lick my way down the curve until my lips find her neck. I suck her skin into my mouth and release it with an exhale. I’ve worked myself all the way in now and can feel her pussy sucking me deeper, grasping at my cock. She shoves her face into the pillow and squeals.

I stop moving. I slide my hand around the front of her throat and lift her head so she can only look at the headboard. My cock is buried all the way inside her when I say, “Tell me to stop, Cataline. I’ll stop right now, and I’ll never come back.”

She chokes back a sob. I remove my hand to bury it in her silky hair and pull her up so her back arches away from the mattress. “Do you,” I start slowly, “want me,” I pause, “to stop?”

“No,” she says through her teeth. “Don’t stop.”

My answering growl is inhuman as I release her head and prop myself up on my arms. I let her have it, making good on my promise to fuck her. I fasten her to the mattress with relentless drives, relishing the way her hands strain against her lace binding, the way her desperate, mangled mewls are the only thing I hear.

I move my palms to the center of her lower back, right underneath her hands, pushing down on her as I drive into her harder.

“Oh, my—Calvin.” She calls for me over and over, and it sounds like a prayer. A prayer that I intend to answer. The headboard threatens to knock down the wall. The bed shudders every time we collide, but I still sense the convulsing of her small body. My balls lock up as I watch her come, watch her swallow up every inch of me. Her teeth bite the pillow and I lose control, giving it to her with more force than I mean to. I can’t stop myself though, and soon I’m draining myself into her, claiming her pussy as mine and knowing, as she drinks me up, that I’ll never let anyone else near it.

“Oh, fuck,” I say, collapsing over her body. My dick glides through her swollen slickness until I’ve emptied every last drop in her. I push the hair off the back of her neck and lick the sweat away so she shudders beneath me. “Tell me how that felt,” I whisper.

She swallows loudly with her eyes closed. “I never . . .”

“What?”

“I’ve never felt anything like it,” she whispers back.

I give myself a minute to catch my breath and inhale all the jasmine from her hair that I can. Finally I draw back, and the heavy way my cock falls out of her makes me feel dirty.

“I can’t feel my arms,” she says softly.

I sit back to unknot and unwind the underwear. Her arms drop lifelessly on either side of her. I take one of her hands and begin massaging life back into it. Her eyes droop when I move to the next hand, and just before her breathing evens out, she says, “Thank you.”

She’s asleep, but I’m confronted with the mess I’ve made. The wrist in my hand is striped red and purple from fighting her restraints. Her hair is tangled, her cheeks tear-streaked, and though I can’t see it, I know she’s covered in my cum. Since my parents passed away, I’ve never cared about anything in my life but protecting our city. And I’m not even sure I can call it that anymore. Protecting denotes something positive. Every day I walk a line between my need to defend and my desire to hurt, maul, and kill. To kill a predator makes me high. What kind of a predator does that make me?

I touch Cataline’s hair, gripping some in a gentle fist. Is wanting to protect her out of a sense of duty the same thing as caring for her? My mind is made of straight lines and edges that fit together like a square puzzle. But she blurs those lines, makes me question how it all comes together.

Has my debt been paid, protecting her for sixteen years? And if so, could I walk away from her now? If I let her go for good, remove her from my life completely, Carlos Riviera would have no use for her. And then she’d be safe from both of us. Isn’t that ultimately what I want?

Cataline’s cheek rubs against the pillow. “Calvin,” she breathes.

I remain still, but I can’t look away. Her tongue flicks over her lips and for the first time in my life, I desire another person’s mouth. To taste her, probe her depths, and feel her in an entirely different way than I’ve ever experienced a woman.

“Calvin,” she repeats.

“Hmm?”

Her eyes flutter open, and she looks back at me with surprise. Her arms jerk out, and she reddens when she realizes they’re no longer restrained. “You’re still here?”

“Let’s get you in the shower,” I say as I finally get off her.

She sighs and sits up, pulling the sheet tightly around her breasts. Her cheeks are tinted pink as her eyes avoid mine. “Um.”

“What?”

She glances down and shifts. “You came,” she says, “inside.”

“Making a mess of my sheets, are you?”

“No,” she snaps, but her expression softens, searching my face for something. I don’t know what until it hits me.

“I’m sterile,” I tell her.

She blinks once and softly exhales, “Oh.”

“So, the shower?”

“I can do it,” she says.

Anger bolts through me, but I inhale a deep breath. “Let me help you. I want to help.”

“I don’t want your help,” she replies instantly and without emotion. “I obviously have no say in anything, but for the record, your help isn’t wanted.”

I raise an eyebrow. It’s clear that all of the last week’s lessons have been lost on her, and I can’t help shaking my head. But my guilt is still fresh, and I’m all fucked out, even though her insolence makes my cock stir.

“Do you mind?” she asks. “I really, really need a shower.”

“Fine. Behave today,” I warn before leaving her to clean up.

21

Cataline

“Behave today.”

Mist curls over the shower door as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Pasty, flaking cum coats my chest, some of it crusting in the ends of my hair. I run my fingers over a deep, purple bruise on my neck. Do I look different now that I’ve lost my virginity?

I do. I’m calmer, my eyes less wide and twitchy. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. After having my virginity ripped from my clutches, I’d have thought I’d be on the floor in a puddle of tears; instead, I feel tranquil. There was no kissing, no whispered words of reassurance, no warm candlelight. No declaration of his love. My head tilts toward my shoulder, and I touch my reflection with my fingers. I’m not a person to Calvin. I’m an object, a possession, and it’s strangely liberating.

In the shower, I fantasize about Hero breaking in this morning and pulling Calvin off of me. They fight as I scream, stripped and shaking like a leaf. Their bodies are a blur of fists and muscle as they wrestle each other to the ground. I want Hero to pin Calvin to the floor and beat him within an inch of his life, but my mind won’t conjure it. Calvin is so powerful, so strong; I can feel it in his every sinewy movement. I’m not sure even Hero can defeat him.

I skip to the end, where Hero leaves Calvin bloody and mangled on the hardwood floor. He whisks me away into the sunshine, but even in make believe, I turn around and look back.

Frustration drives my fist against the tile. I practically begged for him last night, the bastard. After he left, I lay aching in the bed, wishing he would come back and follow through with his threat to fuck me.

Even now I burn with curiosity for his kiss. Would it be rough and fast like everything else he’s done to me so far? Or have I not seen that part of him because it’s sweet and gentle? Meant for someone who isn’t just an object?

I laugh aloud, a mirthless sound that echoes through the bathroom. Sweet and gentle were things I thought he might be before I learned the truth. Before I met the monster in the mansion.

I towel off and change for breakfast. Downstairs, Norman serves me quietly and with downcast eyes. I wonder how much he knows, how much he’s . . . seen. Disgust for Calvin and even for myself, for the way I acted, overcomes me when I think of the cameras in my room.

When I’ve eaten and Norman reaches to clear my plate, I put my hand on his wrist. He freezes, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth. “I’m okay, Norman,” I say.

He doesn’t return my gaze but nods once. I’m not okay, but for some reason, I need him to believe that I am. He starts when loud ringing fills the room. This happens randomly every day or so, and as always, he rushes to one of the locked rooms without a word.

Back on my cushioned sill, I’m staring out the locked window when Rosa knocks. I smile dully at her as she cleans. I sit motionless until she’s finished, calling her name before she leaves the room. “Can you wash the sheets?”

Her forehead creases, and she shrugs. I stand and walk to the bed where I pinch the sheets between my fingers. With too much irritation, I repeat, “Sheets? Can you wash them?”

Recognition lights up her face, and she beams while nodding. But as understanding hits, her dark brown eyes cloud. She glances at the bed and back at me, flattening her palm over her heart. I have to look away.

As she strips the bed, I race by her to find my escape, my solace, my outdoors. It’s the one place I can be anyone but myself. I choose a book in the library without even looking and fall into my chair.

“This isn’t fucking.”

“Make yourself come.”

“Dance.”

I hurl the book at the wall. Can’t he let me have this one sliver of peace? He’s infiltrating my moments of escape like a vengeful snake, slithering into my thoughts and claiming me from the inside out. I can’t stop him from taking my body, but my mind and my heart? How can I give those up? They’re the only things in my control, the only things I’m able to protect. Because if I let him in, let him steal my focus, then I have no chance of ever leaving this place. And that’s the only thing I want. It’s life or death that I fight with every ounce of myself not to let him take those things from me.

* * *

It’s the mention of Hero that draws me out of my trance. I gave up on reading hours earlier and moved from the library to the den to plant myself in front of the TV. I thought I was watching a sitcom, but now the news is on. The last moments of Hero’s latest feat, running into a burning home and rescuing an entire family, are captured in a dizzy blur of fiery footage. Hero carries a child over his shoulder as firemen unburden him of a woman who can barely stand. He’s collected and triumphant, even behind his armor, not at all winded by his deed.

As the video plays, I think about my parents. They died trapped in our apartment during an electrical fire, but I got out. I should’ve been with them. Where was Hero then? And why doesn’t he come for me now? I stare at him and wonder how he would even know I’m here or that I need him. Through the crystal of unshed tears, his stick-straight posture of confidence triggers a familiar feeling. Sturdy and strong but not bulky, even sheathed in grey rubber. I incline toward the TV and dash wetness from my eyes. Nothing can touch this man; nobody can scratch his hard-earned surface. Even his sculpted wave of brown hair is unaffected by smoke and heat. Almost like . . .

The video cuts out, and the newscaster reappears. I sigh, melting back into the couch. I’ll find no solace in distraction today. Through the domination of my body, Calvin has also stolen my thoughts. He is everywhere in this mansion, even in my books, in my television set.

Everyday life kept me from thinking of my parents too often, but here, there is no life. There is only time and solitude and, when I’m lucky, mental escape. I settle further into the couch and let myself remember my only family, wondering just how long until I’m with them again.

22

Calvin

I’ve called for Cataline’s presence at dinner, and according to Norman, she didn’t fight it. I’m pleased that she’s learning to defer to me, however slowly. The city’s need for me today has kept me occupied, but now I sit at the dining room table, unaccustomed to waiting for another person. My thoughts turn to this morning, when the sex fog began to clear.

A seed has been planted in my mind. As much as I try to ignore it, it grows. That often happens with my thoughts; only the important and pressing ones get through, and they proliferate at an unnatural pace, taking over and snaking into the corners of my brain.

I am the only dangerous thing in Cataline’s life.

In the beginning, duty and guilt drove me to protect the six-year-old girl I failed. I promised myself that until she was an adult, I would repent by keeping harm away and making sure her life was as comfortable as it could be without family.

But by her eighteenth birthday, I was invested. Like New Rhone, she was a project my mind refused to let go of. I knew when she eventually left Fenndale, I’d have no choice but to let her go. Leaving New Rhone wasn’t an option for me. When she decided to move here though, I wasn’t prepared.

Having her in my city only fueled my fascination. Despite what Norman thinks, it’s not love or care that binds me to her. I’m not programmed for those things. The closer she gets though, the closer I want her. Over the years, my obligation to her has morphed into a compulsion. Keep her safe. Keep her close. Watch her. Make her do what I want. She was, unknowingly, my possession from afar.

Now I own her like I never realized I wanted to. I’ve conquered the sweetest part of her, but it’s not enough. I want more. I understand duty, fear. Obliterate, protect, conquer. I don’t understand anything outside these rules I live under. What I want is for her to be consumed by me like I am with her. Last night, I was the only thing in her mind, my name the only word on her lips. “I’m so close. Please, Calvin. Do it for me.”

She needs my protection. She needs me. I push the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. Why, then, am I having thoughts of freeing her? To let her out of my sight now, after I’ve had her for the past two months, would be like ripping my skin open to remove a bullet.

Because I’m lost in my thoughts, I don’t hear Cataline enter the room. Her tight black dress cuts across her mid-thighs, and her cleavage teases from a plummeting neckline. She’s done her makeup for probably the second time since arriving at the mansion.

“What is this?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“What?”

Jasmine drifts under my nose as she walks away from me to her seat.

“I told you not to dress up for dinner.”

“I thought you’d like it,” she says, lowering herself gracefully into the chair. Her back is straight as a rod, and her fingers are laced. “You don’t?”

Norman decorates the table with food as I stare Cataline down. He clears his throat. “For dinner, we have—”

“Leave us.”

He pauses. Though my gaze is still on Cataline, I know he’s watching me as he bows his head. “As you wish, sir.”

I stand and slowly walk the line of the long table. My footsteps echo through the hall, appropriately menacing. I’ve just come from a burning building but am back in my suit and tie to maintain appearances. And my ridiculous glasses, which I remove and toss aside. She’ll believe I’ve just returned from the office. When I’m standing over her, she tugs up the neckline of the dress and blinks at me. I resist smirking as she tucks hair behind her ear twice.

“Well,” she says, “aren’t we going to eat?”

“I’m going to eat.”

“I’m not?”

“As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one meal at this table, and it’s you.”

My ears pick up her slow swallow, my eyes, the curl of her hands in her lap. “That sounds like a threat,” she says quietly.

I lean in, flatten one hand on the table and wrap the other around the arm of her chair. “It’s not. This is a threat: if you’re not naked and spread out on this table in two seconds, I’m going to spank you so hard, you won’t know up from down.”

Shock widens her eyes. “Spank me?”

“One.”

She puts all her weight into scooting the chair out from the table, but I hold it secure. Her heart hammers so hard I can hear it, and just as she’s about to protest, I release the chair.

She jumps up, and I direct her to the center of the table. At the edge, she pulls one strap of her dress down and then pauses. Her chest pulses erratically. She glances around the room and then at me before dropping her hand to her side. “I can’t,” she whispers.

My blood begins to simmer at the surface of my skin. That she continues to see how far she can push me infuriates me. “I’m sorry?”

“Norman? Chef Michael? Everyone will see.”

I cock my head. The staff has always been a part of my landscape, and they know when to disappear.

She shakes her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. You can hit me.”

I stride forward, and she does her best to curl into a ball against the table. I snake my fingers under the hem of her dress and fist the fabric in both hands. She yelps when it rips up to her belly button. Her black lace panties follow.

“If I want the staff to watch, they’ll watch,” I tell her. “You think you’re better than the whores I bring here?”

“I don’t—I’m not . . .”

I bring the ruined underwear up to her face, forcing her to look at them. “Open your mouth.”

Her eyebrows dip to the middle of her forehead, and she shakes her head frantically.

“Don’t you like the way you taste?”

“Please, no.”

She jumps when I swipe a spot clear behind her with my other hand. Food flies over the edge, and a tray clatters to the floor. My hips pin hers to the table, my erection digging into her stomach. I take her chin so she can’t look anywhere but at me. “What’s your game?” I ask, inches from her face.

“What do you mean?”

“The hair, the makeup, the dress.” I hover my lips directly above hers. “What are you trying to pull?”

“Nothing,” she breathes.

“Maybe you like what I did to you this morning.” When she doesn’t answer, I squeeze my other hand in between her clenched thighs and hold it there. “Maybe you want me to do it again.” Her surly moan, half protest, half pleasure, is enough to cut any remaining inhibitions free. “Get on the table.”

She looks up at the ceiling for a moment, a last-minute prayer to the Heavens.

“Get on, or I’ll put you on.”

She hoists herself up on the edge and looks me in the eye before easing back onto the wood. My legs spread her knees, and I watch her face as I slowly tear open the rest of the dress. One hand grabs her inner thigh, inching up until her wet heat teases my fingertips. For moments there’s only the sound of our breathing growing heavier. When I slide a finger up inside her, she gasps and I stuff the panties in her mouth. Instinctively, she reaches up to remove them, but I catch her wrist and shake my head at her.

My finger moves in and out at an easy pace, and I hold her wide-eyed gaze. I lean closer to whisper in her ear. “I can already tell you’re going to be the best thing I ever put in my mouth.”

Her hips flinch when I add another finger. She gasps and moans from behind her gag, her face distorting. I continue pumping, feeling her from the inside as her soft warmth greedily sucks me deeper. I feel behind me for her ankle and remove one shoe, dropping it as she kicks the other to the floor. When I crouch between her legs, her feet go to my shoulders. I like that and tell her so with a groan into her pussy.

I slip the point of my tongue from the top of her asshole up. Her every muscle tenses when I graze her swollen clit. When I can’t wait another moment, I cock my head and begin to eat her out, grasping her outer thighs and pulling her hard into my mouth. My tongue reaches for her, lapping up every bit of her perfect, Cataline flavor, sucking and kissing whatever I can. When I thrust it inside her, her hands dive into my hair, yanking me closer, her groans vibrating all the way down her body and into my throat.

Her fingers pulling at my hair ignites a need so deep in my stomach, my dick strains against my pants. I want to be inside her again, using my own saliva to fuck harder, faster, deeper than I ever have anyone.

I detach my mouth and untangle her hands from my head. “Take it out,” I say, nodding between us.

She swallows as best she can with her mouth full of lace. Sitting up, she touches the waistband of my pants. Her fingers push the button through the hole slowly and slide my zipper down. My hands fist in my hair to keep from rushing her. She doesn’t remove my pants but just lowers the band of my briefs enough to pull me out. My cock is so much in her hand. She just watches as I move my hips, thrusting it through her fist.

“Put it in,” I say, hating the pleading in my voice. Her eyes scan until she moves the few inches to close any space between us. Her legs circle my lower back. I don’t move. We’re both looking down as she presses my crown against her softness and scoots even closer. The night before did nothing to loosen her up, and I make small thrusts to get her to open.

“Come on, Sparrow,” I say. “Let me in that tight pussy.” I push her back against the table with my hand and grab her hips. I hold her there, impatiently pushing my way inside until I can’t resist thrusting hard, bouncing her as I go deep.

I bend over her. My palm presses down on the crown of her head to hold her still as I pull out almost all the way and drive back into her. With each whimper from her, my thrusts come faster and more out of control. “Nobody can do this to you but me,” I say to her, the words rumbling from my mouth. “You belong to me. All of you.”

Her cheeks are burning red. She looks straight into me and shakes her head.

“No?” I ask. She continues shaking her head, and I bury myself in her as deeply as I can, rooting myself there until she writhes. “You’d let another man inside you like this?”

She nods barely, and my fingers curl into her hair.

“Then maybe I bring a friend next time, let him fuck you while I watch.”

It’s obvious by the way her nose scrunches and chin quivers that she doesn’t know I’d kill any man who ever tried. No hesitation. But she nods again, and now I know she’s purposely pushing me.

I reach over her shoulder for a stick of butter. My fingers gouge out a soft chunk, and I slide her bottom half off the edge of the table. Watching her face, I circle my arm around and touch between her ass cheeks. Her eyes widen and legs flex around me as she tries to look down.

I hush her while keeping her head on the table by her hair. My mouth lowers to the crook of her neck while I massage butter over her anus. She protests with a throaty noise, clenching and pushing against me. I continue my assault without penetrating, rubbing her as I slide leisurely in and out of her stretching pussy. I spread the butter everywhere, coating between her cheeks before I insert the tip of my finger in her asshole.

“Good girl,” I murmur as she unclenches. My thrusts are controlled so she’ll feel every ridge of my cock. My finger works itself deeper. “Such a good girl.”

I reach across the table again to pluck the nearest candle from its holder. Her eyes follow as I blow it out, and she instantly starts struggling, her head shaking from side to side as strangled noises escape through her gag.

“Shh, don’t—” I’m cut off by her attempt to scream. I pluck the thong from her mouth with my teeth, fling it aside, and lock my lips on hers. Her entire body tenses as our mouths press against each other. She puckers her lips into mine, and I respond by opening her up with my tongue and slipping it in. When I moan, her arms circle around my neck, asking for more. I tilt my head and take her mouth, devouring her with a fervor that surprises even me. Her mouth is as warm and soft as her pussy, and it tastes equally as good.

As I kiss her, I flip the candle around. It’s a nice size, smaller than my cock but big enough that she’ll feel it. I lower it between her legs, gliding it through the butter. It slides easily, but she whimpers so pathetically that I break the kiss to watch her face as I press the wide tip against her tight bud.

“You can’t,” she says. “You can’t do this.”

“Push out a little.”

“Please,” she begs.

Impossibly, I grow harder inside her. My dick wants to fuck, and it won’t wait much longer. “Now,” I instruct as I insert it.

Her face screws up as I slide it in, and she pleads with me with big eyes.

“You’ll thank me when you come,” I mutter, worrying the candle deeper. My body is on fire for release, and it’s taking all my restraint not to let go. Filling both her holes as she squirms is draining me of any self-control. I shove the candle deep and let go to fuck her with an intensity she’ll feel for days. I let myself get lost in her pussy, taking whatever I can from her. She’s so wet and slippery that the large room echoes with our slapping skin. I keep pounding, even as she shudders and shakes out her orgasm, clawing for me. She latches onto my straining forearms, her fingers digging into my skin as her body bucks off the table and her mouth screams my name senselessly.

The sight of her is too much, and I pull her into my final thrust, claiming her with an animal growl and what feels like every drop of cum in my body.

Her body is limp on the table, her eyes shut, and for a moment I’m terrified that I’ve hurt her. But she heaves an enormous sigh before looking at me. I release her hips, leaving ten red marks in her otherwise flawless skin. I ease the candle out of her, toss it, and fall forward to cover her body with mine. “Feels good with something in your ass, doesn’t it?” I ask against her cheek.

She only shivers and tries to form a barrier between us with her arms, but I won’t budge.

“If you don’t want to get fucked, don’t wear a dress like that to dinner.”

“I don’t understand,” she responds. “What’s it matter if you don’t find me attractive?”

I laugh in a short gust and lift my head to look at her. “Come on, Sparrow. Don’t play stupid.”

“You said you didn’t want me. In the basement.”

I stare back at her as dangerous thoughts hammer in my head. I’m tempted to tell her that I’ve never felt a woman like I have her these last twenty-four hours. I want to tell her that there was never a time, even as a young girl, that I didn’t want her for myself. I want to ask her how it’s possible anyone wouldn’t find her attractive. But I’ve already crossed too many lines. Instead of holding her closer and kissing her, I deny the urges and pull out to stand up.

“You can go. We’re finished here.”

“What about dinner?”

“I’m utterly sated, but I’ll have Norman bring you something.”

“You’re not going to eat with me?”

Considering I just shoved a candle up her ass, the surprise in her voice is oddly sweet. “I just did, Sparrow. And I have plans.”

She shifts into a sitting position, glancing around as her hands cover her breasts. “What plans?”

I arch an eyebrow at her as I tuck my wrinkled shirt back into my pants. “That’s a brave question.”

She cocks her head, watching me dress. “What plans, Cal?”

“Cal,” I say, shaking my head at her boldness. “Lyla-from-work plans.”

Her passive expression is not the reaction I expect. “Are you guys dating?”

“No.”

She exhales. “Oh.”

“Just fucking.”

When I look back at her, her jaw is working side to side alarmingly fast. “I knew that already, but I thought maybe now . . .”

“You knew? About Lyla?”

She nods. “She told everyone.”

My jaw sets. She looks uncomfortable, so I pull off the dress shirt I just straightened and hand it to her.

She tugs it over her head quickly. “What about me?” she asks as she maneuvers her arms through the sleeves.

“You?”

“You’re, you know, with both of us?”

I can’t suppress the bark of laughter from my mouth. “I’m not fucking you, Cataline. It shouldn’t have even happened once.”

“So you don’t find me attractive,” she says.

I purse my lips and free her mass of hair from the shirt’s collar, letting it fall on her back. “It’s not about that, Sparrow. I’m fucking more women than Lyla, and you should be thankful you’re not them. If you thought I was rough with you, that was child’s play.”

There’s a moment of crackling silence as she stares at me openmouthed. Suddenly she bursts into tears and jumps off the table, pushing me aside as she runs from the room.

I’m left looking after her for a few moments, and all I can think is,What the fuck?

* * *

Lyla looks dull. Blonde is the wrong color for her—it washes her out, giving her an ashen look of desperation. She’s always looked dull, but it’s particularly obvious tonight as she stares back at me from her pink comforter, spread eagle. I flip the light switch but remain where I am.

“Calvin?”

I turn the lights back on. “I’m not in the mood, Lyla.”

“You’re not?”

“I’ll call you another time.”

“But . . . I can invite Sabrina if you want? You liked that before.”

I snort. “Did I?”

“I can call her right now. Or if not her, I know another girl. Fifteen minutes max.” When I don’t respond, she asks, “Or would you rather just sleep?”

“When have we ever just slept?”

“Well, never—”

“And we never will. If we’re not fucking, we’re not anything.” I nod my chin at her. “Did you tell people at work about us?”

“No . . .”

“No?”

“Not really.”

She closes her knees and blinks. The bedroom looks like it belongs to a teenage girl. Even Cataline is too old for so much pink. I just shake my head and leave.

Cataline. It’s not the first time I’ve thought of her since the dining room earlier. Suddenly nobody sounds good but her. Lyla distracts me, but when she loses that ability, I have no use for her. And right now, it seems there’s no distracting me from my feisty captive. She’s stubborn and mouthy, and it pushes my last button. She writhes underneath me, trying to disguise her pleasure. I’m starting to believe I enjoy making her submit more than her submission itself. None of it makes sense.

Cataline brings out the darkest, sharpest angles of me. The only other people I let see that side of me are criminals. And whores, or girls like Lyla, who take it rough. Sometimes I go too far, but they never stop me. The thought of going too far with Cataline taps into an emotion I rarely, if ever, experience: fear. If I lose control with her, I could hurt her. And it would only take one time to break her.

23

Cataline

Some nights when I’m restless, I sleep with my eyes open. I read. My books are dreams I never want to wake up from. I’m in the library, between the pages of Les Misérables, when there’s a noise in the house. I sit up in my oversized chair. Keys jingle, and my palms sweat.

After learning about Lyla two nights earlier, I ran straight to the shower to scrub any trace of Calvin from my body. I scowled into the steam as I rinsed his touch from my hair. He didn’t deserve what he took, but I was lost to him anyway. For him I came in a burst of wild energy, like a wave smashing fast and hard against rocks.

Everything is still a moment and then Calvin’s leaning in the library doorway. His hair is disheveled, and his normally flawless suit is rumpled. “Nobody should have to work this late on a weekend, not even me,” he says as he loosens his tie and unbuttons his collar. “What are you doing up?”

I’m suddenly speechless, so I just lift the book in my lap and show it to him.

“A true bookworm,” he says with a lopsided grin. It’s half-assed, but it’s the first genuine one he’s ever given me. Without my camera on me, I’m mentally memorizing this moment. “That one should keep you occupied for a while.”

“You’ve read it?”

“You look surprised.”

“You don’t seem like the book-reading type.”

He laughs. “I don’t sleep well either.”

“You have demons too.” Even before I finish the sentence, I cover my mouth as though that might bring the words back. “I’m sorry.”

He enters the room slowly with his hands deep in his pockets. My head is vertical when he reaches my chair. I recoil as his fingertips sweep hair from my face. “Do I scare you, Sparrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His fingers graze down the side of my face, and, shamefully, I incline my head into his hand. It’s clear by my heated exhale how badly I want to be touched.

“I’m sorry I’ve never told you,” he says with a pause, “that you’re beautiful.”

My lids are leaden under his adoration. In the wake of his ghostly touch is pebbled skin, a changing of tides, a carnal need born of something different than lust. If he were to hurt me in this second, I would forgive him just for this feeling.

“Beautiful?”

“If I were . . . normal, maybe . . .” His hand is cupping my jaw now.

I want to look into his eyes, but I’m afraid doing so would end this moment. “What are you hiding, Calvin?”

“Nothing, Sparrow. Everything you see is everything I am.”

He’s warning me with what I know is truth. His hand withdraws, leaving me bereft, so I let myself look. I didn’t notice before that he’s wearing his glasses. There’s no emotion in his eyes.

“I should get to bed,” I say before I can find out if I’ve done something to upset him. When I stand, he doesn’t move. We’re so close, our distance can only be measured by heat. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor and swallow so loudly it makes me blush. I don’t know why I’m suddenly in trouble, but I know where it will lead. “I mean, if I’m allowed.”

“Are you asking my permission?”

I nod down. His hand contracts into a fist, and I brace myself for ripped clothing, or some variation of the other night’s performance. The surface of my skin burns in a way that I’m certain I’m turned inside out, and I don’t know if I’ll scream or melt when he touches me.

“I like you like this,” he says.

It’s not until he steps back that I exhale the breath I didn’t know I’d seized. “That’s it?” I ask.

“Obedience will get you far, Cataline. It’s what I’ve been trying to teach you.” He turns around to exit the library but stops and looks back. “That is, unless you were hoping for something else? It’s late, but I’m always up for an impromptu lesson.”

“No,” I choke out, shaking my head.

He answers with an exaggerated smirk. “Okay, then. Goodnight.”

In bed, I can’t keep my fingers out of my underwear. When I pull them out and smell them, I smell him. I taste myself for him, gliding my fingertips from the back of my tongue to the tip. The night he took me from the street, I turned from person to possession. Now I worry that when he entered my body and stole what I wouldn’t give him, I became his possession from the inside. I pretend my hands are Calvin’s and let them take me somewhere I want to be—even if it’s only in my mind, even if I would never admit it: with him.

24

Birds sing outside my window for the first time. The room is as bright as a spring day. Despite my late night conversation with Calvin in the library, I feel rested. Instead of sitting on my sill and daydreaming from behind glass, I go downstairs for a late breakfast.

I’m finishing a stack of homemade pancakes when Calvin walks in.

“Cataline,” he greets with a smile, wiping a gloss of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Sleep well?”

My eyes scan over his outfit, narrowing as I chew. “You’ve been horseback riding?”

“It’s beautiful outside. Nothing better than a crisp fall day.”

I look down at my fork as it zigzags through maple syrup. It does look beautiful outside, the sun brightening the woods’ brown-orange trees. I fight the question coming, but it’s barely a struggle. “Can I go?”

“No.”

“With you?” I ask, glancing up. “I promise to behave. I haven’t been outside in months. And I’ve never been horseback riding.”

“Never?”

I shake my head hard.

He shifts from one foot to the other. “In exchange for your best behavior, I’ll consider it.”

“Okay,” I say, unable to suppress a small smile. “I’d like that.”

Norman brings coffee for us, setting both mugs at my end of the table. Instead of his usual spot, Calvin takes the chair next to me. “I have no impending business, so I’ll be around today.”

I examine my plate, watching brown syrup suck crumbs under like quicksand. “Is that a warning?”

He laughs. “That’s up to you, I suppose.”

“What do you do? Like, when you have free time?”

“I rarely have free time. There’s always something to be done. I’ll hit the gym at some point today, though. Have you been in there?”

“The gym? No. I don’t run indoors. I feel trapped.”

“You should try it. Come with me. Some exercise will be good for you.”

I drop my fork with a clatter and look up at him. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

He laughs again, and I mentally begin tracking the times I’ve seen him smile. “No matter the situation, women all have the same concerns. No, Sparrow, I don’t think you’re fat. You’ve lost a little weight since your arrival.”

I nod. “I know. I can tell by the fit of my clothing.”

“Do you need new things?”

“No,” I say, my eyes widening. “I have more than enough.”

“All right, then. So will you join me?”

I search his face, and he lets me. “Really?” I ask after a moment. “I can come with you?”

His head tilts forward. “You can come.”

“Okay. Yes. Thank you.”

“Finish up, and meet me there in an hour.”

I’m left at the table with my empty plate, wondering if I’ve just walked into a trap. On the way to my room, though, I’m as giddy as if I’ve won something. I wonder if we’ll talk, or if he prefers silence when he’s exercising. I don’t think I mind either way. Predictability makes up my days except when Calvin is involved. Sometimes I believe even when that means something awful, it’s better than day-to-day nothingness.

Fortunately, my closet is stocked with untouched workout gear. I’m outside the gym in forty-five minutes. The door is unlocked, but I seat myself in the hallway to stretch.

I’m reaching over my right leg, my hand hooked over the toe of my shoe when Calvin appears. “Ready?” he asks. Without his glasses, nothing obstructs my view of his angular, handsome face.

“Don’t you need to stretch?”

He gives me a look and disappears into the room. I hop up and follow him through the doorway, where I’m hit with the smells of rubber and stale sweat. A seamless mirror makes up one wall of the equipment-filled room. There are TVs, free weights, and even a bookshelf with volumes on the human body and nutrition. Calvin is hunched over with his back to me as I wring my hands. “What should I do?” I ask him.

He looks over his shoulder. “Whatever you want, Cataline.”

I head away from him for the treadmill. “Can I use this? Or do you need it?”

He holds up his right hand, which is partially taped. “Want to hold it for me?” he asks, nodding his head at the punching bag. I blink between it and him until he laughs. “I’m joking.”

I exhale and nod. “Oh.”

The treadmill is top of the line, and it takes me a few moments to figure out how to set up my run. I’m trying to focus, but I can’t help watching as Calvin pushes hair from his face with his forearms. I hit “Start” just as he peels off his t-shirt and tosses it over a dumbbell rack. There’s nothing bulky about Calvin, but his strength is undeniable. There’s not a hint of fat on his immense frame. His muscles bulge and curve in the right places, and when he flexes, his six-pack becomes an eight-pack.

He is a work of art, each muscle sculpted by its owner. I get the feeling when he launches his fist into the bag, he isn’t even using all of his strength. I’m settled into my jog now, and my gaze drifts between my reflection and him. I wish somehow that I could see myself standing next to him. I want to know how he makes me look, how we fit together. We both have light eyes and brown hair, though mine is darker than his. Except for the age gap, we could be mistaken for brother and sister. We could be mistaken for a lot of things: friends, lovers, enemies.

His blows get faster, more aggressive. His body shines in the flood of harsh white light, and his hair looks damp and sticky. The heavy bag takes each thud with a dull vibration. It’s patient and obedient, accepting of Calvin’s violent fury. When I look down at the screen, I’ve been running for fifteen minutes, and my breathing is labored. What used to be just a warm-up is wearing me out too quickly. I drag the back of my hand across my forehead and distract myself by watching him. After some time, he pauses, his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. His shorts sag low enough to stir things in me I wish would stay dormant.

He doesn’t seem to remember I’m even here, so I let myself stare as he steps over to the bookshelf. He opens a book, sits on a bench with his back against the mirror, and begins reading. There’s a slight rattle in my chest, but I refuse to quit at anything less than three miles, which was only half my previous route. Calvin glances up after a few minutes and I avert my eyes, but not before he catches me. He nods in my direction. “You all right?”

I nod.

He tosses the book on the bench and stands. “I can hear you wheezing from here, and you’re beet red. I think it’s time to call it.”

“I’m fine.”

He walks over, yanks out the emergency stop and pulls me over his shoulder before I go flying backwards off the belt.

“Hey,” I squeal. “I’m not done.”

He sets me on my feet. “You’re done,” he states as we wipe each other’s sweat from our bodies. “Ease back into it, or you could hurt yourself.”

I cross my arms and glimpse myself in the mirror. My face is flushed, my ponytail sagging. I turn my back to Calvin when I fix it. I slide out the ponytail holder and gather my hair again but pause when his finger runs along the back of my slick neck. He takes the rubber band from my fingers. “Leave it down.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Then we’ll get in the pool.”

“The pool?” I ask, confused. “What pool? You have a pool? And I can go outside?”

“Slow down,” he says with a small smile. “It’s an indoor pool, and it’s heated. Perfect after a workout.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

With a blink, his gaze falls to my neck and travels slowly down the length of my body. His eyes seem to make contact with my skin, pebbling it with just a look. My pulse is pounding at the base of my neck despite my efforts to calm it. He won’t care that I don’t have a swimsuit. Do I? He’s seen me nude. More than anyone else, in fact. Skinny dipping in a warm pool with him doesn’t repel me like it should. His tongue runs along the underside of his upper lip. “Back of the bottom drawer.”

My throat is dry from forgetting to swallow. “Hmm?”

His eyes jump back to mine. “Swimsuit. Bottom drawer. In the back.”

I stare at him. I haven’t opened that drawer since the day I arrived and found it filled with expensive lingerie. I wonder how he knows, why he would even care, what’s in my closet. “Right. I’ll, uh, go change.”

On our way out, he opens a door by the exit and hands me a white, oversized robe. “You’ll need this.” I accept it from him, folding my arms over its inviting softness. “Wait for me in your room. I’ll come get you.”

I have three variations of the same black bikini to choose from: one with a revealing but simple triangle top, one strapless, shoulder-bearing bandeau, and one banded halter that augments my cleavage. I try them each on and decide the triangle top is most flattering. My skin is still warm and sensitive from my workout, but it’s comforted when I enfold myself in the cotton ball robe.

After reading some pages from my book, I’m bored and decide to get a snack. When I’m almost at the kitchen, I overhear voices coming from the same room that I was caught sneaking around last time, when I was exiled to the basement. I will myself to ignore it, but my feet stop.

My fear of losing companionship, of going back to the cell, of missing my chance to go outside is strong. But there’s only one thing that trumps it all: my need for information. For answers. I pull my robe tightly around me, rise onto the balls of my bare feet and continue toward the cracked door. I tune to Calvin’s voice as I peer into the room and see him shirtless in only his swim trunks, facing Norman.

“. . . it’s been a week, and I can feel the difference. It has to be now.”

“I understand, sir. All I’m saying is perhaps you could take the night off. It is Sunday after all. Give yourself a break. We can do it in the morning, and—”

“I don’t get a break,” Calvin says, his jaw more defined than usual. “I have to be ready in an instant, and a week is too long to go without it. What if there’s an emergency, and I have to stop for an injection? A few minutes can mean all the difference.”

“One night will be good for you. Go swimming with the girl. Try and enjoy yourself.”

Calvin snatches something from Norman’s hand. “I don’t need a night off. When people’s lives are at stake, there’s no such thing as time off.” His hands tremble slightly as he uncaps a syringe and holds it up. “I need this. I’ll do it on my own if you won’t.”

Norman holds out his open palm for the needle, and I watch the foreboding scene unveil. Calvin extends his arm for Norman. After a moment of searching for a vein, Norman lowers the syringe to the inside of Calvin’s elbow, pierces the skin, and drains it.

Calvin’s eyes close as his chest expands with a deep inhale. He runs his free hand through his hair and exhales, long and slow, his shoulders loosening. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. After Norman removes the needle and replaces it with a cotton ball, Calvin’s hands twitch and go still.

I retreat from the open door while Calvin’s eyes are still shut, his breathing even. I move swiftly but quietly back to my room, dissecting everything in my head. He was soothed by whatever was in that syringe. I think of Calvin’s bad temper, the way his mood can shift in an instant. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, because now it seems obvious that his connection to the Cartel is drugs.

25

Calvin finds me on my sill. He stops in the middle of the bedroom with his hands on his hips. “Ready to hit the pool, Sparrow?”

I bite my lower lip. That drugs are involved makes me wary, but I know better than to let on to what I saw. “Birds can’t swim,” I point out.

“You’re right about that. But I’ll be there to save you if you sink.”

My load lightens seeing his good mood, and I smile as I stand. He leads the way to a locked door that opens to a wing of the house I’ve never seen. The pool is on the ground floor in a windowless, tiled room. It’s like stepping into another world, all cerulean glow and echoing water, seemingly cut off from the rest of the mansion. I follow Calvin’s lead as he removes his robe and sets it across a lounge chair. He doesn’t spare me a glance before diving seamlessly into the blue.

I use the steps to enter the warm water, watching him swim laps as I slowly submerge myself. When I’m up to my shoulders, I see Calvin through the steam, his long arms and legs slicing through the water like he was made for it. I duck under all the way with my eyes shut and listen to the dull, delayed chorus of his swimming. This feels like freedom. I pretend I’m on vacation with my boyfriend, and we’re at the hotel swimming pool. When I emerge, I’ll be bathed in the golden warmth of shining, shimmering, reflective sunlight. I wait until I have no more breath and shoot up from the water, gasping for air. Calvin’s nearby, running his hand over his face and swiping wet hair from his forehead. His eyes land on me, and though we’re looking directly at each other, all I can see is the essence of him amongst the steam, skin, heat, water.

“Why is this room closed off?” I ask.

“Because it’s for me.”

“And the rest of the mansion isn’t?”

“Just the fourth floor.”

“What about the library, cinema, game room . . . ?”

“For guests,” he says. “I don’t use them. The pool is mine.”

“Why?”

“Swimming takes the edge off.”

“That’s the only reason?”

He sniffs and glides closer to me. “I work hard,” he says. “Heat is good for my body.”

“You sit at a desk all day,” I point out.

“My workouts, I mean.”

“Oh.”

He’s circling me now. My body tightens up when he’s behind me and only loosens when he’s in my sight again.

“Are you a fighter?” I ask.

He stops treading water and plants his feet on the pool’s floor. “What?”

“In the gym, I saw a body-opponent bag. And you were reading about human anatomy and physiology.”

“You’ve heard that famous proverb, right? Curiosity killed the Cat?”

“Very funny.”

“Cats don’t swim either,” he notes.

“Would you let me drown? Earlier you said you’d save me.”

“What I need to do and what I want to do are not always the same thing.”

“So which is need and which is want? Save or drown?”

“I’ll let you figure that out. Just know that all it takes to put either into motion is a decision from me.” He’s closing in on me, and I retreat until my shoulder blades hit the lip of the pool. “Your fate,” he says, “is in my hands.”

“I accept that,” I say. His surprised expression is so rare that I almost lose my train of thought. “What I can’t accept is not knowing my fate. If you’ll just tell me if I’ll live or die, tell me what I’m doing here, what my purpose is, and if it’s . . . forever, I promise—I will be better.”

“You ask for a lot.” He steps within inches of me so our faces almost touch.

“Tell me that, and I won’t ask for anything else.”

He raises his hand to run his thumb over my cheekbone. The room is silent save for the acute splash echo of pool water. His fingers slide down my face and under my hair, where they wrap around the nape my neck. “You look sexy when you’re wet, Cataline.”

My eyelids threaten to close, but I force myself to hold his gaze.

He lowers his mouth to my ear. “You’d make a beautiful mermaid,” he whispers. “But, then, how would I fuck you?”

Steam dulls my senses, but the thrill that spirals down my spine is sharp. When I speak, the words barely reach my mouth. “I’m sure you’d find a way.”

He chuckles low and gritty with hot breath. “Close your eyes.” My lids are already half shut, so they fall easily. “Can you imagine my fingers in your bikini bottoms right now?”

A noise I don’t recognize escapes me.

“I love the way you feel. You’re so hot inside, and you get so wet for me. It takes barely anything. Even now, I’m not touching you there, but I bet your greedy cunt can’t wait to suck me right up.”

I should slap him for what he says, but I can barely move beyond the rhythm of deep breaths.

“Get out of the pool.”

“What?”

“Get out.”

He backs away and nods at the steps. My blood runs like fire through my veins, and I feel it pumping between my legs. I can’t believe he’s sending me away now, like this, and the thought makes me want to scream with frustration. When I exit the pool and reach for my robe, he makes a disapproving noise.

“I didn’t say to get dressed. Come here.” He looks at the edge of the pool. After the warm water, the tile feels like ice under my feet when I walk back to him. I stand right at the lip and look down. He’s submerged to the middle of his torso, and his head hits just at my knees. “I want to see all of you.”

I’m shaking at the loss of heat and because I don’t know what’s coming. He raises his eyebrows at me, so I reach back and tug on the string of my bikini top. With a bounce, it falls forward so it’s hanging around my neck. I clear my throat. “Calvin?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

I curl my fingernails into my palms and breathe. “I’m not going to give you my body. If you want it, you have to take it knowing I don’t want this.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” he says evenly. “Now, remove it. Slowly. I want you to do it so I can watch.” I take a step back, but his hand catches my ankle. The top falls when I pull the string.

He reaches up and pinches the fabric of my bathing suit bottoms. “Everything.”

I hook my thumbs into the waistband. I slide one side over my hip and then the other. My backside chills as I peel away the wet suit.

“Very good,” he says. “Nice and slow. When you listen, you are a remarkably good little bird.”

The unfamiliar approval feels like his touch; I could almost lean into it. When I release the bottoms, they fall around my ankles. He frees my leg from his grasp so I can step out of the swimsuit and then replaces his hand. He pulls my right ankle open and then my left, baring me to him. When his lips touch my inner calf, I shudder, and it triggers an even stronger full-body tremble. My muscles feel weak and unsupportive, and I have half a mind to ask him to get out of the pool and hold me up. His eyes travel up my thigh until they reach my center. “Finger yourself.”

“What?”

“Show me how you get yourself off.”

“No,” I exclaim. “Not while you watch.”

“You forget that I can watch you anytime I like.”

I swallow through the lump in my throat and involuntarily glance around the room for cameras. “Do you?”

His eyes are blazing against the blue pool, but the green that melts me is gone. There’s just the black of his heart spilling out through his pupils. “No,” he says. “I prefer the live show.”

“Please, Calvin. I can’t—please. Don’t make me.”

“Every time you say please, my dick gets a little harder. The harder it gets, the less control I have.” He half rises out of the pool and snatches my wrist, lowering my hand between my legs. He pushes my palm against my clit so I’m cupping myself. When I insert my index finger, he releases my wrist and settles back in the water. I push my mound into my palm and moan softly as my finger plows deeper. When my embarrassment begins to subside and carnality takes over, I realize I like the way he watches me. The look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know: his control is waning, and it’s my doing. In this moment, I’m the one with the power. “Calvin,” I moan when his eyes meet mine.

“Watching is torture, knowing how you feel wrapped around my cock.”

I know he doesn’t need an invitation, but I open my other hand to him. He jumps out of the pool in a rush of water and picks me up in an instant. My legs instinctively circle his waist as he strides forward, backing me up against a wall. The heat of his mouth on mine stuns me, killing anything cold in me. His hips grind against me, my clit yielding to the hardness in his swim trunks as his lips feed off mine. The wall disappears from my back and is replaced with overwhelming heat.

He sets me on my ass, but his hand grips my hair, holding me to him as our tongues collide over and over, wet and slick, soft and hard. He tears away suddenly and my nostrils are flooded with woody scents. I’m sitting on a bench in a sauna, and my already prickling skin burns hotter. He’s ripping at his trunks and when they fall, my gut churns with anticipation to feel him. Without the cloak of darkness, the largeness of him almost has me scrambling backward. I can hardly believe he’s been inside me or that he will be again.

His big hands enclose over my breasts, and he trusses one up for his mouth. My nipple flames under the affection of his hot tongue. He pulls it deeper, taking it between his teeth so it delivers an electric current down the middle of my body. His hand kneads my other breast, and I can’t stop the endless moans spilling out of me. I’ve never wanted anything so badly before, and my body is calling for him with each flutter between my legs. He pushes my back hard into the step behind me as his mouth returns to mine.

“Calvin,” I beg.

“Say it.” He pulls my hips to the edge with one hand while he grabs himself with the other. The crown of his dick rubs over my clit. “Say it, or I’ll make you come like this.”

Ribbons of ecstasy wind through me. My thighs vibrate with his steady rhythm, and I know I won’t last long.

“I-I want you.”

“Wrong,” he says. He squeezes out a bead of pre-cum and massages me faster.

“I want you inside me.”

“Better,” he rasps, his fingers burrowing into my hip. “But still wrong.”

The world is falling apart, leaving gashes of orange, red, and yellow in its place. I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I’m grasping for something as everything swirls behind my lids. My body is in flames, heat licking me all over, and I’m wet and slippery, sweat and pool water stinging my eyes. I hear the echo of my name in my consciousness, and I touch it, hold onto it as I gasp back to life. “Fuck me,” I tell him. “I’m so high on you. Just fuck me, Calvin.”

There are only lost seconds before I’m being pounded into the wood. My eyes are still closed; this fucking is in black and white, so hurried, so hard, and bliss-bright lights burn my retinas before darkness swallows me. My body is all tremors and ripples as I come, and my mind is as high as heaven, as in, I can’t reach it, as in, I’ve never felt anything like this. My everything is entangled around Calvin as my world shimmers between dark and light. My arms and legs and pussy constrict to pull him deeper. My support cracks and splinters, and I’m suspended. I am both purging and gorging, my life seeping through my pores and Calvin’s cum filling the void it leaves, warming my already sweltering body that is just a pool of sweat.

I hear his words, fuck, are you okay, and my arms lock tighter around him because if I let go, I don’t know what will happen. And it’s blindingly clear in this moment how terrified I am of the unknown. There are fingers on my jaw, squeezing, and the world is back, cold and a flood of blue light.

“Cataline.”

“I’m here,” I say. Calvin’s face disappears and reappears like a light strobe. I can’t stop blinking. I’m lying on freezing tile. With a deep breath, I will my eyes to stay open.

Calvin squats next to me, his face examining mine. “How do you feel?”

“Like a miracle. So good.”

His expression turns amused. “That’s from the steam. For a second I thought you were going to pass out on me.”

I sigh, sated. “Is that what it’s like to get high?”

He just laughs. “Come on.”

“Wait.” My hand flies to his upper arm. “Did you like it?”

“Like what?”

“The . . . sex. Am I doing it right?”

He stares at me until his mouth hooks at the corner. He glances up and nods behind me. “What do you think? The only way to salvage that sauna is to turn it into a paper factory.”

“It’s ruined?”

“The wood splintered. How did you miss that?”

I flush and sit up quickly, steadying myself with his body when the world spins.

“You were further gone than I realized,” he says. “Maybe I should carry you.”

“I’m fine.” I shake my head and quickly add, “But thanks.”

“You need a shower and food. Then take it easy. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

My body is always betraying me. I nod, but my chin wobbles noticeably enough that he cocks his head at me.

“What?” he asks.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Will you eat dinner with me tonight?”

There is wariness in the narrowing of his eyes. “Why?”

“I’m alone a lot.”

He takes my bicep and urges me to my feet. “Come with me.” We dress, and I follow him back through the mansion. In my bathroom, he pulls my robe off before turning on the shower. He keeps his hand under the stream as he looks at me. “Why are you covering yourself?”

“I’m not used to being naked in front of someone else,” I say.

“Have you ever been?”

“Yes.”

He raises his eyebrows in a way that tells me he knows I’m lying. He removes his hand from the water and holds open the door. “Get in.”

I never take my eyes off him as I enter the shower. He stands in the doorway, staring back at me as warm water plasters my hair to my cheeks. My lashes are dripping, but I don’t blink. I let my arms fall to my sides. He is statue-still, but his knuckles whiten around the handle of the shower door. Finally, he shakes his head and sighs before untying his own robe.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He shrugs it on to the floor. “I have to shower too,” he says as he gets in. “Might as well do it here.”

I’m frozen, unsure of how to respond or act in this intimate setting. He reaches behind me for shampoo, but before he can open it, I put my hand on his and take the bottle. “Let me do it,” I say. The top creaks when I flip it up. Eyes locked with his, gauging his reaction, I squeeze some into my hand. He leans down as I reach high. I have to step closer, and our fronts touch. My hands slide into his thick hair. I sigh. To have my fingers sunken here is euphoric. He closes his eyes as I begin massaging in the shampoo. It’s nothing less than completely unexpected when his arms wrap around me and pull me into his embrace. His forehead rests on mine as my fingers work.

I wonder if anyone has ever taken care of this man. Not the way his staff does, but in a way that feeds his soul. For the first time since arriving at the mansion, I question the demons and devils in him. Did someone else put them there? Does he even know anything else? Is he fixable, and is that what he wants? I drop my hands down to his neck, where I continue to massage, letting my fingers travel over his shoulders and upper arms. His muscles are pure steel, so much so that my fingers and palms ache from digging and probing. The pain is good. He needs this; I can feel it in the way his arms constrict around my torso as he sighs into my hair. Eventually, his head draws back. I try to read his eyes, but I don’t get them for long. “Thanks,” he says, touching the corner of my mouth with his thumb. “I’ll be back for dinner. We’ll eat in your room.”

His arms slip from under mine, leaving me soaked and alone. I know wondering what it would take to make that dark heart light is dangerous. But a wild hunger is building fast in me. I don’t know if I’ve been starved for anyone for months or starved for Calvin my whole life.

My focus on escape cannot waver, though. In the end, it’s me or him. If I try to take on his demons, it could mean my life. Or, worse, I could end up imprisoned here forever.

26

Calvin’s wet touch still lingers on my skin when I exit the bathroom. It’s light out, though the sun is setting early these days. I change into pajamas and decide to nap until Calvin returns. When I wake, I sit up abruptly because Calvin is in the room. The first thing I notice is the way his navy, drawstring pants cling to every bulge and curve below his waist. Then the stark white t-shirt that outlines his muscles. To distract myself, I watch his movements. During the day, he didn’t seem affected by whatever Norman shot into his arm. Now he even seems at ease.

“Hey,” he says without looking up. “Feeling refreshed?”

I nod as he moves bowls from a cart to the coffee table. “Did you make that?”

“Yep. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.”

“Where’s Norman?”

“What’s wrong? Think I’m incapable of making and serving a meal?”

His tone is teasing so I smile.

“I know it’s not exactly foiegras,” he continues, grabbing two glasses from the cart, “but the wine is good.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Foie gras?” He glances up and shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

Watching him work intrigues me, and I find myself retrieving my camera from the nightstand’s top drawer. I take it to the coffee table with me and stand over the spread he’s building. I frame the shot, making sure to include both bowls, the wine, and Calvin’s hand as he sets a napkin near my plate. I hold the camera there for a moment and then lower it, smiling to myself.

“Why didn’t you take the picture?” he asks.

“I don’t need to. Sometimes I just like setting it up.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t like to waste film. I only capture the shots I know I can’t live without.”

His eyebrows rise imperceptibly. “You know that I’ll buy you as much film as you want.”

I shrug and set the camera on the table. While waiting for him to start, I play with my fork.

“Cataline?”

I look up. “Yes?”

“Do you think I’ll withhold film for bad behavior?”

I curse myself for having given him the idea, wishing suddenly I’d just taken the picture. “No,” I say airily. “I just hate the idea of wasting it.”

“How long have you been doing that?”

“Taking pictures? My whole life. Even as a kid, I—”

“No. How long have you been not taking pictures?”

“Oh. A few weeks, I guess.”

He glances behind me where the window is. “I see.” He stabs noodles with his fork and takes a bite, so I do the same.

“Thank you for making this,” I say. “I ate a lot of mac and cheese when I was younger, so it reminds me of being a kid.” He doesn’t respond, so I continue. “On the nights where I made dinner but there weren’t many groceries, I was secretly happy. Mac and cheese was my favorite, and we always had a box of that.”

“Why didn’t you go buy groceries?”

I scrunch my nose. “Not when I was a kid.”

“You made dinner as a child?”

“Sure. I did lots of things for them around the house. Cleaning, mowing, babysitting. Cooking, too, once I got better at making something other than instant pasta.”

“Them?” Calvin asks.

“I have—had a foster family.”

“Had? Don’t you anymore?”

“Not since I turned eighteen.”

“But that’s not something that just ends. Surely you keep in touch.”

I shake my head. “Haven’t heard from them since the day I left.”

His fork clatters against his plate. “What?”

“It’s okay. I haven’t reached out to them either.”

“But surely they call or write you once in a while?”

“No. They know I’m in New Rhone, but I doubt they even have Frida’s address.”

He’s staring at me like I have two heads. I touch the ends of my hair, twirling them around my index finger. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I didn’t really fit in with their daughters.” Calvin is beginning to glare. I purposely haven’t thought of these things in years. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and balls it up. He looks about to stand. “They were younger than me,” I say quickly, “always playing with dolls or new toys. Later, it was a lot of getting dressed up and socializing. I mostly read and took pictures, though.” I pause only long enough to swallow. “My living there was more of an arrangement than anything. Like I said, I helped out around the house and babysat. In exchange, the Andersons put a roof over my head and treated me well. I’m grateful, but I don’t feel the need to keep in touch.”

“If you moved here straight from high school, where’d you get the money to survive?”

“I had . . .” I pause and look away. The lump in my throat seems to get bigger whenever my past comes up. But I’m afraid he’ll leave if I stop talking. “There was a small settlement from my parents’ death and an inheritance that I received at eighteen.” My fingers quietly shred the napkin in my lap. “Actually, it was a flyer in my mailbox that saved me. For the job fair Parish Media held. Delivered right to my address. I almost didn’t pursue it; I was so close to giving up. But Hale hired me the same day. Any longer without work, and I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“You spent all the inheritance money during the two years you looked for work?”

I cock my head at him. Did I say how long it’d been? “It wasn’t much. Just enough to give Frida some money each month and eat.”

“And the Andersons—they never gave you money after you left?”

“Um, no. Like I said, we haven’t spoken.”

Even though his eyes are no longer on me, anger radiates from him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he snaps before muttering, “that just doesn’t seem right.”

I laugh grimly. “You’re suddenly concerned about my well being?”

His head whips back to me. “Forget it.”

“Oh.” I look down and concentrate on getting macaroni into my mouth, trying to ignore the sting of his dismissal.

His chair scrapes against the wood floor. “I should try to get some work done tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean what I said. Don’t go.”

“I—”

“I’m finished too,” I interject, quickly wiping the corners of my mouth with what’s left of my napkin. “We can do something else.”

He answers gruffly. “What did you have in mind?”

“Anything you want.” I hate the words, hate that I’m pandering to him. I unclench my jaw. “A game,” I suggest. “We could play something.”

“A game?” he repeats.

“I’ve been practicing pool downstairs, but I have no one to play against.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“I’ll—we can play for money or something.”

“You have no money.”

I look at my hands. “No.”

“Or something, then. We’ll play for something.”

“Okay,” I agree, swallowing.

“If I win, I get a blowjob.”

The backs of my ears heat. “What’s to stop you from getting a blowjob ever?”

“This blowjob is special. No fighting or resisting. You don’t do it because I make you, you do it because you want to.”

“But you would be making me.”

“That’s what I want, take it or leave it. I have plenty to do otherwise.”

“Okay,” I find myself saying. “I agree. I can’t promise I’ll enjoy it, but . . . okay.”

He grunts. “And if you win?”

I don’t hesitate. “You unlock my window.”

My eyes are locked dead with his, a silent battle we seem to have over and over again.

“That’s what you want? Out of anything in the world?”

“Yes,” I say. “No. Wait. What? I can have anything?”

He chuckles as I gape at him. “It’s too late. You already chose.”

I shake my head vigorously. “Are you being serious?”

“Of course not, Cataline. Unlocking your window is about as much as I would consider.”

“Oh. So we have a deal then?”

His fingers drum on the coffee table until he says, “Fine.”

I can’t help the way my eyes widen or the smile that spreads across my face. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You have to win first.”

“I’ve been practicing a lot,” I say. “Seeing as how I have nothing but time.”

He stands and stretches his arms to the ceiling, showing me a sliver of tanned skin. “Come on. Rosa’ll get this.”

In the game room, I chalk two cues while he looks around. “It’s been years since I’ve come in here,” he says.

“Seriously?”

“I’m not much for games, especially when there’s nothing at stake.”

“Well, I hope you’re not a sore loser, because I’m about to dominate you.” Neither of us laughs. When he turns his head over his shoulder to look at me, I drop my gaze. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“Is that okay to say?”

He turns back to the board game in his hands. “It’s fine. Jokes are allowed, Cataline.”

“Oh. Okay. It’s ready.”

He swaggers over and takes the cue from me. With his other hand open, he gestures at the table. “Ladies first.”

“We have to lag for the break.”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “This is your first game?”

“There’s a book on eight-ball in the library. I’ve been reading up.”

“I see. It’s fine. You go ahead.”

I shake my head and grab the cue ball as I head to one end of the table. “We play by the rules.” I bend over the table, take my shot, and watch as it glides back toward me, landing inches from the rail. I mark the spot before Calvin does the same. His ball touches the end rail and stops less than an inch away.

“You win.” I balance my cue against the table and proceed to carefully rack the other balls around the eight ball. I slide them over the table until they’re in position.

“You’re very thorough,” Calvin remarks.

I put my hands on my hips and look at him. “Go,” I urge. His gaze lingers on me a moment before he leans over the table to break. One ball goes directly into the corner pocket. “Solids,” he says.

“No shit.”

He turns to me slowly. “Mouthy tonight.”

I force a smile. “Another joke.” His next try is less successful, even though it should’ve been easy, and excitement flutters my heart. I round the table while surveying my options. I end up slipping between where he stands and the rail to set up my shot. When he doesn’t move, I turn my head over my shoulder. “Do you mind?” I ask.

He smirks. “Not at all.”

I look back at the table. When I bend over, my ass just brushes his crotch.

“You know,” he says, slightly pushing his hips into me, “for a beginner, your stance isn’t half bad.”

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?” His body closes over my back, and I immediately tense. His hands cover each of mine, and he says, “Bend lower.”

“I can do it.”

“Lower.”

When I bow deeper into the table, his body comes with me until his mouth is by my ear. “Your chin should only be inches above the stick.” His right hand squeezes mine and pulls gently so the cue slides through our left hands. “Relax your grip. Lock your wrist.” He presses forward, and I can feel the graze of his penis against my backside. Together, we glide the stick back and forth slowly. “Keep your cue and head lined up with the shot. Envision a direct line of where you want the ball to go. Got it?”

I nod, breathless and unable to respond, but he doesn’t move.

“Are you sure? You’ve got a lot riding on this.”

“Yes,” I rasp and clear my throat.

He remains another moment before releasing me. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I barely remember what he just said, much less anything I’ve read or practiced. I miss the shot.

“You did that on purpose,” I say.

“Sorry to disappoint, Sparrow, but I don’t need to distract you. We both know I’m going to win this game.”

If anything can diffuse the haze he’s just inspired, it’s a challenge. I straighten up immediately and look him in the eye. “That may be, but I won’t go down easy.”

His lips roll into each other as his chest pulses with a suppressed laugh. “I have no doubt.”

I slam the base of my cue into the floor. “You knew all along you’d win. Did you even consider unlocking my window?”

“Let’s just play, Sparrow. Who knows, maybe you’ll have a bit of beginner’s luck.”

I don’t. I realize halfway through that he’s missing shots to extend the game, but he doesn’t let me win. I sigh as he collects my cue and replaces it on the wall rack.

“You did well,” he says. “Really, I’m impressed.”

For whatever reason, it eases my disappointment that he thinks so. Despite my attempt not to, or maybe because of it, my eyes drift as he walks back to me. In the flimsy pants, his growing erection is obvious. When he reaches me, he stands close enough that our bodies almost touch. A new kind of fear develops in me. I’ve never willingly had a man in my mouth, and I have no idea how to do it on my own. My jaw tingles, and I bend my knees to drop to the floor.

His hand catches my bicep. “I’ll collect later.”

My lips part. “Oh.”

He gives my arm a firm squeeze before leaving the room. My loneliness is immediate and crushing. So much so that I wish he’d let me pay my debt, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone again. And because I know well the anxiety of waiting until the moment he’ll return for his prize.

27

Calvin

Tuesday afternoon can’t come soon enough. Obligations have kept me tied up in New Rhone when I have a pressing matter in Fenndale. I leave the office early to make the two-hour drive to the Andersons’ home. Since Sunday night, Cataline’s been dangerously on my mind. Her words, her scent, her touch all cloud my thoughts. I’ve both given and taken too much. What it will take to restore balance between us won’t be pleasant, but it must be done.

But before I can face her again, I must rectify the wrong done to her. My mistake, my failure to see that she wasn’t comfortable when I thought she was. Growing up poor before the accident, I knew her tendency toward frugality. I meant for her to have a choice, but that choice was never allowed her.

My fists curl hard around the steering wheel. In order to deflect questions, I’ve always been amiable and patient with the Andersons. If nothing else, I’ve stressed the importance of anonymity—Cataline was never to know of a third party. I realize now that they’ve used that against both of us. Cataline has made it clear that their role in her life is minimal at best, and knowing that, it’s tempting to make them pay for their greed. As I pull the car into the farm’s dirt driveway, Norman’s warning from earlier is fresh in my mind.

“Remember the code,” Norman says. “The punishment must fit the crime.”

“I know better than anyone. One exception will lead to another, and eventually, our system will fail.”

“Any kill must be warranted. Maintain control. I only feel compelled to remind you because this is a more personal matter than you normally deal with.”

“Personal, no,” I say. “It’s obligation, Norman. Lately, you seem to be confusing the two.”

I hear voices in the house before I even enter, which makes them easy to locate. When I stride through the kitchen doorway, Mrs. Anderson screams, raising her wooden spoon so spaghetti sauce flies across the cabinets.

Her husband jumps up from his spot at the dinner table. “What the fuck you doing, barging into my place like this?”

“We had a deal,” I say, slamming my fist on the wooden table. “What happened to the money?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about, Mr. Lawrence. Cataline’s got a check every month like we worked out.”

“And her savings?”

“Yup, she’s got that too. All, what was it, Lynne? Must’ve been twenty thousand or something close. She’s got it.”

“That so?” I ask. “I heard otherwise, Anderson.”

He picks something from his teeth as he studies me. Fear, something that I identify easily, is missing from his expression. His flannel is only half tucked, and I watch his eyes travel down my Armani suit. “Whatever you heard’s a lie, Mr. Lawrence. If it’s the girl telling you that, she’s a little liar. We raised her, we know. Something about growing up the way she did.”

If I were physically able to grow bigger, I would be right now. My muscles are tightening as adrenaline surges to all the dark corners of my body. “You’re saying she made it up?”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “You talk to her?”

“Like I said, I heard it from somewhere else.”

“Young girl called here last month, asking after Cat. Said she’s missing, but the police done think she ran away and won’t do nothing.”

“I don’t know anything about that. You’re my only contact with her, and she’s your responsibility.”

“Not no more, not apart from getting her that money.” He nods at his wife without removing his beady eyes from me. “Lynne and I been talking. Want to know what your interest is in the girl.”

“I’ve told you, I can’t disclose that.”

“Well, maybe we disclose it to Cataline, you don’t get the fuck out of our house. I don’t know what gets you off about giving some little brat money, but I don’t think I want a part of it anymore. Perverted, high-class asshole.”

His words hang in the silence for a moment. His wife’s slight, uneven breathing borders on whimpering. Before she can even scream, I have him by the throat slammed up against the wall. “You’re a piece-of-shit liar,” I say calmly as his fingers pry at my grip. “I want a check for every last dime I’ve given you. The money I paid you and the money you were supposed to give Cataline. Right now.”

“I don’t have it,” he pants. “I gave it to Cataline.”

My grip tightens, and he’s coughing, a rough, dying noise that is music to my ears. I turn my head to his wife. “Tell me the truth, or that’s the last sound he ever makes.”

“We didn’t give it to her,” she cries. “We don’t got it, though.”

I release her husband without a look and walk over to her. She cowers against the counter, crying and muttering nonsensically.

“What’d you do with it?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Everything. We spent it on groceries, fixing the house, a new truck. I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry.”

“You’re worthless scum. Your only purpose on this planet was to give Cataline a safe, happy home and deliver my money to her. You failed on both accounts. Have that check in my hands by the end of the week, and maybe I’ll let you both live.”

“Is that—are you threatening us?” she asks. “You can’t kill me. I have children.”

“You think I give a fuck? I’d be doing them a favor. And if you run, I’ll find you. I’m always up for a good chase.”

The man’s voice comes from the floor, where he’s crumbled against the wall. “Who are you?”

“I’m someone with the money, the power, and now, the motive to hunt you down. Nobody can save you from me. Get me my money. Understand?”

I don’t wait for an answer before I leave, busting their front door off its hinges in the process. There are female cries nearby. I know they have daughters younger than Cataline, but I can’t muster any sympathy for them. Instead, I get in my car and start back for New Rhone, calming myself with the thought that they’ll spend the next few days in sheer terror.

* * *

“Gone?” Norman asks.

“All of it. I don’t think they ever intended to give her a dime. And the stipend I provided them every month she lived there, I’ve no idea. She probably never benefited from it. How could I have missed it?”

“You couldn’t be there all the time. You did what you could. They’re the ones in the wrong, not you.” He watches me pace the room a moment. “You did well to contain your rage.”

“You’re giving me too much credit. I want to kill them still. I’m not sure I can’t.”

“You can. You’ve come too far, learned too much control to let it slip. Think of what it makes you to kill a family.”

“They deserve it,” I say.

“Perhaps they do. But not for this. Find me more evidence of wrongdoings, and we can revisit.”

I know he’s right. And the fact that I want them to pay so severely means I’m in too deep. Spending a day with her was imprudent on my part. She won’t know why she’s being punished, but that won’t make it any less sweet for me. It’s my responsibility to return us to captor and captive. Anything else can only mean more danger for both of us.

28

Cataline

When I kneel, it’s not in worship or gratitude. It isn’t to unload my sins and ask for absolution. It’s only under the guise of these things. In my heart, it comforts me to be in the Lord’s presence. It’s a selfish time for me, to ask for healing and to be brought back to my parents. I kneel in supplication.

The glow is not simply from the lit candles at the base of the statue of the Virgin Mary. It’s from a feeling of warmth and security that exists only in the sanctity of this room in a dark mansion. I ask for help, greedily, for relief, for guidance. It’s only my second time in the mansion’s chapel. It feels wrong to be in here after these past months, after the shameful things I’ve done.

My forehead touches my knuckles, my hair long and loose over my shoulders. Because everything in my closet is fitted, short, or sexy in some manner, Rosa has lent me a white, long-sleeved, shapeless dress. I am relatively calmer hidden beneath it with my sins. Deep in the recesses of my thoughts, I don’t hear Calvin enter. It’s the creak of the pew directly behind me that draws me from my prayer. His presence is strong at my back. Through the cotton of my gown, his hand cups my bottom, his fingers curling under but not quite reaching their target.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

His hand moves, rubbing me as my body devolves into pure panic. My heart stutters and stammers against my chest as his fingers move deeper toward my clit with each slide.

“Y-you can’t do this,” I stammer. “Not here.”

“I can do whatever I like to you because you’re my possession. I own you.”

“No, you don’t,” I say in hushed fury.

“I don’t?”

“No.”

The wood groans again, and his heat envelops me, his mouth moving to my ear. “You keep denying that you’re mine. Do you belong to someone else?”

“I belong to no one.”

“I’m glad you think so. I have a debt that can’t be paid with money. Since you don’t feel obligated to me, I think I’ll have you repay it on my behalf.”

“What are you talking about?” His massaging is harder now, my body warming against my every instinct. I fight it entirely, but his fingers are too skilled. When his other hand closes around my breast, my body convulses slightly.

“You’ll fuck my friend because I say so. Because you aren’t mine. Perhaps I’ll watch, or even record it so we can watch it together.”

My loud words echo in the small room. “No. You’re psychotic.”

He moans hot breath against my ear. My knuckles shake as I crush my intertwined fingers together. “Then tell me this is mine,” he says, squeezing between my legs with a firm grip. “That’s all I ask.”

“Never,” I whisper.

He gathers up the dress behind me and slips his hand underneath, caressing up the inside of one thigh. “My stubborn sparrow. Your pride will only hurt you.”

One finger pushes into me, and my vision blurs. It delves deeply into my heat, and I know when he removes it, it’s wet. It returns with a second finger, driving up again until he can’t push any deeper. “How many fingers do you think I can fit inside you before you come?”

My shoulders shudder with a sob. His hand on my breast slides up around my neck and under my chin, forcing my head up. “Keep your eyes open,” he says. The Virgin Mary looks down on us impassively, and I’m forced to watch her as his fingers curve inside me and massage, causing my body to tighten up. “Not yet,” he says. “Two is nothing.”

A third finger presses inside, and I’m full with him.

“Tell Him,” he says. “Confess how naughty you’ve been.”

I shake my head in his grasp.

“Confess,” he hisses. “I know you touch yourself at night and think of me.”

My denial is garbled by the lump in my throat.

“You liked when I fucked you, and you want me to do it again. Say it.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

He groans, and his erection jabs into my ass cheek.

“I’ve had impure thoughts and committed impure acts.”

“Did you touch yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Did you wish it was me?”

“Yes,” I say as tears roll down my cheeks. “And I wished you would do it again.”

His fingers spread inside me to welcome a fourth. I groan loudly and attempt to squirm away. His movements are fast and hard now, and his thumb presses against my anus.

“You’re dripping all over my hand. I wonder if you’ll come this way, or if you need more.”

I gasp. “More?”

“I have ten fingers, don’t I? A fist?”

“Oh my God.”

He chuckles in my ear. “Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.”

I’m too afraid to come and too afraid not to. I’m dissolving into nothing but tears that stream from the corners of my eyes as my head is tilted up. His fingers still, and his other hand releases my throat to pet my hair. My head drops, but I incline slightly into his gentle touch. His thrusting starts again, this time soft but deliberate.

“There, there,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’ll make you come this way.”

True to his word, he removes the pressure from my anus and swivels his hand to replace his thumb on my clit. His rhythm goes unbroken as he pushes me to the edge, whispering nothings into my ear, and stroking my hair. My orgasm crests, and I reach back to grip his hand in my hair, squeezing it as my thighs tremble and my pussy constricts around his fingers.

My body wholly unclenches, and I melt against the pew in front of me. He removes his hand and pulls my dress down, smoothing it over my backside with a saint’s touch.

Behind me he moans with a sucking noise, and says, “So sweet.” His breath is hot on the back of my neck as he kisses me once on my hair. He leaves without another word.

29

I am strangely liberated after my forced confession. Whatever was blocking my vision shifted, allowing me to see my situation with Calvin for what it is. My mind is submitting to my body, understanding that I not only accept but want what I know is wrong.

Early afternoon sun skims the dying leaves outside my window. My heart thumps with thoughts of Calvin’s hand making its way inside me while I revealed shameful secrets. It’s been days since I’ve seen him, but the memory is fresh at all hours.

My door opens without announcement, and Calvin enters. “Good afternoon, Cataline,” he says as he approaches. “My little sparrow on her perch.”

“It looks like a nice day.”

“Truth be told, it’s a bit chilly for my taste. Good thing we shut your window; I’d hate for you to catch a cold.”

“Yes, good thing,” I murmur.

“I have a proposition for you. I promised to consider letting you outdoors for good behavior.”

My spine straightens immediately. My breathing stops.

“Before you get excited, I have one last assignment for you. I’m not sure you can handle it, though.”

“I can,” I promise. “Anything.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Anything?”

His threat in the chapel returns to me suddenly and without mercy. I’d somehow blocked it out until this moment, and the memory is almost crippling. I grip the edge of the sill. My stomach flips violently at the thought of Calvin sharing me with someone else, and my shoulders slump again. “What is it?”

“In my position, I’m expected to support different causes through donations or by making appearances. Long ago I agreed to host a charity ball here at the mansion. There will be food, dancing, socializing, that sort of thing.”

“A party,” I supply.

“Sure. A party. I don’t care for them, but it comes with the territory. If I could throw the event without attending, I would. Now, your behavior has improved since your arrival, but it’s far from ideal. I can’t very well have you screaming at the top of your lungs while I have guests downstairs.”

My hands flex as though clinging to his every word. “What are you going to do with me?”

He clears his throat, adjusting his stance. “You have the opportunity to plead your case to me. Either I tape your mouth shut and lock you in the basement, or you make yourself useful to the caterer and serve food.”

I blink my confused shock. “You want me to serve food? To people?”

“Left to your own devices, I’m not sure you wouldn’t come down and make a scene. At least this way I can keep an eye on you. Would you like to see people?”

“Yes.” I pause. “I think. What would I say?”

“Avoid any attempts at conversation. If anyone approaches you, it’s acceptable to say that I’ve asked the staff not to interact with guests.”

“You’d trust me enough for that?”

He steps closer. “Can I trust you?”

I nod.

“If you do well, then I’ll allow a horseback ride accompanied by me. And perhaps even lunch outdoors or whatever other fantasies you’re fixating on.”

I clap my hands together once. “I can do it.”

I recoil with surprise when he reaches out to take my chin. “However. If you make any attempt to enlist help or escape, I will be very, very disappointed. And I can assure you it won’t go unpunished, no matter the outcome. I am a powerful man, Cataline. With a long reach.”

“I understand,” I say. “When’s the party?”

“In a couple hours.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s—I’m . . . Thank you.”

“I’ve been thinking about our time in the chapel.”

My response comes from under my breath. “I have too.”

“Don’t wear underwear tonight.”

I swallow audibly. “You told me once I wasn’t here for that.”

“For what, Cataline?”

“Sex.”

“You’re not.”

When he’s gone, I go directly to the shower where I brace myself against the tiled wall. Things are rushing at me at warp speed. Emotions, ideas, fears. If I were to throw myself at someone’s feet, would it be the end of my nightmare? Calvin’s trust is oddly moving, but I don’t know if I can stay idle knowing there’s a chance of escape. Languorous water droplets slide down the tip of my nose, buoying there until the next one comes along. Escape should be my only thought, but it isn’t. The no-underwear rule means I’ll have Calvin again tonight if I’m compliant.

By the time I’m finished drying my hair, there’s a caterer’s uniform waiting for me on the bed. The white button-down blouse tucks into a fitted black skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh. In my past life, I never would’ve worn something so short and revealing, especially during this time of year. But since it’s a uniform, there isn’t much I can do.

There are five other caterers, two women and three men, and they all wear the same white shirt and thin black tie as I do. My excitement at company wanes when I’m received with wide-eyed stares. Since they’re in pants and tennis shoes, I’m loudly out of place with my legs on display in a skirt and high heels. I’m introduced as a member of the staff, and their patience for my questions and fumbling is short. Nothing I do seems to be right, and my insecurity is heightened by anxiety about what the night will hold.

I’m crossing under the foyer’s magnificent chandelier, balancing in my shoes, when the doorbell rings. It seems to happen in slow motion—Norman appears to greet a couple, and the door lingers open while he takes their coats. The air’s frosty bite is welcome on my bare legs. I don’t remove my eyes from the door, even when Calvin’s unexpected heat warms me from behind and his voice is in my ear.

“Tempting, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say.

“If you’re thinking of flying, Sparrow, know that I will catch you. There is no escape. Fly until your wings fall off, until there's no more sky, but I will find you. I will always find you.”

Norman closes the heavy door, and the guests follow him from the room. I look over my shoulder. Calvin wears a tuxedo, his bowtie near my hair. I meet his eyes behind his glasses. His hand smooths over my backside and under the skirt’s hem. The tip of one finger grazes my opening and slips inside, eliciting my sharp gasp.

“Good little bird,” he praises. “Make sure you’re very attentive to my guests tonight.” He removes his hand and pats my ass before walking past me into the dining room. My heels puncture the room’s quiet as I go to the door. I touch the handle for some time until the doorbell rings, causing me to jump away.

Norman rushes into the room and halts abruptly when he sees me. I take two steps back, staring at him. He shakes his head slowly but doesn’t speak. It’s not until I’m retreating that he lets the guests in.

When most people appear to have arrived, I navigate through the room with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. My mind is in overdrive being in a crowd that feels three times as big as it is. I almost drop my tray when a man touches my shoulder to pass by. His apologetic smile is kind, but I back away.

“Excuse me, Miss?” I turn to an elderly woman with fading red lipstick. “Where can I find the restroom?”

“Um, I . . .” I freeze, my heart racing, until she raises an eyebrow. “The bathroom,” I manage. “It’s just down the hall, second door on the right.”

When she’s on her way, I set my tray on the nearest surface and inhale a deep breath.

“You all right there?”

“A little short of breath,” I say.

“Maybe you should have a seat.”

I look up. The man seems in his early forties, average build with a noticeable beer gut. My immediate thought is that he’s no match for Calvin should I need him to be.

“You ever catered before?” he asks.

There’s a loud noise behind me, and I whirl around, knocking a champagne flute off my tray.

He laughs loudly. “I hope this isn’t your day job.”

“It’s not,” I say, bending awkwardly as I brush the shards into a pile. “This is my first time.”

“Hey, careful,” he says. “You’ll cut yourself. Someone’s coming with a broom.”

I straighten up and catch Rosa signaling to me that she’s on her way. Across the room, I catch Calvin staring at us. His unreadable eyes move between the man and me. He doesn’t seem displeased that I’m socializing, more intrigued. As though he expects it.

“So what do you do?”

“What?” I ask, returning my attention to the man.

“For a living. You said this was your first time.”

“I—” My palms begin to tingle, and there’s a sudden lack of moisture in my mouth. “I can’t say. I’m . . . I work for Mr. Parish.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You work for him, or he hires you?”

“I’m on the staff. I can’t really talk about it.” I’m drowning, sure that Calvin will appear at any moment to whisk me off to the basement.

The man studies me a moment before nodding. “Ah. I see. No, I get it.”

“You do?” I ask.

“Sure. I wouldn’t exactly go around broadcasting it either, but I’ve been down that road a time or two.” He winks. “Though, never with someone like you.”

Could he possibly know the truth about me? The thought that Calvin’s done this before, and that others know about it, puts a strange knot in my chest. “I should really get back to work,” I say.

“You . . . do you work exclusively for Parish?”

“What?”

“You know,” he says. “Catering. Does he hire you just for himself or for others too?” He chuckles. “Like a party favor?”

“I don’t know,” I say, backing away. When I check again, Calvin’s in conversation, no longer watching. My skin prickles fiercely as understanding washes over me. “Do you do business with Mr. Parish?”

He’s looking down at my ankles, but his head snaps up. “What? Oh, sometimes, yes.”

“Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need fresh air.”

Fresh air is not a luxury I’m allowed, so I find myself in the bathroom, braced against the counter with outstretched arms. I stare at myself in the mirror, my blue eyes too bright and my hair too silky for all the things that haunt me.

“Don’t wear underwear tonight.”

“Make sure you’re very attentive to my guests.”

“I have a debt that can’t be paid with money.”

I wasn’t wrong in thinking the no-underwear rule meant someone would come for me tonight. It just wouldn’t be Calvin.

30

A knock at the bathroom door is almost expected. I’m still staring at my now pallid face when a male voice asks, “Can I come in?”

“I’ll be out in a few moments.”

The lack of response is a relief. I breathe deeply in and out, attempting to calm myself. It’s been more than two months since I had any normal interaction. I can get through this and when I do, I’ll be rewarded with a day of freedom. After some minutes have passed, I open the door to leave, but the man I was just talking to is there waiting. He puts a hand on my cheek before I can pull away.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He withdraws. “Sorry. What?”

“Why—”

“Did I misread something?”

“What?” I ask, backing away. He looks over his shoulder and steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“You said you weren’t exclusive? Which means . . . you’re available, and . . . don’t worry, I have . . .” He pauses, digging in his pockets. “Protection. Money too. I don’t really do this ever, but it’s been a while and the fact that this is a charity event is, well . . .” He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know why, but it’s hot, I guess.”

Betrayal is fire through my veins. Confusion melts into despair and hardens into hatred. How could Calvin do this to me? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my heart pounding.

“Um. I’m sorry. I thought—because Parish—”

“Whatever Calvin told you, I’m not. I can’t.” My knees are knocking together, and I think I’m going to throw up, so I feel behind me for the counter. The man steps closer and catches me by the waist, but his hands are an unbearable intrusion.

“Get off me,” I say as I shove him. I slap him across the face, and he stumbles back into the wall.

“What the? I’m just trying to help—”

I push him again, and he grabs for my wrists but I thrash, my hands making contact anywhere they can. I lunge for the door and catapult into the hallway, almost knocking Norman over. “Cataline, what on Earth?” He looks behind me at the man. “Is everything okay?”

“Norman, take me upstairs,” I beg. “Don’t tell Calvin.”

I’m too late though, because Calvin’s bellowing voice dispatches fear through my system. “What’s going on?”

“Come, Cataline,” Norman says, ushering me to the staircase.

“P-please, Norman. Keep him away from me.”

“Hush.”

We make our way up the stairs, his arm securely around me while there’s commotion in the foyer. I hear yelling, accusations, but I put all my energy into climbing to the third floor. Just as I hit the edge of my bed, Calvin strides in, dismissing Norman with a look. I want to cry out for him to stay, but fear silences me.

Calvin grabs my biceps and stands me up. “What happened?” he says with a light shake.

I can barely speak through my terror, so I’m just shivering in his grasp.

“Answer me.”

“I’m sorry,” I cry, my knees buckling. “I couldn’t do it.”

“You couldn’t do what?”

“I couldn’t have sex with him. I can’t, I just can’t do it.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I don’t care what your debt is. You’re an asshole. Punish me if you have to—send me to the basement, anything—I d-don’t want anyone touching me but you!” There is immediate and complete silence except for my labored breathing. My mouth hangs open. “I . . . I didn’t mean that.”

“You thought I wanted you to have sex with that man?” he asks, his fingers digging into my arms.

I attempt to wriggle from his grasp. “I hate you. Out of everything you’ve done, this is the worst. How could you?”

He releases me, and I fall back onto the bed.

“Cataline, I never—” He stops and kneels in front of me. He takes my chin. “I don’t know how this happened. You and another man, it makes me—it . . .”

He’s struggling for words on his knees, a sight my brain can’t compute. “But, you said . . . and you told me not to wear underwear.”

“For me. The only thing getting me through this night is knowing there’s one less thing separating me from having you. I—”

“I don’t believe you,” I say, trying to dislodge my chin from his grip.

“He thought you were a prostitute.”

“Why would he think that?”

“The outfit,” he says. “My very particular . . . proclivities.”

“Prostitutes?” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “He’ll pay. I promise.”

I heave a stuttering sigh. My mind is still in shambles, trying to piece everything together. “You aren’t mad?” I ask. “That I fought?”

“I should’ve been paying attention.”

I don’t understand his answer, but like butter, I melt against him. He releases my face and lets me wrap my arms around his neck.

“Hey. Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

“You will?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. He removes my arms from him before standing to pull back the covers. “Get in, and relax for the rest of the night. I’ll send Rosa and Norman up for you.”

I stare up at him. “Rosa? And Norman?”

“Don’t worry about the party. I can spare them.”

“Oh. I . . .”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. That’s fine.”

“I have to get back to the guests, but anything you want, you tell them,” he says on his way out. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I watch him leave before climbing under the covers. Rosa and Norman are in my room soon after, fawning over me. Norman keeps asking me what I need, but I’m too embarrassed to tell him.

* * *

“Calvin.”

“I’m here.”

“Calvin?”

“What is it, Sparrow? I’m right here.”

His warm words bloom inside me, and I smile. When my eyes open, a white tuxedo shirt glows in the dark just out of arm’s reach. “Calvin?”

“What?” he snaps.

“What are you doing here?”

He sighs. “I don’t know.”

“What time is it?”

“Late.”

“Is the party over?”

“Hours ago.”

I shift onto my back, but my limbs are sluggish. “It was too much,” I say. “I wasn’t ready.”

“No. You weren’t.”

My eyes threaten to close again, but I make them stay open. “You do good things, don’t you, Calvin?”

“Hmm?”

“The charity. Is it only for appearances? Or do you really care? You can be so cruel.”

There are soft noises as he moves in his chair. “I do it because I committed to it.”

“Committed to what?” I ask.

“To making things better.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I promised my parents I’d make the world better.”

I look from him up to the faux haven the white canopy creates. “Oh.”

“Are you thinking that I’ve made your world worse?”

“I guess so.”

“Earlier you said you didn’t want anyone touching you but me.”

“It was a mistake. I don’t want anyone touching me, including you.”

He laughs deeply, slowly, because he sees through my lie. With gruffness in his voice, he says, “Try and get some rest.”

My eyelids weigh with sleep, so I curl onto my side. My cheek rubs against the soft pillow. “I’ve never met anyone who cares about nothing,” I murmur. “Until you.” I’m drifting, only half asleep when he speaks again, but I don’t hear it. It feels like I only blink, but when my eyes open again, he’s gone.

* * *

I look up from my book. “Did you say something?”

“I asked how you’re feeling,” Norman says, chuckling.

“Oh. About the same.” I wince when the words scrape from my throat.

“How about some soup?”

I smile and wave my book. “Maybe later. I’m at a really good part.”

He shakes his head. “Too much activity last week. Please take my advice for once, and get some rest.”

I grin at his playful tone. “I will.”

I try reading, but my brain won’t cooperate. It wants to wonder whether or not Calvin will be home tonight. I didn’t see him yesterday or the day before, not since he sat in my room in the middle of the night, and even that’s a blur. I told him I hated him. I do sometimes, and it should satisfy me to tell him so, but it doesn’t.

My glands feel even more swollen than they were fifteen minutes earlier, and my body warmer. Whatever I’m coming down with, it’s happening fast. I stand and wrap my silk robe around me, tying the sash around my waist. I go to the kitchen, having changed my mind about the soup. But as I near the entrance, I come to an abrupt halt.

“. . . has kept him out late these past few nights,” Norman says. “Tonight will likely be more of the same.”

“He’s digging himself an early grave,” Chef Michael says. “He barely sleeps, he’s out on calls all the time. What’s going to happen to this city if we lose him?”

“It would survive like every other city on this planet,” Norman says. “But you know as well as I, Calvin will fight to his last breath.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Will you grab the door so I can toss the garbage?”

There’s a shuffle and a creak when the back door opens. Even from behind the wall, I feel the outside air on my thirsty skin. A shrill ring from inside one of the locked rooms nearly turns me into a pile of bones. Norman curses, and I flatten myself against the dining room wall just as he runs through the doorway toward the sound.

When he disappears around the corner, I peek into the kitchen. I’m alone. I have no idea what taking out the garbage involves, but that doesn’t stop my feet from moving. I beeline for the door and find it ajar. My heart hammers so violently, the cold barely registers. I can taste freedom, fresh air, a future, and it’s exhilarating. Without another thought, I bolt.

31

The thicket of trees I’ve spent months longingly watching from my window looms ahead. I don’t look back. I don’t hesitate. My heart thuds at the same pace that my bare feet pound the manicured lawn.

If I can make it to the forest, I’ll be free. I’m still in New Rhone, and if my suspicions about my location are correct, the other side will put me within a couple miles of the city. Just on the other side there are people, cars, police, Hero. Everything that represents hope and life. The forest seems massive, but I’ll reach the end eventually. In this moment, I am free.

Once under the canopy of trees, I keep running. Energy and adrenaline feed my burning legs and lungs. My face is on fire, my breaths short and fast, but what circulates through my blood isn’t the mansion’s sour air, and that’s enough to drive me forward. The sash around my waist loosens, and my robe drapes off my shoulders. When it slips off, I don’t stop, too afraid to lose even seconds. I run until I’m jogging, and I jog until I’m speed walking. When I slow, panting, to a regular pace, the cuts on my soles announce themselves. The sun set soon after I left. My hands brush over my bare arms and tug at the hem of my nightgown. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but Calvin’s words won’t stop filtering through my mind.

“Fly until your wings fall off, until there's no more sky, but I will find you. I will always find you.”

I take it for what it is: an empty threat. Believing it helped me understand my situation, but I don’t need that any longer. Now I’m free. And in a forest this size, with the head start I have, he’ll never find me before I reach the end of it. Norman will take the brunt of Calvin’s anger, and as I walk, I pray quickly for his safety. But one thing has become painfully clear during my time in the mansion: only I can save myself. When I get home, I will never forget that.

I’m suddenly exhausted, but I walk until the soles of my feet burn and my legs give out. I find a shrub at the base of a large tree and curl into an unobtrusive ball behind it.

Above me, glowing white feathers shape themselves into an owl. Wide, yellow eyes disappear and reappear every few seconds. Tree branches stretch for me from their solid trunks, like they’re trying to snatch me. Dead leaves crunch and twigs snap under my body when I shift, the only noise aside from the curious owl’s hoots. I close my eyes.

Visions swirl around me as I float between sleep and wake: the blurry words of my favorite books, my reflection in Norman’s silver tray, Cal’s endlessly green eyes.

“Little Sparrow,” Calvin calls. “Don’t let me catch you. If you run, I will find you. I will always find you. Cataline. Cataline.”

I moan as my name rings in my ears. I’m shivering on the cold forest floor, and everything throbs, from my head to my throat to my legs and bare feet. I pretend Calvin’s warm fingers massage my numb arms instead of my own frozen ones.

I start and open my eyes when I realize someone is calling my name. It’s a man’s voice, but one I don’t recognize. Dread cuts through any remnants of sleep. If Calvin catches me, I know I’ll finally see what he’s capable of. I tell myself over and over that it’s impossible for him to find me, that the forest is too big. I’m terrified it might be him, but what shocks me is that I’m more terrified it won’t be.

Footsteps shuffle so close that I see glimpses of white tennis shoes through the shrubs. I close my eyes and silently recite a prayer for protection. As if that’s ever done me any good. My eyelids turn white under someone’s flashlight.

“Is she alive?”

“She fucking better be. Pretty sure dead won’t get us shit.”

“Touch her.”

A shoe nudges my ribs, and my eyes squeeze shut.

“She’s alive,” he says.

I blink my eyes open to a man squatting over me. “Am I dreaming?” I ask.

He laughs. “Are you Cataline?”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

He nods up at the other man and looks back at me. “Get up. You’re coming with us.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” He grabs my arm and pulls. “Let go,” I yell.

“Come on, chiquita. Are you wearing a nightgown?” He shakes his head at the other man. “Beginning to see what the fuss is about.”

“What fuss?” I ask. I get to my feet because I have no other choice.

“Never mind. Apúrate. Walk.” As he speaks, his hand cups my backside and pushes me forward. He strides past me, glancing back. “I said walk.”

32

Calvin

I peel my gloves off and toss them in the passenger’s seat. Norman waits for me at the door where the house meets the garage. “How was your evening?” he asks as he follows me downstairs to the basement.

“Fairly uneventful. Cataline?”

“She was in the library last I saw, but she’s not been feeling well. I believe she went to bed.”

“Oh?” I step into the closet to undress. “What’s the problem?”

“The flu, perhaps. Not sure. Maybe even a fever.”

“Aren’t you monitoring her?”

“I took her temperature earlier and it was normal, but she felt warm.”

I leave my armor in a heap on the floor and pull on drawstring pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. “When did you last see her?”

“Late this afternoon. Around six.”

“I’m going to check on her, and then we can debrief. Meet me in the study.”

“Very well.”

I stop by the kitchen for the wrapped sandwich waiting for me on the counter. I grab half and head for the library. Cataline isn’t there, so I turn to leave when I notice her slippers near the chair she usually sits in. I shove the rest of the sandwich in my mouth and jog up the stairs to her bedroom. The door is unlocked, so I step in and switch on the lights. When I see her empty bed untouched, my blood runs icy in my veins.

I call out for her. I enlist all of my senses, but her scent is faint, and the mansion is quiet. Norman comes running when I yell for him as I race through her room to check the bathroom and try her window. “Cataline’s not in here or the library. Where the fuck is she?”

Norman cocks his head and looks around the bedroom. “Don’t worry. She has to be somewhere.”

I scan his face a second and say, “She’s not here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” I say. “Where is she? Pull up the security footage.” Norman’s face is frozen in shock until I yell, “Now.” As he sprints away, I push the palms of both hands into my forehead. Think, think, think. Unfamiliar panic suffuses my system.

I enter the basement just as Norman is pulling up the video. “Here.” He points at the screen. “When Michael took out the trash, she fled through the back door.”

“What time was that?”

He looks up at me. “Right after I saw her.”

“It’s almost two in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

I rub my hands over my face and kick a steel cabinet. “Goddamn it. Goddamn it. How did this happen?”

“Master Parish, please. We’ll find her. She can’t have gotten that far on foot.”

“And if someone else finds her first?”

“You’re afraid she’ll give you up?”

My brain won’t register his question.

“If it’s the Cartel you’re worried about, how would they know where to find her?” he asks, shaking his head. “No, you’ll get to her first.”

“They’re looking for anything to use against me. Which direction did she go?” I ask.

He purses his lips. “The forest.”

33

Cataline

“Any idea why they want you?

“Who?” I ask.

“The Cartel.”

“The Cartel wants me?” I gulp through my chattering teeth but say, “I think you have the wrong person.”

“I sure as hell hope not. Doubt there are two girls running around the woods named Cataline. How’d you get out here?”

My brain works in overdrive, trying to connect the dots between Guy Fowler, Calvin, and the Riviera Cartel.

“Hey,” he says, “I asked you a question.”

I am oddly protective of my time at the mansion. Though part of me wants to spill every dark secret about the last few months, the thought of exposing Calvin and the truth to these guys keeps me quiet. “Leave me alone, asshole.”

He snorts and looks back at me. “Are your nipples that hard because you’re turned on?”

I instinctively cover my breasts. “No. It’s because I’m freezing. Maybe if you gave me your sweater, I’d believe you were trying to help me.”

“Then I’ll be cold.”

“Give it to her,” the other man says. “If she freezes to death . . .” He shrugs.

“Give her yours then.”

“No.”

I would shudder, but I’m already shaking, so I look at my swollen feet as they eat the forest floor. I’m trying to keep up, but the pain makes me limp. “I can’t walk anymore. Can we stop?”

“Sorry. The quicker we deliver you, the better.”

I frown. “I’m serious. I can’t walk another step.”

He sighs and stops because I do. Before I know what’s happening, he links an arm around my waist and hoists me to his side so I’m dangling by my stomach.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Said you couldn’t walk.”

He ignores my objections and continues on. I stop my squirming when I realize his body warmth is helping.

Any conversation the men have as we walk is in Spanish. My stomach is beginning to ache from the position I’m in when without warning, we come to an abrupt stop. I look up as best I can and see the lower half of a man’s body in front of us.

“Yeah?” someone asks. “What do you want?”

My heart stutters at Calvin’s voice. “You have something of mine.”

Images of what he’ll do to me for this flood my mind. “No,” I whisper.

“Put her down.”

I hit the ground hard and look up. Calvin is a black shadow, looming feet away in the moonlight. His gun is raised at the man who was holding me. There’s rage in every part of his body; it’s so extreme that it seems to radiate in waves of heat.

The man furthest from me gestures wildly. “Is this about the reward? ‘Cause we can make a deal for the girl—”

Calvin charges forward and shoves him to the ground. He puts the gun to the man’s head but looks at us when he asks, “Who sent you?”

“I-I don’t know, man.”

Calvin pulls the trigger. He charges for us next, and I’m screaming from the earsplitting gunshot but nothing is coming out. Even my vocal chords are frozen in fear. I cower, looking up at him from my hands and knees.

“See what you got yourself into?” Of all the anger he’s shown me, this rage is the hottest. “Do you have any idea what these guys want with you?”

My shoulders quake as sobs break from my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, bowing my forehead to the dead leaves underneath me.

“After they rape and torture you for fun, they’ll dump your half-dead body at the landfill. Is that what you want? Answer me, goddamn it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say brokenly, unable to lift my head.

The ground seems to vibrate with his bellowing voice. “Why the fuck am I out in the middle of the night saving you when I could be home in bed? When you don’t even want me here? I should let them have you.”

I’m bawling now, mashing my forehead into the dirt as saliva dribbles down my chin, mixing with salty tears.

“Man, we can split the money, no problem.”

Calvin raises his gun, and the guy’s hands fly up.

“Or you can have it all. Take her.”

“Who sent you?” Calvin asks.

“The Cartel.”

“Who specifically? Carlos Riviera?”

“I don’t know, swear to God. Some guy approached a group of us in the East Side a few hours ago. Said the girl’s in the woods, and there’s ten grand for whoever brings her back alive. Alls I know is he had Riv ink. Said just find her, then he’ll come to us.”

Calvin crouches next to me. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” I choke out.

“I didn’t,” the guy says.

“I’m going to kill you either way. I’m just trying to decide if I should let her ass-fuck you with a tree branch first.”

“No,” I wail. “I don’t care. Just let me go. Leave me here. I promise, I won’t report either of you.”

Calvin scowls. “You’d freeze to death before you got anywhere.”

The cold click of a gun hammer registers somewhere in my fuzzy mind. I look up just as a shot rings through the air. I scream, my hands flying over my ears as Calvin jerks and falls next to me. It’s in slow motion that he looks down at the bullet in his shoulder and back at the man. Where relief should be in my heart is pure fear; not the fear Calvin inspires in me, but a base, guttural fear that he’s going to die. Another shot hits his chest, and the night is suddenly silent. Calvin’s cold eyes darken as he stands and brushes himself off. He advances without another moment’s hesitation.

Calvin catches the man by his shirt collar before he makes it two steps and slams him into the ground. I watch, broken screams trapped in my throat, as he hits him across the face. His blows come with sickening thuds, over and over. I’m too close; blood sprays into the air like fireworks each time Calvin’s fist smashes the man’s face. Eventually, his head falls back, and he goes limp. Calvin checks his pulse and after a moment, stands upright.

“No,” I whisper. Freedom dies before my eyes. I could taste it. I could feel it, but with each advancing step, Calvin slowly sucks it from me through the coldness in his glare. Blood covers the hand that reaches out for me. “No,” I shriek, crawling backward. “Don’t take me back there.”

Calvin’s hands grasp my hips to hoist me over his big shoulder. A delirious terror consumes me, and I fight him with everything I have as he walks us back the way I came. I beat his back with my fists, attempting to get to his chest, aiming for his bullet wounds, but he doesn’t slow. All I can do is hang from his body, screaming, kicking, and thrashing until eventually, everything mercifully fades to black.

* * *

I jolt back to life when a door slams. I’m weightless, supported by strong arms as the mansion forms around me. My cheek is against a bare shoulder, and Calvin’s smell invades my world. I’m swimming in a dark, long-sleeved shirt. Memories flood me faster than I can keep up as we cross the foyer.

My fight is gone. It’s better that way. It’s apparent now that I will lose. I will always lose. My tangible escape is dust in my hands.

Calvin is barking orders, and familiar Norman rushes around the corner to meet us. “Oh, you poor child,” he says.

“She’s been in a fucking nightgown for half the night.”

Even Calvin’s warmth hasn’t lessened my shivering, which comes with some numbness and a dull headache.

In my room, Calvin sets me on my feet next to the bed, and I instantly yelp, clinging to him to hold myself up.

“What is it?” He picks me up again and seats me on the bed’s edge. Crouching down, he takes my ankle to look at the sole of one foot. “Jesus Christ, Cataline. Running around in the woods with no shoes? What were you thinking?”

“I don’t care,” I say through chattering teeth. “I’m cold.”

“This needs to be tended to,” he says. He turns his head over his shoulder. “Don’t just stand there, Norman. Get your things.”

Norman jumps as though broken from a trance and disappears from the room. Being alone with him, a Calvin whose rage I cannot fathom, my lips automatically recite a breathy prayer. I’ve disobeyed in the worst way, and all I can think is that he’ll kill me for this.

“You need to calm down,” Calvin says as he studies my feet. I pull his shirt closer around me, watching his brows furrow.

When Norman reappears and I exhale with relief, Calvin glances up at me. He accepts a cotton ball from Norman and brushes it over my soles, all the while muttering to himself. Even though his grip on my ankle is strong, he cleans me carefully. With tweezers, he pinches at my skin, removing all the things embedded there. I grit my teeth against the stinging, holding the pain inside. His eyes flash up to mine when he’s finished, and he spreads gooey Neosporin over my skin. “Brave girl,” he says.

I open my mouth for Norman to take my temperature. They clean up, putting medical supplies back into what looks like a toolbox. Norman plucks the thermometer out and announces that my temperature is high.

“Give her something,” Calvin says, lifting me from the bedspread. After dragging back the covers, he inserts me between the sheets. I can only watch his face sharpen with determination as he tucks me in.

I take two pills from Norman and swallow them gratefully with a full glass of water. “Thank you, Norman,” I say.

“You’re welcome, dear. I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”

“What?” I gasp. “No. Please.” I fix pleading eyes on him, ignoring Calvin’s glare. “You can’t leave us alone.”

Norman looks uneasily at Calvin.

“He’ll hurt me,” I whisper. “He’ll hurt me for running. You don’t understand.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Calvin says. “Turn off the lights on your way out, Norman.”

“Master, she’s not well enough—”

“Out.”

With a comforting smile in my direction, Norman dims the lights. He exits the room, closing the door behind him. When I look back at Calvin, he’s standing next to the bed, untying the drawstring of his pants.

“Oh, God. No,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “I c-c-can’t, Calvin, please, don’t make me.”

“Cataline—”

My face buries in my icy hands. “I’m so sorry I ran. I promise I won’t do it again. I’m so cold.”

“Sparrow, shut up and take off your shirt.”

I do as I’m told, inhaling erratically and pulling my arms through the sleeves slowly.

“Your nightgown too,” he says, followed by a deep sigh. As soon as I discard it on the floor, the sheets lift. Calvin’s naked body melds around mine from behind.

He hushes me as I pry at his arms in vain. “You’re still shivering. Let me warm you.” Distrust screams in my head, but my body sinks deeper into him.

“You killed them,” I say against the pillow. “And they shot you. You should be dead.”

“Quiet. Go to sleep.”

His embrace thaws me quickly. I stop fighting and let warmth replace the fear I should have of being wrapped in the arms of my enemy.

34

Calvin

Cataline continues to shake, even after she falls asleep. Or maybe I’m the one shaking. I’m holding her tightly. Too tightly. I force myself to loosen my grip.

A man’s eyes the moment before he dies—that’s true fear. Cataline had that look tonight, but it wasn’t for those men. It was for me. She thought I was going to hurt her for running and hurt her bad. Maybe kill her.

The security tape shows she never hesitated before fleeing. It was without a look back that she left the mansion. And me. While she’ll take any risk to get away from me, including freezing to death, I’m finding it more and more impossible to let her go.

I look down at the girl in my arms and wonder how, after these past few days, I can ever let her out of my sight. Her breathing has evened and her hair, unruly as ever, covers half her face. I brush it off her cheek and touch her forehead with the back of my hand. I ease away to give her space. Instantly she makes a noise and backs deeper into me.

“Fuck it,” I mutter under my breath and wrap her in my arms. Jasmine is the only thing on my mind as I inhale it from her hair and fall asleep.

* * *

Because of the dimmed lights, the room glows ethereal when I open my eyes again. Cataline’s still secure in my arms, her back sweaty and stuck to my front. Her ass moves against me in a soft, small gyration. It happens twice more, so I lift my head from the pillow. “Are you all right?”

She doesn’t respond, but opens her eyes and turns just her face to me. Her eyes are dark, sleepy blue as she looks at me almost longingly. Without thinking, I lean in until our mouths are an inch apart. When she doesn’t push me away, I press my lips to hers.

She sighs a contented, girlish moan that sends my hand up the smooth skin of her stomach. She backs even closer to me, opening her mouth to let me in. It’s warm and silky. Reminds me of how it feels to be buried inside her.

Her ass pushes into me again, more deliberate this time. I groan and deepen the kiss, taking her breast and squeezing it hard. My hand skates up to the base of her neck to pull her even closer.

I coax her shoulder so she falls onto her back, then roll on top of her without disconnecting. Her legs surrounded me instantly, and we grind against each other. She pushes her head back into the pillow, exposing a long neck that I’m unable to taste fast enough.

My dick slides under the elastic of her mesh panties, fucking between coarse fabric and the smooth hollow created by her hipbone. One hand tangles in her hair and pulls. I hover over her lips, pulsing against her lower stomach, pre-cum sticking to her skin and underwear. My kiss is aggressive, sucking need and want off her tongue before giving it right back to her. I find each of her hands with mine and lace our fingers, raising them above her head and pinning her to the mattress.

My cock is hungry, searching for her pussy with the same fiery urgency as my kiss. Her hands squeeze mine powerfully and her body writhes as I press into her wetness. “Relax,” I say.

“I can’t.”

“You can. Just let go.”

It takes a moment, but I’m patient as her thigh muscles relax, and her grip lessens. Her body slowly melts into the mattress.

“That’s it, baby,” I whisper. She gasps as I inch into her. “That’s good.”

“Calvin,” she says against my lips. “I like having you here, somewhere no one else has been.”

I grunt, my dick throbbing at her unexpectedly arousing words. I begin to slide in and out, willing myself to keep an even rhythm.

“You’re like a part of me now,” she sighs, her mouth still close to mine.

“Keep talking, Sparrow,” I say between thrusts.

Her voice is soft, barely audible. “What it’s like to have you inside, it-it’s—” She squeaks when I plunge deep. “You make me real. When you breathe into me, when you’re inside me, expanding, coming, you make me real.”

I run a thumb over her knuckles. “You make yourself real, Cataline.”

“No. I wasn’t real until I felt you inside me.”

Her words sink into me, dragging my heart down with them. I’m her own personal monster, but tonight, admitting it to myself for the first time, I want to be her hero. I want to plant myself inside her and expand like she said until we’re both real, until we’re both the same. Her moans become more insistent, threaded with tiny wisps of breath. I watch with fascination as she inhales sharply, sucking in her entire bottom lip with her teeth.

I release her hands, anchor her hips to me, and flip us over so she’s straddling me. She stills completely, a lost but endearing look on her face. When I thrust up into her, she cries out, arching her back so her long hair falls over her shoulders. It sways each time I bounce her, and her eyes fasten up on the ceiling, her breasts beckoning me. I reach up and wrap my hands easily around her slim throat, running my thumbs up the underside of her jaw. I pull her face down to mine, rake my hands into her hair, lick the sweat trickling down the side of her temple.

With her small body in my big hands, I hold her fate. I have complete control over her, the power to do anything I want. I keep fucking her, pushing up into her, making her mine, and fearing that life will never be the same after this moment.

She comes, her pussy gripping my cock over and over, her mouth right at my ear, telling me through her moans how it feels. I let go of her head and dig my fingers into her hips as she braces her hands against my pecs. I give it to her lightning fast and with everything I have, thrusting so hard I almost send her over the side of the bed. My hands secure her to me though, and when I erupt, it’s with a hoarse growl from my chest.

Everything is pulsing: my hips slowly up and down as I finish coming, our bodies with deep breaths, our silhouetted, connected shadow that low lights cast on the wall. She tucks her elbows into herself and curls up on my chest. My arms surround her, one fastening her head in the crook of my neck and the other around her waist. I drift, still deep inside her and holding her close.

* * *

I’m awoken by a burning in the left side of my body where the bullets are buried. Cataline is still wilted against me. Last night she looked up from her hands and knees with pure, authentic fear in her eyes, but hours ago, she gave herself to me.

She sighs deeply, blinking at me with confusion in the new morning. I search her eyes for that fear, but I get an enormous, blinding smile instead. It’s like a hammer to the chest. I’ve seen her from afar smiling that way for other people, but never for me.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Fine,” she rasps and touches her throat. “I’m a little sore, but that’s all. I guess there was no fever after all.”

I smile and run my palm over her hair. “Good.”

“You slept with me.”

“You were shivering.”

Her eyebrows rise slowly, and she giggles. “I warmed up quickly.”

“Yes, you did.”

Her laughter fades. “You’re hurt. They shot you.”

“I was wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“But—”

“See for yourself,” I say.

She draws back to examine my chest with a feather-light touch. There’s minimal bruising and marring where the wound is mostly closed. She lowers her cheek to my pec and rubs against it. “I guess I was a little delirious.”

“A little? Your screams cleared the forest of wildlife.”

“I thought I’d escaped,” she says after a moment of silence. “I have so many questions, Calvin . . .”

Tension tightens my muscles. She removes her cheek, but I quickly blink away before she can make eye contact. “Don’t mistake my lack of punishment for yesterday’s mess as letting it go. You defied me, and like I warned, almost got yourself killed. Once again, I was there, coming to your rescue.”

Fuck. Before I can cover my statement, her eyebrows meet in the middle. “Once again? When have you ever come to my—”

“Cataline,” I say, heavy with caution. “What have I told you about questions?”

“But, last night—”

“No,” I cut her off. “Our arrangement remains the same. You behave, and we can keep things civil. Where in that do you think you get to do as you please?”

She’s forced to peel herself from me as I rise off the bed. “I’ll send Norman up to check your temperature.”

“Where are you going?” she asks as I pull on my pants.

“Where do you think? Work. If you’re going to risk a question, at least make sure it’s worth it.”

I just catch her surprised expression before I leave the room.

The adrenaline current she’s inspired serves to dull the pain in my shoulder. Norman is waiting for me outside the office with his toolbox of medical supplies. “Master Parish, we must remove those bullets.”

“Why do you think I’m here? And get Carter.”

“Yes, sir.”

I focus on my anger as Norman makes the call and then as he prepares his supplies.

“How is she?”

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “Fine.”

“I trust she had a good night’s sleep? Rest is crucial for her full recovery.”

“You’ve made your concerns clear, Norman, but let me remind you of your place. You can help by checking on her when you’re finished here, and reporting her condition to me every few hours until I return tonight. That’s it.”

“Yes, sir. Anesthesia?”

“No. It only slows me down.” I recline against the back of the chair while he coats my shoulder with iodine.

“The reward for information has gone up. Police Chief Strong is once again calling for your surrender.”

“Over my dead body.”

“So you keep reminding me. Just please be careful. The reward is considerable, and these are desperate times. Perhaps consider lying low for a bit.”

“You know I can’t. Come in,” I call when there’s a knock at the door.

The only man in the house bigger than me enters and comes directly to the middle of the room. I’ve considered sharing my injections with Carter because together, we’d make a powerful duo. But I’ve never truly entertained the thought. “Carter,” I say with a nod. “What happened?”

“There’s no excuse.”

“You have one job. Secure the premises. Nobody comes, nobody goes, without my permission. How the fuck did the girl walk right off the property? And on top of that,” I glance up at Norman, “she’s gone for hours without anyone noticing?”

“This is a big property, sir. I could use a second pair of eyes.”

“I’ve told you before, there’s no one else. As it is, too many people know too much. Everyone on this staff is paid handsomely for their services and their discretion.” I pause, gritting my teeth as Norman makes his incision, slicing the scalpel deeply and quickly. “I can’t bring anyone else on board without knowing their allegiances are impenetrable.”

“You’re right. It won’t happen again.”

I push myself out of the chair with some effort.

“Sir, your wound—”

The burning in my shoulder is acute, but I ignore Norman and walk to meet Carter so we’re standing face to face. “When I hired you, you were at the top of your field. Is that no longer the case?”

“No, sir.”

“Because replacing you is a project I don’t have time to take on. And you know too much for me to just let you go. Understand?”

He swallows but holds my gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“If I can’t trust you, we have a problem.”

“You can, sir.”

“Don’t let this happen again. You’re dismissed.”

I turn my back to him and by the time I’m reseated, he’s gone. I grip the arms of the chair as Norman tears the skin open wider to extract the bullets.

35

I’m much calmer by dinner, and maybe even slightly remorseful for snapping at Cataline earlier. I find her in the dining room, seated and patiently waiting per Norman’s instructions. “Good evening,” I say.

She glances up from her lap. Her bottom lip is between her teeth, but then she smiles. “Good evening.”

I take my spot at the head of the table and gesture next to me. “You can sit here tonight.”

Her eyes dart between the chair and me. “Really?”

I sigh. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

She stands slowly.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, noting her limp.

“Better.”

Once she’s beside me, Norman arrives to recite the evening’s meal. She watches him with the same attention somebody would give a blockbuster show while her hands remain folded in her lap. When he finishes, dishes are set in front of us and wine is poured.

As I eat, I notice Cataline seems distant, her eyes far off, and her lips curled at the edges as though she meant to smile but forgot. She looks open, innocent, and beautiful, and I can’t resist. “What are you thinking about?”

“You.”

I attempt to hide my surprise. “What about me?”

“I was thinking about the first time I saw you at the office. You looked so serious, but also very . . . handsome.”

I grin. “You thought I was hot.”

She laughs and pushes my shoulder. I’m thankful my pain is completely gone, because I like when she does that. “Yes, I thought you were hot.” She sets down her fork soundlessly, and her smile falters. “I still do, Calvin.”

I inhale deeply and shake my head. “That’s a dangerous admission.”

“I know.”

“Last night you ran without a second thought.”

“It was instinct. I didn’t think. I just ran.” She cocks her head. “Does that surprise you?”

“I’ve given you whatever you ask for.”

“I thought I’d trade anything for my freedom. When you came for me last night, I was terrified of returning here, of what you’d do to me. But I was also relieved. I didn’t realize until that moment how frightened I was that I’d never see you again.”

I set my elbows on the table and look her directly in the eyes. “Cataline . . .”

“I can’t explain it,” she continues. “Sometimes I hate you, but last night, in my bed, I felt . . .” She pauses, seemingly searching for the right word. Finally, she says, “I wanted you there.”

Even as I shake my head, my resolve wavers. “I’m not good for you.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“I need to stay away, and you need to stay out of my way.”

“What if that’s not what I want?”

“What are you asking me?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Last night, being with you felt right. And this morning when you left, I wished you’d come back. Neither feeling has left me all day.”

“Fuck, Cataline. Don’t say that shit to me.”

“You’re the one who started this.”

“I know. I made a mistake.” Her face mars, because she thinks I mean fucking her was a mistake. In actuality, I’m starting to see that my mistake was bringing her here in the first place. “You don’t understand how badly I can hurt you. You’re innocent and delicate, and I’m not. You saw what I did to those men. You know deep down what I’m capable of.”

“Have I broken yet?”

My eyebrows shoot up, and we stare at each other until I find the words to respond. “I don’t know. I’m too close to see what damage I’ve done.”

She pouts with a full bottom lip. “So that’s it? You just aren’t going to touch me anymore?”

I have to close my eyes when she says “touch me.” It’s almost more than I can handle. “I think I’ve made it painfully clear that I can’t stay away.”

“Are you saying that if I don’t, you won’t?”

My fingers curl into a fist on the table. “You don’t understand—”

“Then make me understand.”

“I can’t,” I say. “Stop asking me for answers.”

She looks at her lap and shakes her head, her hair falling around her face. I want to wrap that hair around my fist and pull it until she begs for mercy. She looks wild, as though something might come out if she shakes hard enough. When she looks at me again, it’s with big eyes. Somehow, innocence remains there, even after everything I’ve done.

If I were a better man, I’d be gone by now. Something has always intertwined me with Cataline, but now I’m beyond the point where I can disentangle myself. I’ve felt her writhing underneath me, seen her look at me the way she is now, like she’s waiting for instruction. I like that look. It makes me feel like I own a small piece of her.

She rises, and I think she’s going to leave, but she inches toward my chair instead. She lowers herself into my lap, and her eyes scan my face rapidly. She reaches up with slow, tentative fingers and slides my glasses off.

“I didn’t want this,” she says. Her knuckles touch my cheek, and she runs them down my skin until opening her hand to cup my face. “But I no longer know who I am. I think . . . you’re what I want now.”

“Then it has to be with the understanding that I’m hiding things from you. Things that involve you, things that you will never learn. Things that mean the difference between your life and your death.”

“Okay,” she whispers too quickly.

I turn my mouth to kiss her palm. My hand wraps around her wrist, and I hold her there. With her eyes on mine, she bends her head and presses her lips to my knuckles before running the tip of her tongue over them. I extend my index finger, and her hot mouth closes over it, sucking up to the knuckle. She draws back, swirling her tongue over the tip, and her saliva leaves a shimmering trail on my finger. Her pink lips suck and tease me, making my cock hard for her mouth.

I remove my hand and place it between her legs, pushing her jeans up against her clit so she gasps. Her eyes flutter shut as I rub her. “What scares you?” I ask.

She looks up at the ceiling. “You.”

“What is your greatest fear?”

“You,” she repeats.

“No, I’m not.” I wind my other hand into her hair and pull so she’s now forced to stare up. “Why were you still a virgin at twenty-two?”

Her throat, completely exposed to me, contracts when she swallows. “I was waiting for the right person.”

“Never had any boyfriends . . .”

She jerks her head to look at me, but I’m still fisting her hair. “So what?”

“You’re scared to let anyone in. You hide.”

The corners of her eyes glisten. There’s more anger in her voice than I’ve ever heard when she says, “You don’t know me.”

“But I’m right.”

I touch my lips to the pulse under her jaw and kiss my way over her neck. When she speaks, it vibrates against my mouth. “You’re wrong,” she says quietly.

“You’re afraid of getting hurt.”

“I’ve lost so much,” she says. “Even things I never had. And I have no one.”

I release her hair, but she won’t look at me. “You have me,” I say.

When her eyes cut to mine, they’re filled with disbelief. “I have no one,” she repeats with conviction.

My fingers are growing impatient with her pants. The anticipation of them inside her is written on her face. “I want you too, Cataline,” I say. “I want to be the answer to your no one.”

Her voice is thick. “You won’t stay away?”

“I’ve tried, and I’ve failed. I don’t deserve you. I’ll hurt you.”

She places her hands on the sides of my head and slides them back into my hair, digging her fingers in. “Hurt me,” she says. “Just don’t stay away.”

She pulls me to her, but I’m already there, pushing my tongue inside, soothing my guilt with her hot, devouring mouth. I pulse my palm against her faster, excited by our moans.

Her hands move to my waistband and pull on the fly until it opens. She digs in my pants, and her soft fist is the answer to prayers I didn’t know I had. I’m so hard in her hand as she strokes me long and gentle.

“What, you going to jerk me off?” I growl into her mouth.

“You’re really . . . big.”

I chuckle. “Going to have to go harder than that,” I say. Her grip tightens, and her pace speeds. “You’d be the first to make me come like this. Normally I’d rather just fuck.”

She inhales with a sucking noise and stands. “Chase me, Calvin.”

I’m panting heavily, empty-handed and gaping at her. “Chase you?”

“Like last night. Like all the other nights.” She takes a step back.

“This isn’t a game. I’m strong. I can hurt you.”

She takes another step before turning and running for the staircase. I’m on my feet in a flash, succumbing to instinct and temptation outside my control. I catch her ankle halfway up the stairs, and she falls forward. I let go to carry her up to my bedroom, but she scrambles to get to her feet and her flailing heel catches me in the jaw. I seize it angrily and yank her squirming body down until she’s underneath me.

“Let me go,” she says.

I drop my body over hers and catch her neck, pulling her face backward for a hard kiss. I shove my open pants down and stroke myself, rubbing my crown against the curve of her ass. “Don’t forget you asked for this,” I say.

She wriggles harder, her hands clawing at the steps above us. The more she struggles, the harder my teeth mash together. I let go of my cock to rip her jeans down over her hips, taking her panties with them.

My arm drops from her throat to surround her shoulders and secure her back to my front. I slide my dick along the opening of her pussy, which is as slick as if she’d been sitting in it all day. While my fist slides up and down, I gather what I can on the tip and slip lengthwise between her ass cheeks.

“Calvin,” she protests.

I barely manage a response. “I warned you.”

“But not there,” she says, her words frantic.

I lean into the crook of her neck, breathing hotly as I press against the forbidden spot. I can’t do it—it would take more control than I have. I release her shoulders but catch her hips before she can get away. I move to my knees. My grip is no contest for her, and she slithers from side to side, whimpering. The sight alone is too much. I pry her cheeks apart with my thumbs and spit on her tailbone. My crown rubs through it and soon I’m working myself into her tight anus until it sucks the head in.

“Stop,” she sobs from the back of her throat. “Calvin, wait.”

The way she says my name only weakens my resolve. As she molds around me, her breathing slows, and her grip on the edge of the stairs loosens. I massage her cheeks with my palms and push a little deeper. Her eyes squeeze shut before her forehead drops onto the step in front of her. Any lubrication from my saliva is gone. My cock is so hard and aching that I want nothing more than to anchor her hips down and fuck her into the stairs. I take a deep breath. “Do you want me to keep going?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Tell me to stop then.”

Her back rises and falls with deep breaths. I’m a few inches deep when I climb back over her, propping myself up on a step above us. I move my hips with small thrusts, each one eliciting a squeak from Cataline. Her nails dig into the hardwood as I angle until I’m over half way in.

“I’m going to mark you here and make this ass mine. I’ll come so hard that you’ll be dripping for days.”

She shudders beneath me, and I drop my face into her hair, inhaling jasmine as I draw my hips back and thrust again.

“You’ve had me in your mouth, your pussy, and your ass. I never knew you’d turn out to be such a little slut.”

“I’m not,” she says through gritted teeth.

“I’d advise against backtalk when I’m in this position. You are my little slut, Cataline. Say it.”

“Oh, God,” she cries as I pulse harder into her. “I’m a little slut.”

I nip the shell of her ear just enough to make it painful. “Wrong.”

“I’m your little slut.”

I give her a hard thrust, and her knuckles whiten. My hand covers hers, dislodging it from the step. I reach both of them down between her legs and guide our index fingers inside her. “I want to make you feel good. Do you feel good?”

“Calvin,” she moans.

I remove our hands to force her mouth open with our fingers. “Do you taste good?”

She glances over her shoulder at me. I bend my head to lick the corner of her mouth. My tongue runs over hers and then our knuckles.

“You do,” I say. “You taste so good, I could eat you and nothing else for the rest of my life. Would you like that, Sparrow?”

“Yes.”

I let go of her hand and put mine back between her legs. “Just relax. Feel it.”

She exhales a breath as I put two fingers on her clit. I start with small circles while keeping the rhythm of my thrusting hips gentle. Just underneath my chest, her body shudders, and I slip a finger down the length of her opening, coating myself with her slickness. I move back up and circle faster. My other arm burns from propping myself up, but I welcome the pain. It’s a reminder that if I let go, I’ll crush her. It’s too tempting to jam myself all the way up her ass and let her have it.

Her heavy breathing morphs into mewling as I keep a steady rhythm with my fingers. “I love you this way,” I whisper against the back of her neck. “Your body stretched out to accommodate all of my cock, bending your determination not to enjoy it. I’m going to break that, Cataline. Break you.”

“Break me, Calvin,” she whispers.

“Look at me when you say that.”

She hesitates a moment before twisting to meet my eyes. “Break me.”

Her ass rears, and I have to bite back the urge to pump her full of cum. She’s close, so I shove three fingers in her pussy and keep my thumb over her clit. Her nails claw the step, and she writhes as she begins to crack. With a loud cry, her whole body seems to contract around me.

When she finishes, I replace my other hand on the step in front of us and fuck her. I can’t tell if her sounds are from pleasure or pain, but I don’t stop. Her puckered asshole grips me everywhere, the little ridges scraping against my shaft, turning me delirious.

“God, fuck!” I thrust balls deep and come there, groaning with my mouth in her hair, pulling at it with my teeth. I remain propped up as I catch my breath, my hips slowing as her tightness milks the last few drops from me.

I withdraw from her as slowly as I can and stand. She doesn’t move while I pull up my pants. “Don’t dare me to chase you if you don’t want to get caught.”

I wait as she gingerly pushes up and gets to her feet. Her stomach and arms have red indents from the edges of the stairs, and she winces as she buttons herself into her jeans.

“I-I think I should use the bathroom.”

“You have a lot of cum in your ass.”

“Jesus,” she says, hiding her face in her hands. “Do you have to be so crude? And is that safe?”

I can’t keep the grin from my face. “You’ll be fine.”

She makes her awkward way up the steps until she reaches the landing of the third floor. I grab her arm as she turns for her room.

“Come up with me,” I say.

“To the fourth floor?”

“To my bedroom.”

She looks up the stairs and bites her thumbnail. When I ascend, she follows. Her glances around my bedroom are furtive. “Take your time,” I tell her, pointing to the bathroom. I occupy myself until she’s finished by readying the bed and locating a bottle of lotion. When she emerges, she comes to a stop in the middle of the room.

“Strip,” I order.

Her teeth chew at her bottom lip, and her eyes go wide and watery. She looks at the bed and then back at me, shaking her head and wiping her cheeks with the palms of her hands. “Again?”

“It’s not what you think,” I say with a frustrated sigh. “Just strip.”

I undress all the way with her and kick my clothing aside. Her panties are the last thing to go, and she tosses them into the pile. She waits, wringing her hands, for my command. Silent tears track over her cheekbones and down to the corners of her lips. Naked, crying, and striped red from the stairs, I realize just how much power she has over me. She’s still the little girl from years ago who needs me, but she’s also an erotic, extremely fuckable woman.

“Why are you crying?” I ask.

“I’m not.”

I laugh, and her lower lip trembles harder. With a sigh, I walk to close the space between us. I put my arms around her but she remains unmoving, breathing in stuttering gasps against my chest.

“I know that hurt,” I say.

“Yes, but . . .” She wipes her nose and looks up at me. After a moment, she just shakes her head. “Never mind.”

I pull her closer. “It’s okay to like it, Cataline.” I rub her back and squeeze her shoulder. “Go lie face down on the bed.”

She looks defeated as she gets into position. “I can’t stop thinking about that woman.”

“Which woman?”

“The one you had in here that night. And Lyla and the prostitutes.”

I grunt and get on the bed to straddle her. “They’re worthless sluts. Don’t waste a thought on them.”

She sighs with her eyes closed as I spread lotion over her upper back. “Like me,” she says. “I like what you do to me. I’m a slut.”

I press my thumbs between her shoulder blades and run them down her back. “You’re not them,” I tell her, but I don’t think she hears. I clear hair from her back and massage her shoulders.

When she’s fallen asleep, I put her under the covers. I climb in, and she slides up next to me, pressing the length of her body against mine.

“Calvin,” she says, running her hand over my bicep.

“I’m here.”

“What happened to your parents?”

A personal question is the last thing I expect after the way I just stripped her bare. My hope that she’s dreaming aloud fades when her eyes open. Tentatively, she moves her cheek onto my shoulder. When I don’t stop her, she places her head on my chest.

“They’re dead,” I say.

“I know. Norman told me. But he didn’t say how.”

I sigh deeply and look out the window across the room. I decide it’s time to have a talk with Norman, seeing as how she has him wound around her little finger. “My dad was a chemist. They were killed in a lab explosion.”

“Oh. Your mom too?”

“She was a doctor, but they were together.”

“How old were you?”

I glance down at the top of her head. “Young.”

She’s quiet for a minute, and her fingers mindlessly trace circles in my chest hair. “I was young too.”

I swallow but don’t respond. I know exactly how old she was. Every single detail about that day is burned into my tired memory.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she says. “I have no one. I haven’t for so long. Nobody to love me, and nobody to love.”

The words are on the tip of my tongue. You had me. I was there. It’s only the beginning of the truth.

“Calvin?” she whispers.

I run my hand over her smooth, damp cheek in hopes of lulling her to sleep.

36

Cataline

Calvin’s hand stopped its caress hours ago and was replaced with the equally reassuring rise and fall of his chest. I’ve grown accustomed to not sleeping, but tonight it seems impossible. It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted to being unloved, even to myself. I didn’t do it for his pity, but if the situation were reversed, I’d ask him questions about his past until the sun came up.

But what reason do I have to think he would care? He’s shown me that my opinions don’t matter by taking my voice away. Why do I crave his approval, his affection? Why do I want to hold the hand that holds me down? Kiss a mouth that calls me “slut”? And why does being his little slut excite me to the point of losing all my inhibitions? He took my body in a moment, but my mind and heart have been a subtle conquest. I’m just his prisoner, but he’s my captor, my monster, and my hope all rolled into one. I can’t sleep because all I can think about is how I can possibly be falling in love with a man I hate almost as much as I fear.

* * *

I know I should be alarmed. While Calvin is away on business, my thoughts are consumed by him. My routine consists of eating, sleeping, reading, and fantasizing. I’ve masturbated in the library with the door open because I’m so overcome. Each fantasy gets rougher until finally I’m just replaying memories as I make myself come: Calvin possessing my mouth, fucking my ass with a candle, whispering hot and dirty in my ear. But anything less won’t do anymore. Something dark has been shocked to life in me, and it’s slithering around, claiming things it has no right to.

I never know when Calvin will return, and this trip is no different. So when I hear his voice rumbling in the kitchen after being gone over a week, I jump up from my library chair and sprint to meet him. I don’t even make it to the doorway before colliding with him and falling at his feet.

“Christ, Cataline. Where are you running to?” Calvin asks as he gives me a hand up.

“To you,” I say, rubbing my behind. “I missed you.” I jump up, and he catches me under the ass with lightning speed. I litter kisses over his cheek until I reach his ear. “A lot.”

He repositions my body by bouncing me with his pelvis. “This is not the homecoming I was expecting.”

“Didn’t you miss me too?” My mouth seeks his, stopping just an inch away. My breathy words land directly on his lips. “Fuck me.”

“What?”

“And make it hard.”

With his heel, he slams the library door shut. “Is that a dare?” he asks, walking me backward.

“It’s a plea.”

“A plea? I think I’d like to hear it again.”

“I’m all yours, Calvin. Fuck me like you—” I gasp when my back connects hard with the bookshelf.

“Shit. Sorry. That hurt?”

I open and close my mouth, taken aback. Isn’t that what we’re doing here? Doesn’t he want that? “Um, no?” I say. He arches an eyebrow. “I mean, yes.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I incline my head to shut him up with a kiss, but he pulls away. “Calvin, please. I need this. I need you.”

“Sparrow . . .”

I look into those green eyes, searching for the man inside. Lately I’ve been wondering if I was right all along about what he needs and who he could be.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” he says. “I can’t be that for you.”

“You’re wrong.”

He shakes his head. “You know what I am. Nothing has changed.”

“I don’t understand you,” I say. “Sometimes I think you only want to hurt me, but other times I think you could . . . maybe love me.”

His eyes drop to my collarbone, but he looks up again after a second. “This might end one day, Cataline, and it could be soon.”

“I want it to end. But not all of it. Not . . . you.”

“If it does,” he says, “you’re going to meet a normal man who would give up the world for you.”

“You wouldn’t? Give up the world for me?”

His head cocks. “That’s not my choice to make.”

“I don’t understand. Why don’t you have that choice? And why couldn’t you love me? If this is ending, what—”

“For Christ’s sake, Cataline. I haven’t even unpacked from my trip.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just here all day, thinking. Without answers. If you could just tell me something, any—”

“Fuck.” He pulls me away from the shelf and drops me roughly on my feet. “I’m trying here,” he says, adjusting his pants.

“No, you’re not. I don’t know what’s going on between us, I can’t explain it, but can’t you feel it? Can’t you, Calvin?”

“You’re pushing me. I’m beginning to think you do it on purpose.”

“I have no choice!”

“Yes, you do. You could keep your mouth shut like I’ve asked you to and do what I say. Instead you intentionally push my buttons and make me the asshole. Is that what you want? For me to play asshole so you can whine about being shut up in a mansion being catered to all day?”

“I never asked for any of this. I want—”

“What do you want? Tell me. Which Calvin suits you? Because being an asshole is a hell of a lot easier than—”

“I want you to be you and I think what you are is an asshole and I think I love you!” I clamp my hand over my mouth. The ensuing silence is excruciating as he stares at me, horror written on his face.

“You what?”

I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Nothing,” I whisper. “Nothing.”

“I’ve told you, this can’t be anything other than what it is. Goddamn it, Cataline. How could you do this?”

My mouth falls open, and my hands cover my churning stomach. “Do this?”

“You’re acting crazy.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes,” he says, and I flinch. “I do mean it. Can’t you see how fucked up that is?”

“That’s all I see, Calvin. But you made me this way.”

He turns his back to me. He scrubs both hands over his head before kicking a club chair into the bookshelf. Books teeter and fall, he storms out, and then there’s nothing but silence.

* * *

As soon as my eyes open, my brain turns on. The library is dim, and someone, Norman, has covered me with a throw blanket. In the late hour, I’m prey for memories from earlier—my overwhelming need for Calvin, his vicious words, my artless confession. I trace the outline of a heart on the blanket as my mind wanders.

Eventually I ease out of the chair to return to my bedroom. The corridor is cold and devoid of light, but voices float down from the fourth floor. My ever-present craving for answers flares. It still outweighs everything else, including any notions of love. I know it’s dangerous. I know it has the power to destroy.

I’m climbing the stairs without another thought, making my way down the hallway to the door opposite Calvin’s room. When a floorboard groans underneath me, I freeze, waiting for my heart to calm. I approach the doorway with caution. It’s closed, and I can’t decipher anything through the bass of Calvin’s voice.

If he catches me, I can’t be sure he won’t lock me up again, but the possibility of information is worth it. I mold myself into the corner next to the door and squat down to wait. For what, I don’t know.

Calvin’s voice stops and starts, as though he’s on the phone. The door opens without warning, spilling light into the hallway.

“It’s downstairs,” Norman says. “Give me a minute.”

Norman leaves the door ajar. There’s soft clicking from the room as I stand slowly but deliberately, wrap my hand around the doorframe, and incline my head through it.

What I see causes breath to stick in my throat, zaps my saliva, leaves me bone dry. Blood drains from my muscles as the resolve to stay upright vanishes. The world undulates, flips over, is somehow upside down. The pain of my nails digging into the wood tells me this is real. Calvin holds a mask. The charcoal, pebbled rubber covering his body looks unexpectedly soft and forgiving this close. He’s dressed in a uniform I’ve seen glimpses of in the media but even if I hadn’t, I would still know it. He’s dressed exactly like Hero.

37

Calvin

My belt locks into place, and I snatch a notepad from the desk to review the address. Not surprising that I’m called to the East Side again. I shake my head, wondering if this cycle of me versus them will ever end.

Norman’s gasp in the hallway causes me to whip around. The door is wide open, and an ashen Cataline is in the room, looking on the verge of vomiting.

There is nothing but red. She is misted with it. The room is unnaturally hot and alive with fury as I charge toward her. I barely register Norman between us, shouting at me to calm down as I shove him aside and grasp her shoulders. “What are you doing in here?”

Her entire body twitches. “Why are you wearing that?”

“Master—”

“Enough!” I yell at Norman as I give her a hard shake. “I warned you about—”

“Sneaking around?” she asks, low and even. “You gave me no choice. Answer my question. Why are you wearing that?”

“Who do you think you are demanding anything from me?”

Her expression remains eerily passive as she takes my anger. My grip is too tight on her arms, but she doesn’t even flinch.

“You have to tell her the truth,” Norman says. “Please, let go of her.”

I’m inhaling and exhaling at an unnatural pace, willing my hands to loosen, but I can’t tell if they do. Regardless, her eyes are cool and focused on mine.

“Why are you dressed like him?”

“Listen to me. Go back to bed and forget what you’ve seen. It’s for your own good. I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

“Fuck you.”

I snatch her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “I’ve had enough of your smart mouth. Another word, and I will beat that attitude right out of you.”

“Calvin,” Norman exclaims.

“Shut up. She knows what she got herself into. This is your fault for coddling her all the time.”

“I don’t care if you beat me half to death,” Cataline says as if she were commenting on the weather. “Just tell me why. Why are you wearing Hero’s armor, Calvin?”

I release her chin and raise my hand. Norman latches onto my arm, knowing full well he could never stop me.

“You’re a disgrace to that suit,” she says. “You’re not even worth the dirt under Hero’s shoe.”

My palm connects hard with her face, and she takes two steps back.

Her face is turned away, her hand covering her cheek. She looks at me in slow motion. “Why are you wearing that? Why am I here?”

My hands dive into my hair and pull. “I can’t tell you. Stop asking.”

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked,” she says through gritted teeth. “You’ve taken everything from me. Give me this. Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me there’s been a mistake. Tell me—”

“I can’t,” I say.

“When can you?”

“Never.”

She stares at me as the room is sucked into a deafening silence. The incredulity in her face melts away until there’s nothing there. “Never?” she repeats in a choked whisper.

“No. Information is a privilege you haven’t earned. Even if you had, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

She takes more steps away until her back collides with the wall. She stands there silently quaking with a blank expression until bolting from the room.

As her bare feet slap down the hallway, I shake my head and look at Norman. “Watch her closely while I’m gone tonight.”

“Master Parish, don’t you see what you’re doing? I beg you, tell her the truth. You’re causing more damage than the Cartel ever could.”

I snort. “You don’t know the lengths they’d go through to get to me. They’re the enemy. Not me.”

“You hit her.”

I glare at him, the asteroid of anger burning through me again. My ears prick when I hear a dense thud. “What was that?”

Norman’s head tilts. “What?”

“That noise.”

“I don’t hear anything, sir.”

It comes again, and I walk toward the door. “What the . . . ?”

The sound of shattering glass has me sprinting down the hallway, flying down the steps two at a time. Cataline’s door is locked, so I burst through it, sending splintered wood all over the floor. The room is black and freezing. My eyes sharpen on her immediately. Through the broken window, wind swirls white gauze curtains around her as she drags a shard of glass up her forearm, a bloody trail in its wake.

“Cataline, what—”

“Stop. Stay away from me.” She switches hands, and red drops spill over her glowing white skin. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m done. I’m so done.”

I step toward her.

“Stop,” she says. “Or I will drive this into my heart right now.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. Put that down, and we can talk.”

She throws the shard on the ground and screams, “I want to die. As long as I’m here, I’m already dead. Just let me do it!”

“You don’t want that,” I say with as much calm as I can muster. My heart is in my ears, and my blood is pumping as I take more steps. “You’re in shock.”

She tears at her hair with disjointed claws, smearing blood over her face. Glass crunches under her feet as she backs up against the windowsill. “I’d rather be dead than stay here another minute with no answers.”

“Cataline, my Sparrow, I will give you your answers. Just come to me.”

“Are you Hero?” she asks.

I suddenly understand the fear of all my victims. It combines into a mass in my chest and grows inside me. Fear that she’ll jump. Fear of the truth. If I tell her, her hate for me will be a living, breathing thing. I swallow it down. “Yes.”

“Oh, God,” she moans up at the ceiling. “Why? He was supposed to save me. Why?”

She climbs backward onto the cushioned seat with her palm out. “Stay back. You've done enough. You can’t fuck with me anymore.”

I ignore her, sprinting as she falls backward out the window.

38

Cataline

My skin is sucked around my bones like shrink-wrap. I’m dry, like I’ve cried and bled everything from myself. I can’t escape the overpowering smell of blood, the metal-in-my-mouth taste, the thickness of it smeared over my hands and in my hair. Every choice that mattered was taken away from me. Only one was ever truly mine.

My decision ensures I’ll never see Calvin again, and the pain is so acute that I think I’m dying all over again. None of it was fair, least of all that I should be the one left with a broken heart.

“Calvin.”

“Cataline.”

I raise my chin toward the voice. He’s here. Calvin is with me, and wherever I’m going, I hope he’s coming. He speaks again, and I know if Hell is the final destination for what I’ve done, I’m not there yet.

“I know you’re awake. I can see you smiling.”

I frown. There’s black now, whereas before I saw nothing. Light is trying to get in, but I reject it. I’m supposed to be dead, but I’m only lying down. My skin is so tight, it suffocates.

“Open your eyes.”

And just like that, I do. Calvin is there, standing over me, looking terrible but still handsome. Scruff covers his normally smooth jawline, but all I can think is I could wrap myself up in him and live and be happy in his beauty. “Calvin?”

He nods.

“Am I dead?”

He shakes his head.

“No?” I choke out. My cheeks tickle, and I want to scrape at them, but my hands are heavy. “I don’t even have that choice?”

He runs his hand over his forehead and through his disheveled hair. “Fuck, Cataline. I know you don’t mean that.”

I nod that I do.

He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. “Norman gave you something for the pain, so you might feel a little out of it.”

“What’s broken?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how I survived that fall, but I must’ve broken some bones.”

“The medication’s for your arms.”

My bandaged wrists. I can feel the stretch of the wounds underneath, trying to reopen and swallow me whole.

“You didn’t fall,” he informs me slowly. “I caught you. You won’t remember. You were out of your mind.”

“No. That’s impossible. You were across the room.”

“I’m fast. I’m Hero.”

I shake my head as I struggle to sit up against the headboard of Calvin’s bed. “You can’t be. Hero is good. He’s a protector. He doesn’t hurt or kidnap or rape. You can’t be Hero. You’re the enemy.”

His face is passive. “I know. But it’s the truth.”

Everything is wrong. I hold my scratchy, bandaged wrist under my eyes to stem the tears. This can’t be happening. There were nights I prayed for Hero to rescue me. I sat by the window, waiting, hoping, silently screaming for him. But I’ve been living under his control all along. I bury my face deeper in my hands and weep as Calvin watches, motionless and rigid. “You bastard,” I say.

When the crying finally subsides, I wipe my nose and look up at him. There’s still nothing in his expression. I’m that way now too. I transfer the wetness from my cheeks to my forearm and take a deep breath. “Tell me everything.”

39

Calvin

Cataline’s crushing grief comes with hollow, expectant eyes. There’s only one option left. Perhaps the truth will liberate her. Perhaps she’ll hate me after. She’s given me more than I can handle, and right now, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to fix the look in her grayish eyes. They sparkle but with nothing more than unshed tears. Behind the gloss, they’re just blank.

I pull a chair to her side and sit, pushing a hand through my hair and leaning my elbows on my knees. I start at the beginning.

“I told you my mother was a doctor, my father a scientist. They met while serving food at a homeless shelter in New Rhone. They were drawn to each other because they were both science-minded, but in their hearts, they were humanitarians.

“When my mom got pregnant with me, her mom came to visit. She went into the city one day to shop while my parents were at work. She was stabbed and mugged in broad daylight. After some time in the hospital, she was desperate to return home. My parents left the mansion to be with her while she recovered, but she died shortly after. My mom refused to leave, so they decided to stay in Fenndale, and that’s where I was raised.”

Cataline inhales a sharp breath. “So was I.”

“I know. My parents . . . smartest people you’ve ever met. They were experts in their respective fields with all kinds of awards. Until I was born, they had assignments all over the world. But what set them apart was that they wanted to do good. My mother loved being a doctor because she genuinely wanted to help.

“After school I always had activities—karate, tutoring, volunteering, baseball, and more. It wasn’t unusual, my friends did that stuff, but mine were nonstop. I didn’t know at the time that each hobby was selected with a greater purpose.

“Everything changed on my sixteenth birthday. I learned that during my mother’s pregnancy, my parents began developing a formula to take the human body to the next level. My mom was heartbroken over my grandmother, and my father, who loved her more than anything, didn’t know how to fix it. He blamed New Rhone, though he never said it out loud.

“They called the formula K-36 because that’s the number of processes it took until it was right. A few weeks after I turned sixteen, I got my first injection.”

“Your parents just injected you with some random formula?”

“It wasn’t random, Cataline. They spent almost two decades modifying it. We started with small dosages to ease me into it. My body responded well and essentially, I became superhuman. My senses are enhanced to an unnatural degree. My vision, for instance, is precise, day or night. I can get by on minimal sleep. I exercise to maintain stamina, but I’m more powerful than your average man. And it’s not only my body; my intuition is also honed.”

“The woods?” she asks, and I nod.

“It’s how I found you.”

“That doesn’t explain how you can survive getting shot.”

“My skin is dense.” I pinch my side as if to demonstrate. “It slows down bullets enough that they don’t fatally damage internal organs. The shooter has to be close for one to penetrate, and if it does, I heal quickly so I don’t bleed out.”

“You can’t be killed?”

“I can. It would take a lot, but I can. My reflexes ensure I’ve never been shot in the head, so that hasn’t been tested. And gunpowder, for whatever reason, is like poison to my system. Something about the way it reacts to the K-36. It would likely take days to kill me though, and bullets are always removed before it gets to that.”

“This is . . . I never realized Hero was different from us.”

I clear my throat. “That’s not all. The activities and extra classes were to turn me into the man I needed to be. I became a black belt to learn how to fight. Sports taught me coordination and teamwork. Volunteering showed me the rewards of selflessness. My parents, whether they realized it or not, instilled in me that the world needed this at any cost—even myself. But the supplement never promised to turn me into a hero. It only gave me the tools to become one.

“The injections have a downside. Above all, I’m human just like you. I have cravings, needs, urges. Those things are amplified. My senses get overloaded and as a teenager, I couldn’t control that part of it. I was often unstable—temperamental and angry one minute, emotional and sensitive the next. The stimulation to my hypothalamus makes me more predatory, aggressive, and sexual than what’s healthy.

“My parents worked with me tirelessly to manage my reactions to the never-ending stimuli. They believed in this fanatically. Almost obsessively. Together, we adapted, and at the same time, I learned of their intentions and expectations.

“When I was ready, I would be a guardian. I would serve justice for those who couldn’t. I’d protect, eliminate danger, keep the streets safe. It’s my duty. It’s what I was born to do.”

Cataline is watching me closely, but her expression gives me nothing. I glance at my hands. “They died in an unrelated lab explosion when I was seventeen. We’d been working for over a year, but I wasn’t ready. I needed more help. Suddenly I was on my own. One thing they’d drilled into me was that nobody could ever know my secret. It would turn into something ugly. I’d be condemned for it. I was to help, selflessly, without recognition, and that was all.

“Norman worked for us and had worked for my father’s family too. By the time they passed, he could concoct the formula himself. But I shut him out when it happened and turned to my friends. I handled my secret and my loss with drinking, partying, drugs, sex. If I injected before I smoked, my highs would take me to another world. They were so intense that sometimes I thought I could communicate with the dead.

“When I moved out of that phase—”

“How?” Cataline asks.

“I’ll get to that in a minute. Once I cleaned myself up, I realized my purpose. I have an obligation to this city. To my parents. K-36 is groundbreaking, and it’s saved many lives. Every night I patrol. Parish Media is to keep up appearances and to stay plugged into the real world, but sometimes I’m hardly a part of it.”

Even with the unloading of my life’s work and one of the world’s greatest secrets, Cataline remains still and unresponsive. After a few moments, she speaks in a controlled tone. “So what am I? A distraction? I’m supposed to be grateful for your sacrifices?”

I search her face, trying to make sense of her words. “No.”

“Then what does this have to do with me? And what’s your connection to the Cartel?”

With this information, she has the power to destroy me. Still, telling her was easier than what comes next. I sigh and scrub my hands over my unshaven jaw. When I hesitate, instinct urging me to flee, I’m driven forward by the searing image of Cataline’s blood seeping from her arms.

“If you watched the news, you knew I took out the Cartel’s leader a little over a few months ago. When I did, they started looking into me. I didn’t realize right away, because I didn’t give them enough credit. Since then, they’ve been after Hero with everything they have. They’re starved for revenge and information because they can’t get near me. But because of a fuck up a few weeks ago, they know my identity.

“I’m a lot of things, but like I said, I’m not immortal. The Cartel has manpower and is out for blood. I killed members of their crew hoping to send a message, but it only incited them. Within two weeks of my killing Ignacio Riviera, they managed to discover the one thing outside of New Rhone that has Hero’s attention. One other . . . weakness.”

After a long silence, she asks, “What is it?”

“Not what. Who.”

“Okay,” she prompts. “Who?”

“I told you when my parents died, I self-destructed. I numbed everything with alcohol, drugs, and girls. Something had to happen to put me back on track. One afternoon, I injected and was smoking quality bud with some friends. I was out of my mind. When we heard about the apartment building fire on the other side of Fenndale, I didn’t react right away. I knew this was the sort of thing I was supposed to fix, but I’d never done anything real up to that point because Fenndale was pretty quiet. I was scared shitless. I tried to ignore it, let the high take over, but I couldn’t stop picturing the burning building. The gravity of the situation began to cut through. I realized that if I saved even one life, then all my work, all my parents’ work up to that point, would be worth it. And I did. I saved one life.”

Tears drip onto her trembling hands. “Mine.”

“I should’ve been there to save them too. I didn’t reach the building in time because I was high and when I did, that slowed me down. You were a child. I rescued you first. I was too late for your parents. Their death is my fault.”

“Why don’t I remember any of this?”

“You were barely conscious. I was discreet because of my secret. Once I knew you were safe and there was nothing more I could do, I took off.”

Her shaking continues while pain and blame are clear on her face. Selfishly, this is why I never wanted her to know the truth. I made up excuses for hiding it from her, but this, here and now, is the real reason. I can handle her hating me for imprisoning her, but not for the death of her only family.

“There’s more,” I tell her, and she sniffles. “Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes.”

“After that, it all finally connected for me. I understood my place in the world. As penance for that mistake, you would have a guardian from afar. It was for my parents and for yours. You were almost seven at the time, and I would split my time between New Rhone and Fenndale, checking in when I could and watching over you.”

“You—what? Since I was a child?”

“I don’t know if you remember—”

“The Andersons? That was you?”

“Yes. I found you under the bed. Promised you you’d be happy. I wish I’d taken you then instead of letting you grow up with that excuse for a family.”

“I moved to New Rhone,” she says and then looks up. “There was never anywhere else.”

“I told myself when you turned eighteen, my sentence would be served. But you came here, and I couldn’t stop. The deeper I descended into the pits of this city, the more corruption, murder, and rape I was exposed to. Protecting you from that became an obsession.”

She looks away. “I don’t believe you. It’s just not possible.”

“I ensured your job at Parish Media. I came into the office more often. I walked you to and from work, but you never knew it. I’ve kept you from being pickpocketed. Russ—the guy across the hall from you? He made you uncomfortable.”

She swallows loudly. “How do you know that?”

“He used to hit on you, even though he was married. But I was there, Cataline. I would’ve driven him out of town before he could put his hands on you.”

Her head shakes. “Why?”

“In the beginning I felt responsible. But the more I watched, the more you felt like mine.”

“Yours?”

“You had no one else but me. It’s a dangerous thing to feel needed that way.”

“None of this makes sense. You did things to me that . . . you kidnapped me. You’ve kept me here and . . . you hurt me.”

“I know.” I press my fist into my other palm. There’s no mark to show for slapping her last night, and I wish there were. I deserve to see what I did. But that isn’t what she means. “I had no idea that bringing you here would turn out this way. For so long I watched you, thinking you were mine. It’s not that I loved you, but that I felt like you belonged to me. Watching you grow up, saving you—I couldn’t be a part of your life, but I was intertwined with you. And you never even knew I existed. I thought I could keep you at the mansion and foolishly, design it so we never crossed paths. I justified it because I was keeping you safe from them.” I pause, still unable to gauge her reaction. “Having you finally in my possession was too much. I’ve learned to control myself, but you revert me back to the teenager who can’t handle his impulses. And since then, I’ve seen too much evil, killed too many people, and it’s turned me into this.”

“I’m the thing the Riviera Cartel wants.”

“You’re my weakness.” I close my eyes at the admission. Everything Norman said was true. I do care about her just like I care for New Rhone.

“What about Guy Fowler?”

I shake my head. “He’s just a pawn. The Cartel had to send someone after you. The day he asked you out at Taco Shack was planned.”

She gasps. “How’d you know about that?”

“I know everything. I was there—I heard what he said, what you said. You fell right into his trap. The Cartel sent those guys to kidnap you. They were going to do it that night. I got to you first.”

“The men in the forest?”

“I know as much as you. Someone in the Cartel sent them after you. They know who I am because they stole my wallet, but I don’t know how they knew you were there.”

“Why don’t you kill them all?” she asks.

I tilt my head and look into her eyes. “I kill when it’s deserved. I don’t do it on a hunch. I need evidence, and a crime that fits the punishment. The men in the forest were carrying out the Cartel’s wishes. I don’t know the full story, and I acted hastily. I was crazed by what they did.” What I don’t tell her is that I enjoyed their fear, ate it up before I killed them.

“You should’ve told me everything,” Cataline says. “What made you think it would be better to shut me out?”

“The only people who know my secret are the ones who need to. Where it’s life or death. The staff knows I’m Hero, and mostly what I’m capable of, but only Norman knows injections make me that way. Even Carter is painstakingly kept in the dark about the specifics. When I tell others, it becomes their secret. That puts them in danger.” My hands rub together as I clear my throat again. “But that’s not the only reason. I hated the idea of you knowing that I’m responsible for all the bad in your life. If I’d saved your parents like I was meant to, you wouldn’t be here now.” I can’t stop myself from catching the lonesome tear that slithers down her cheek. “I just wanted to give you back what I took. You deserve to be happy, so I kept all the badness away. What I didn’t know was that I’d become the enemy. That in the end, I would be the one to destroy you.”

40

Cataline

In a matter of twenty-four hours, my entire life has changed. The world as I know it has changed. There are superpowers, and people who want to steal me again. What’s supposed to be good is actually evil.

Calvin is watching me, patiently waiting for my response. My eyes dart between his as fast as my brain processes information. “I looked up to Hero,” I say quietly.

He steeples his hand over his nose and rubs his eyes. “I never meant for it to happen this way.”

“How could you do this to me while you’re out there saving everyone else?”

“I’ve always kept you safe,” he says, his voice rising. “I kidnapped you to save you. I know everything about you.” He juts his hand toward the door. “Why do you think the kitchen is stocked with your favorite foods? Everything in your closet is your exact size? Books I know you love, I bought for you.”

“I didn’t ask for any of that,” I say, my voice small.

“It was a mistake bringing you here. I thought I could control my urges, but instead I found new ones. I’ve only ever been with prostitutes or desperate women who let me do anything I want to them.”

My throat tingles. “Why are you telling me that?”

“Because you need to understand the kind of person I am. I’m not built for a girl like you. I’ve broken you over and over. And if you stay here, I will continue to.”

The light pouring in is suddenly too bright, and my wrists throb painfully with the speed of my heart. “If I stay here?”

His eyes drift down to my bandaged arms. He stares and stares until I think he’s never going to speak. Finally, he asks without looking up, “Did you mean to do it?”

“At night I’ve prayed for Hero to save me from you. But he’s not coming. Because you are him, and he is you.” I force myself to also look at the wrists I tried to empty. When the knife sliced into my skin, it was a special kind of ecstasy. Watching the blood pour out didn’t scare me. “I don’t even know how I got there. I just remember the feeling.” I blink up to find his eyes back on my face. “It felt more right than anything I’ve done since I arrived.” The look he gives me could almost pass for anguish if I believed he was at all capable of such a thing. “Yes,” I say. “You bent me so hard that I finally broke. But I loved you anyway.”

The stillness that follows is palpable. I understand that I simultaneously love and hate him the way he is simultaneously good and evil. I can’t grasp why that matters, though, because they just feel like words to me now. The only truth I comprehend is that good and bad, love and hate, right and wrong, captor and captive—none cannot exist without its opposite.

“I’m going to give you what you wanted all along,” he says.

My dry eyes blink slowly. Does he know he’s what I wanted all along? Does he know about the crush I had a lifetime ago, when he was something to look forward to each day?

“Your freedom,” he says. “I’ll arrange it.”

My head is light, my body heavy. This is what I wanted. This is what I ran for, what I jumped for. Any concept of love is irrelevant, because I don’t know this man. I know nothing about my hero, and so, I know nothing about myself. He wields that much power over me. Not only did he take my body, my mind, and eventually my heart, but now he’s ripped me of my sanity, of the capability to feel anything.

I don’t know what he expects from me as he watches and waits. Relief? Defiance? Does he think after learning the truth I could love him enough to stay?

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Make the arrangements.”

41

Calvin

I can’t expect Cataline to want to stay crushed in my tightening fingers, but to release her feels wrong. It’s the knowledge that I’m what’s most harmful to her that urges me to stand from her bedside. It’s the horror of her loving me that makes me walk out the door.

Norman stands waiting in the study with his hands folded in front of him. “How did it go?”

I nod once. “It’s time for her to go.”

“You’re making the right decision.”

“Somehow I knew you’d say that.”

“Where will you send her?”

“Does it matter?” I ask. “Anywhere that’s not here. Somewhere neither the Cartel nor I can touch her. Let the office know I won’t be in for a while. Carlos will have my undivided focus from now until Cataline’s left the country.”

“I’ll start getting things in order. I do think it’s best I handle Cataline from here.”

I squint at him and cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not an idiot, Norman. Don’t tell me what’s best.”

“Fine, sir. It’s just that she trusts me.”

My nostrils flare. “Why shouldn’t she? You’ve spent the last three months fussing over her.”

“If you go to her with a plan, she might think it’s another trap.”

“I get it. I understand. If not for me, she might be drugged senseless and shoved into the role of Cartel prostitute. But you’re right. I’m the one who trapped her.”

“You’re exaggerating. They only wanted her to get to you. They have no use for her otherwise.”

“Is that so? Tell me more, Wise One. Let’s say their plan worked, and, using Cataline as bait, they got me where they wanted me. Let’s say they killed me. You think their next step would be to send her on her merry way after all she’d seen?”

“It would take a great deal to kill you, sir.”

“So I should’ve taken that chance is what you’re saying?”

“I think there were options you chose to ignore. But it’s too late now, and we have to deal with the mess. In fact, I should go check in on her.”

“Right, go ahead. Run to her room and feed her chicken soup as you wipe her tears.”

“Don’t get defensive when you’ve put yourself in this position. All I’ve done is treat her like a human being. I warned you to be careful.”

“Just go,” I say, rubbing my temples. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

“I’d say we all have. She needs some time to recover, but then I think it’s best she leaves at once.”

“Good,” I say. “Fine.”

When Norman’s gone, I scrub my hands over my face. Cataline won’t let me be. Cataline wild at the window. Frowning when she lost at eight-ball. Hugging my neck after being mistaken for a prostitute.

She haunts me, and it continues for days.

I’m selfish. I can’t watch her go. Norman has his instructions. When the sun rises on the morning of her departure, I’m already on the road to New Rhone.

My parents decided my fate before I was even born. When they died, that fate was sealed. I’m charged with making the world a better place, with serving justice in their absence. As I leave the mansion, it occurs to me that I’m driving away from the only thing I ever actually wanted for myself.

42

Cataline

Norman gives me a medium-sized suitcase, but I don’t have anything to put in it. I arrived with nothing, and as I stare into the closet full of expensive pieces, all I can think is that these things aren’t mine.

When Norman finds me in the same place he left me, he tells me to leave my suitcase and leads me up the forbidden staircase. I’ve cut the memory of Calvin as Hero off at the root every time, but now that I’m back in the doorway, it’s proving difficult. I turn my face and inhale deeply as Norman waits. When I’ve collected myself, I enter what appears to be another study. I can’t imagine Calvin picking out the rug with threadbare spots that sits under a large, oak desk. Yellow lamps break up brown leather chairs and wooden end tables. Worn book spines are organized by author. I glance at Norman from under my lashes and then at the phone centered on the desk’s surface.

“For emergencies only,” Norman says. “It takes incoming calls only. Sources around the city alert us to imminent danger. They don’t know too many specifics. Master Parish likes it that way. Demands it, rather,” he says with a hedging smile. “You know me as a butler, but my most important job is to receive calls, investigate their validity, and send Hero on assignment.”

The alarm-like ringing throughout the house that sends Norman running every time makes more sense now. I walk over to a bulletin board covered in newspaper articles and photographs.

“That’s my doing,” Norman says from behind me, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Master Parish despises it. There isn’t much to show because he insists on limited exposure, but it’s important to me to track our progress and success.”

I finger an article: “Hero Strikes Again? Witnesses claim mystery man lifts overturned car to rescue elderly couple”

“He’s a good man, Cataline. He’s done a lot of good here. As you can see, he loves this city, and it loves him back.”

“His parents did this?” I ask.

Norman sighs. “It’s complicated. Their intentions were good. They meant for him to be an answer. It was their passion for progress, humanity, and their only son that fueled them to perfect that formula. I’m not sure how much Master Parish told you, but New Rhone was only the beginning. They wanted every major city to have its own Calvin.” He shakes his head. “He’d never share the injections, though. He doesn’t think of himself as anyone’s hero.”

“Stop,” I say. The article’s black words blur together. I swallow it back just as quickly because I’m not that girl anymore. And I don’t know the man Norman speaks of.

“There’s a secret door,” Norman volunteers. When I turn, he gestures to the opposite wall. I peer closely but see nothing. Norman demonstrates by tapping a spot on the wall to uncover a hidden keypad. After typing in a code and scanning his thumb, the entire wall rises to reveal a pair of steel doors. It’s an elevator, but more importantly, it’s validation for all the manic searching I did for secret exits around the house.

“Downstairs is Hero’s . . . lair, if you will. It houses his armor, weapons, the security system. It’s completely protected should we ever need it to be. His body is his best weapon and the key to his survival, but he needs his tools as well.”

“Tools?”

“Of course. We never know what he might encounter. Tranquilizer darts, retractable, industrial strength rope, chloroform capsules. Those are just the things he keeps in his belt.”

“Chloroform? Is that what he used on me?”

“Yes. And then I gave you a mild tranquilizer when you arrived.”

“What makes you think that’s okay?”

He shrugs. “I suspect it was a nicer way of knocking you out than whatever the Cartel had planned.”

I cross my arms. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“You must be curious. You know the secret now, so I don’t see the harm.”

“I don’t care what Calvin needs to justify his psychotic behavior.” It’s a lie. I am curious about the downstairs space, which I envision as a dark and dank cave filled with the things of comic books.

“There’s no Batmobile or anything like that,” Norman says, and my eyes grow big. In light of recent events, I’m not entirely sure they can’t read my thoughts. “The car’s in the garage. He drives a high-class vehicle, but there’s not much more to it than your average car, aside from bulletproof windows and some upgrades catered to speed and agility. Much like Master Parish himself,” he murmurs, chuckling.

“Is this funny?” I ask. “I’m sorry, I just—is there some humor in the situation I’m not seeing?”

“Oh, dear, no,” Norman says, rushing to my side. He surprises me with a strong hug. “I don’t find pleasure in any of this. And though you may not believe me, the same is true for Master Parish. He’s not the monster you believe him to be.”

“Then you don’t know him as well as you think,” I say, limp in his arms. “Either that, or your definition of monster needs updating.”

He sniffles in my ear as his chest crackles against me. This old man, who has devoted his life to helping from the wings, is going to cry right here while he holds me.

“You’re a good girl.” His voice splits down the middle. “He just wants to keep you safe. That’s why he took you. That’s why he’s sending you away.”

“He’s not sending me away,” I say, my first flicker of anger returning. I wrestle out of Norman’s embrace and step back. “He’s giving me back something he took. That wasn’t his to take in the first place.” Norman’s face falls. “What’s the next step?” I ask.

“Cataline—”

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my hands into two solid fists. “The plan, Norman. I’m not free until I’m free. What’s the plan? Where am I going?”

“Sit,” he says with a defeated sigh, gesturing to a chair in front of the desk. He takes the seat next to me and slides a pile of papers into his lap. He shows me a long, rectangular envelope. “Your plane ticket,” he says. “New Rhone is no longer your home.”

I swallow. My head shakes involuntarily. “I’ve never wanted to be anywhere else.”

“You have to go. These people only want you as a means to an end. They have no regard for your life like Master Parish does.”

I look out the window and nod.

“You have a full few days of travel ahead of you. You’ll be staying each night of the next week in a new location to throw anyone off the scent.” He hesitates. “You will pick up a new ticket in each place you land. I can’t tell you your final destination, just that someone will be waiting there for you.”

“It’s that serious? They’d follow me out of New Rhone?”

“We’re not sure, but Master Parish is insistent we take all precautions. Your safety is his responsibility, or so he believes.”

“It’s not.”

“In any case, do not tell anyone of your plans. Carter is fully briefed on the situation. He’ll take you directly to the airport and see to it that you get on the plane safely. He’s been on staff as long as anyone, and he’s the strongest, most capable man we have.”

“Aside from Calvin.”

“Yes, aside from Calvin. But, uh, he’s indisposed today.”

“Of course,” I say. “I don’t expect another minute of his time.”

He clears his throat. “Very well.” He holds up a blue booklet and passes it to me. “Your new passport.” He averts his eyes when he says, “You’re no longer Cataline Ford.”

My fingers tighten around its smoothness. “What if I don’t agree to any of this?” I ask. “What if I want to be Cataline, and I want to go back to work at Parish Media, and I want to go home and see Frida and live in New Rhone? Why can’t I do that?”

“I suppose you can if you don’t think their threat is serious. But Calvin will always be here. He’ll never leave this city.”

“Then why not kill everyone involved? If he wants to protect me so fervently, why not just wipe out the bad guys?”

“The people of New Rhone love and respect Hero, therefore they let him do what needs to be done. In a way, they protect him too. If he were to start killing recklessly, he’d lose their support. You must understand, without this, Master Parish has nothing.”

I sigh. “I know. The city should be his first priority.”

Norman tilts his head to catch my gaze. “Not only that, but you’ve told me you hated that job and what you really want is to pursue photography.”

I look down at the paperwork in my lap, thumbing the passport open. The picture is the same as the one from my license, which I haven’t seen since before I arrived. But the name next to it is different. Jennifer Dean. “I did,” I say. “I guess I still do.”

“When you stayed with the Andersons, Calvin gave them a stipend for your care.”

My head jerks up. “What?”

“After you left, they were instructed to send you a monthly allowance. Apparently that money never made it to you. It’s all here, some cash, some in a savings account, plus credit cards in your new name.” Another envelope, this one large and heavy, lands in my lap. He gives me the warmest smile I’ve ever received. “Enough to do—well, whatever your heart desires. This is your chance to start over, dear. Live the life you’ve deserved ever since their death.”

My eyes burn holes through the envelope. Restitution for the destruction of my life. Something to allay Calvin’s guilt for what he’s done. It makes me sick to accept it, but what choice do I have? Where I’m going, how else will I get by?

“Are you scared?” he asks.

“No.”

He sits back. “No?”

“I don’t even know how to be scared. I’m finding that when your world is ripped apart, you have to learn everything all over again. I thought I . . . I mean, what is love, anyway? Or fear? I can’t touch them. I can’t hold them in my hand. How do I know they’re real?”

“If that’s what you think, then maybe you and Calvin aren’t all that different.”

My lips thin into a line. “Are we through here?”

Norman fills me in on the rest of the details and ends up packing for me. My suitcase is filled with foreign clothes and disguises designed and labeled by him. And my camera, the only thing I care to take. When Norman asks if I’d like to be alone one more time to say good-bye to the mansion, I look at him like he’s gone mad.

My heart pounds as we cross the foyer to the front door. Sunlight pierces the dusky room when Norman cracks the door. I pass through a shimmering cloud of dust particles to the doorway. I just catch Norman’s concerned expression before I allow myself one slow, controlled step outside. I walk down the solid stairs and onto the gravel driveway. Carter hulks over the car, leaning both elbows on the roof. We make eye contact, and I glance at Norman, who nods.

I don’t look back, not even to make sure this isn’t a cruel joke and Calvin’s there, ready to snatch and lock me inside again. My steps pick up speed, my suitcase tumbling behind me. When I get there, Carter is opening my door and ushering me inside with a quick glance around the area.

When he’s in the driver’s seat, he glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Ready for your trip, Cataline?”

“Get me away from here. I just want this nightmare to be over.”

I say this as though it matters what I want. Wherever I go, Calvin can find me. He doesn’t want to though, and I hate what the thought inspires in me. I abruptly douse that ember of longing. He wants me gone just as much as I want to be gone. For the first time in a while, I sigh with relief. I let myself believe the lie that I’m finally safe again. Finally free.

43

“You make me real. When you breathe into me, when you’re inside me, expanding, coming, you make me real.”

“You make yourself real, Cataline.”

“No. I wasn’t real until I felt you inside me.”

Was stripping myself bare and taking all of Calvin inside my body a dream? How can loving someone who doesn’t exist feel so real?

It’s not until Carter and I have been driving for some time that I tune in to my surroundings. My heart fills amongst the tall, glowering buildings of New Rhone, and the car’s reflection warps in silver, mirrored windows. It seems more sinister than it did months ago, the skyscrapers blending with a grey sky. It’s a haven nonetheless.

My mood plummets when I orient myself, though. The buildings shrink to standalone, rundown shops that appear deserted. One is on fire. Some pedestrians scramble to put it out while others lean against the opposite building, cigarettes sagging from their mouths.

The car suddenly veers from the pavement onto a dirt path. “Carter?” I ask as I jostle in my seat. “Maybe I’ve never flown before, but I know there aren’t any airports on the East Side.”

“Don’t worry, Cataline. It’s part of the plan.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

Out the window, I look for anything familiar through the cloud of dust the car kicks up. I slip my hand into the door handle. With the sudden pounding of my heart, my scarred wrists pulsate. They don’t think I can outrun Carter. My eyes close, and I pull with no result.

“You were locked up in that house a long time,” Carter says. “Few months.”

“Where are you taking me?”

He looks thoughtfully out the windshield, as though I’m not even here. “My wife, she’s been nagging me to get out of this job since we had a kid.”

“What makes you think I care?”

He sighs. “I don’t know. I guess I just want you to know that I don’t feel good about this. So I go to Parish, tell him to hire help. A mansion’s too much for one man, even with all that high-tech shit. I’m thinking maybe with another guy, eventually I can leave.”

“What’s this have to do with me?”

He twists to glance at me over his shoulder. “Good you didn’t lose your nerve. Some girls would’ve.” He turns forward again. “Anyway, he basically tells me to fuck off. Won’t give me vacation because there’s nobody else. Won’t let me quit, even though my wife says she’s had it.”

“It’s a job,” I say. “Why can’t you just leave?”

He’s quiet a few moments, so I assume the conversation is over. Finally he says, “He’s a killer, you know.” He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Calvin is. He’s killed a lot of people. Nothing more important to him than his secrets. Not one thing, not no one.”

Up ahead is the outline of what look like shacks. I fumble for the lock while watching the front of the car.

“Cartel came to me, and at first I said no way. Parish might be a bastard, but he’s not a bad guy, and he does good for this city. They threatened my family, Cataline. So I told them in exchange for Hero, I want a new life. I’m taking my family out of here—out of Parish’s reach. He’d kill me for it, so the Cartel’s getting me out of the country soon as I deliver you. My wife and kid—he’s five-years-old next month—they’re waiting for me at home, bags packed.”

“You don’t have to do it this way,” I say. “I’ll talk to Calvin about your job. I’ll tell him—”

“You think he gives a damn? What I’m trying to say is he’d kill me before he let me go. I tried to do this without you. Set it up so Hero went to them. Thought of all these ways I could catch him by surprise. But this guy I’m dealing with, he says you’re the answer.”

“They’ll kill me, Carter.”

“Nah. They have no reason to. You’re just bait.”

I wait for him to continue, but he pulls the car up to one of the huts and parks. “I’m sorry, kid. I am. They might rough you up a little, probably no more than Parish did. They won’t kill you, though. My advice is tell them what they want to know so they don’t hurt you. It’s just Parish they’re after, and I get the feeling you need to see him suffer more than anyone.”

The car door’s ominous slam reverberates through the leather seat underneath me. It’s the first time my role in this feud feels real. Hero has made a dangerous enemy in the Cartel, and leverage against someone as cold as Calvin is limited.

I try every handle in the car, searching for an unlock button that doesn’t seem to exist. Through the windshield, Carter approaches a boy who looks barely teenaged. They stand outside a building with crumbling brick walls that’s one of a few in a field of golden, dead grass.

When the teenager vanishes inside, I recognize the man who takes his place right away. Ash-blond hair combed away from a handsome, tan face. His square jaw is hard as he frowns, listening to Carter. Tension runs in ribbons through his muscular arms, his tattoos dancing in a splash of bright colors from under his rolled-up sleeves.

Carter gestures to the car, and Guy Fowler’s eyes cut right to me. I think I was afraid of him the first time I saw him, but I didn’t realize it. Now, I see a sort of recklessness in his blue eyes, something too disturbing for such a pretty face. I get the feeling the version of hell where Guy is in charge will be different from the one I’m escaping.

I reach over the front seat to check the driver’s door. It opens just as I reach for the handle, and a hand slaps over my wrist.

“Hey,” Carter says. “This could get ugly if we’re not careful. Just listen, and do what they say, okay?” He yanks hard on my wrist and pulls me out of the car, ignoring the way my body bumps and jerks over the console.

I fall into the dirt at Carter’s feet, fighting as he drags me. “Let go of me,” I say.

“Let go,” Fowler echoes from the porch, and Carter’s grip releases instantly.

I get to my feet, vainly brushing dirt from my jeans. Fowler stands motionless as I walk to him.

“Cataline,” he greets, his mouth quirking into a smile. “I wasn’t sure Carter could pull it off, but here you are.”

“He won’t come after me,” I say. “I’m just a fuck toy gone to the trash.”

Guy’s expression falls, and after a moment, he shakes his head and tsks. “Ay, díos mio. What’s he done to my sweet girl?” His head inclines toward his shoulder. I flinch away when he touches my hair. “We never did get that date, did we? A certain someone came between us.”

He takes my chin with his thumb and forefinger, lifting my face as I breathe through my nose. “What do you want with me?” I ask.

“You’re the only thing he cares about enough to come after.”

“And when he doesn’t come?”

“He will.”

“Then what?”

He taps a gentle fingertip on my jaw, seemingly lost in thought. He squints up at the tangerine sun and then back at me. “Carlos Riviera is avenging his father’s death. Justice is very important to us.”

“Justice.” My tone is mocking, strong with false confidence. “That's a bullshit excuse for murder.”

He laughs. “You’re adorable. Since the moment I saw you I thought so. I’m not at all surprised about his affection for you.” To the man behind me, he says, “Show her to her room.”

“Should I call Carlos?” he asks.

“Not yet. I need time alone with her.”

“¿Y señor Carter?”

Fowler’s eyes return to mine when he says, “Carter is a traitor to Hero, which makes him a friend to Riviera. Carlos promised him protection out of the country.” He pauses, and I can almost hear Carter smiling. “However, betrayal after years of servitude tells me he’s not such a great friend to have. He knows too much. Kill him.”

A crow’s mocking cry is the only sound in the seconds of ear-piercing silence that follow. When Fowler pivots and walks away, I’m urged forward by a rough pair of hands. Screaming fills the dry afternoon air—not my own. Not this time. This time it’s Carter, and his screams are those of someone confronting death. I know because I’ve heard them before.

I look directly up at the smoke-shrouded sun. The nearby fire has turned the sky an unnatural neon orange color. My eyes burn, and ash rains softly around us. The smoke makes everything ugly, but I don’t care. I soak it all in, wondering if it’s the last time.

My room is only a room, a cell with a door instead of a gate. This cell, at least, is above ground with a barred window. I am once again without my things; even things that never belonged to me are taken away.

The boy from outside is smug as he shoves me deeper into the aridness. Before I can react, someone is grabbing my sweater to push me on the ground. The door opens and closes behind me, footsteps scrape, hands grab at my arms, turning me onto my back. Somebody is screaming, an elbow jabs into my side, a body covers mine, hands bind my wrists to the cold concrete. I realize I’m the one screaming as I count one, two, three leering faces above me.

“Revancha,” says the one with his hands under my top, clawing at my bra.

The man holding my right hand spits onto my cheek. “Puta.”

Even with Calvin’s confession, I can’t comprehend why they think this is revenge on Hero. I drive my knee into the balls of the man on top of me, and he curses. His fist sends my cheek into the concrete, but he pulls my face back up with a tight grip around my jaw. He forces his lips against mine, choking me with an infusion of hard alcohol and cigarettes.

The room explodes with a sudden gunshot and echoes with startled shouts. Guy is shirtless and standing in the doorway, his gun aimed at the ground as everyone stares at him. He fires another shot and all at once I’m released and alone on the floor.

“Fuera.” Guy’s tone is commanding but calm. The men look at each other, muttering in Spanish on their way out of the room.

I’m panting hard as Guy tucks the gun into his waistband so just the butt sticks out. “Sorry about them,” he says, walking toward me. “Nothing is off limits in the name of revenge.” My eyes flicker between his face and his outstretched hand. His arm drops to his side when I get to my feet on my own. “I can’t quite figure out what draws me to you,” he says. “Perhaps it’s your innocence.”

“I’m not innocent,” I insist. “Not anymore.”

“You are though. There’s a desperate hope in you that hasn’t yet been crushed.”

“You’re wrong. I have nothing left, least of all hope. You have no idea what I’ve been through already.”

His eyebrows draw together slowly as his mouth puckers. He comes closer, and I retreat until we’re in one corner of the room. I have to look up to meet his eyes. Unlike the intense pull of Calvin’s green, they’re the calming color of the sky, the Heavens. I jerk away when he raises his hand and touches my screaming lip. “They hurt you,” he says, showing me dots of my blood on his fingertip. “But he hurt you more.”

I exhale the breath I’d been holding.

“Do you hate him?”

“No.”

His head draws back. “No?”

“What happens when Carlos gets here?”

His eyes scan over my face. Finally, he says, “What a terrible host. You must be hungry. Squat and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“What?” I ask. “Why?”

“Those mutts will come sniffing around again. If you want me to keep them away, you better do as I say.”

His tone is chillingly even, as if his speech is rehearsed. I think he can smell my fear, but I can’t help gulping. My knees buckle, and I crouch with my palms on my thighs.

“Good. I’ll be back with some food.”

He leaves me there in a room both musky and silent. Locked up and put into a strange position in the corner seems fitting for a pawn with no past and no future. My endless state of forced ignorance and innocence is exhausting, and I’m left wishing Calvin had never saved me from my fall.

44

Calvin

I’ve been standing in the room watching Norman for almost a minute. He looks up from his work suddenly and slides his reading glasses down his nose. He studies me, probably trying to figure out if I’ve been drinking. Suddenly I’m the boy again who needs looking after. “Is she gone?” I ask.

“Yes,” Norman says. “She left this morning. Any news on the Cartel?”

I peel my shoulder from the doorjamb and check my watch as I cross the room to the desk. “No unusual activity. I was on Carlos Riviera most of the afternoon, but his crew didn’t move. When I left they were still there.”

“Master Parish,” he pleads when I pick up the phone. “Let it go. She’s not your responsibility anymore.”

I hesitate only a moment before dialing. I stick the receiver between my ear and shoulder as I remove Cataline’s itinerary from my back pocket and unfold it. Norman’s sigh is loud, but I hear all his sighs lately, no matter the volume. When I connect with an agent, I say, “I need to confirm that a passenger made it on your flight. Jennifer Dean.”

I wait as she places me on hold, feeling Norman’s eyes on me. “I’ll let it go,” I say, glancing up at him, “once I know she’s safe and settled in her new life.”

“Sir,” the woman on the line says, “can you verify the name again?”

Adrenaline floods my system immediately. “Jennifer Dean.”

“I’m sorry, sir. We have no record of her boarding the flight.”

Everything in my body constricts so tightly I think my arteries might snap. “Check again, and also try the name Cataline Ford.” Anxiety-fringed anger builds inside me. My breathing is labored, and my fists are curled, one around the phone and one into itself.

“Sir, nobody by either name got on the plane. It doesn’t appear that she ever showed—”

I launch the phone against the wall as Norman jumps from his seat. “Fuck,” I shout, plunging my hands in my hair. “She didn’t get on the flight. Where’s Carter?”

“To my knowledge, he hasn’t returned.”

“He should be back by now.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, but after all these years, I can sense the concern in his voice. “Earlier she asked why she had to comply at all. Maybe she decided against our wishes.”

“Wishes? They weren’t wishes, Norman. They were orders.” I pound my code into the keypad and scan my fingerprint so the wall rises. “There’s no way Carter would allow it, not without my explicit permission. Something’s wrong.”

Down in the basement, I assemble my armor. My head is swimming, and it’s a new feeling for me.

“They need her, Master Parish,” Norman says from behind me. “While she’s bait for you, they have no reason to kill her.”

“Kill her, no. But everything up to that, yes. I don’t even know where they’d have her.”

“You need to remain calm,” he says. “You have no plan.”

I press the heels of my hands against my forehead. My only plan is a marathon killing spree. I force myself to take a lungful of air. When I exhale, Norman and I sit down to decide where to start.

* * *

Voices in the background call for me to stop, but I throw the door open so hard it bounces against the wall. Police Chief Strong looks up from the paperwork on his desk and leans back in his chair.

“Sir, should I cuff him?”

“No,” Strong tells the officer in the doorway. “Give us a minute.”

The man closes the door behind him. Three large strides and I’m looming over the chief’s desk. “I need all your intel on the Riviera Cartel.”

“You blew our cover on that case, Hero. FBI took everything.”

“Bullshit. I’ve already checked their usual positions, but I need more.”

He shakes his head. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. You’ve got to let them handle the Cartel. Riviera’s gotten even more aggressive since you offed their boss, and they want blood.”

“They have something of mine, and I won’t stop until I get it back.”

“You think you can walk in this station and walk right back out? I can’t let you do that.”

“The fuck you can’t. I don’t have time for this shit.” Before I turn to leave, I rest my knuckles on his desk. “If I find out you’re lying to me, I will destroy your life. Starting with this station and ending with your family.”

His face contorts. “You’re threatening my family?”

“That is no threat. It’s a goddamn guarantee.”

He blinks at me. “Who are you? Do you hear yourself? You’re supposed to be the good guy.”

“I never agreed to be the good guy. My job is to protect, and that’s what I’m doing.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway. We’ve got to book you, Hero. Mask off and everything.”

I slam a fist on his desk and point at him. “You don’t have to do shit. You know what I do for this city.”

“What you do is make a mockery of this force.”

“That what this is about? You’re embarrassed because you can’t keep up?”

“You know it isn’t. You do good, but you don’t deal with the wreckage. People trying to impersonate you and getting themselves killed. Unsolved murders that I foot the bill for. Less confidence in the city’s police force, which means a rise in petty crime. And in the case of the Cartel, you got the FBI so close we got no more wiggle room.” He jumps up from his desk as I back away. “I mean it. This is the end.”

Only Cataline is on my mind, and his orders are meaningless barking in the background as I exit the office. Two men grab my arms, but I shrug them off. Outside on the station steps, people have congregated.

“Stop,” Chief Strong shouts from behind me. “You’re under arrest, Hero.”

The crowd’s collective gasp grates in my ears. From the top step, I scan over their wide eyes and covered mouths. Somewhere I register that the officers are securing my arms behind me, but I’m glued to the spot. There’s an undercurrent of excitement as the crowd grows. A voice yells, “You can’t do this!”

Everyone erupts in angry chants. I hear them all, no matter how noisy it gets. Saved my son from drowning, nothing without him, should be thanking him for his service . . . .

I’ve never stopped to look at those I’ve helped. To me, they’re just the benefactors of a predator who feeds his darkness with scum. Seconds pass before a symphony of clicking shutters begins, and the news van of a competing media company drives up.

Suddenly I’m in handcuffs, men pulling me backward. I yank my wrists apart, and metal snaps. The force of it sends one officer flying into a far-away column. Norman’s in the back of the crowd by the car, lines deepening in his face.

“I don’t know what the hell this is,” the chief says, “but you need to come with us right away. If you run, we’ll have no choice but to fire.”

I bullet down the steps with handcuffs dangling from my wrists, and the crowd parts automatically. A gun’s hammer cocks behind me, but the shot doesn’t come until I’ve cleared the mob. It lands in my upper thigh, merely an annoyance.

I outrun the policemen easily. I don’t need to look back to know I’m leaving fearful faces behind. I block them from my mind, along with the song of sirens behind me.

My driver has the car idling where we planned earlier, an alley not far from the station. He takes off as soon as I slide into the backseat next to Norman.

“What could I do?” I ask when Norman looks at me.

“You had no choice,” he says. “It’ll be fine. Others have witnessed your strength before.”

“Not like this. Nobody’s watched me take a bullet and live to tell about it.”

“Except the Cartel member in the warehouse.”

“He’s good as dead. Who’s going to believe that was merely adrenaline? I can only use that excuse so many times.”

“We’ll deal with the backlash after we have Cataline.”

I nod with a tight jaw and look out the window.

“And maybe then, it’s time to consider ending this.”

“Ending what?”

“All of this, sir.”

I look out the window, not even willing to entertain the thought.

“Master Parish?”

“What?”

“I asked where you’d like to go now.”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“Best we go back to the mansion and wait, sir. They’ll be in contact when they’re ready for us.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t just sit by knowing they have her.”

He shakes his head. “What choice do you have?”

45

Cataline

My only form of escape eludes me. No matter that I close my eyes and will myself to calm, I can’t sleep. I don’t know how much time has passed before Guy returns, but when I hear the door, my eyes fly open.

Though the low sun lights the room, he flips on a dying bulb. He’s still bare chested, and I furtively admire the colorful tattoos spanning his shoulders and arms. Behind him, the boy from earlier enters with a tray of things.

“Buenas, querida,” Guy says, walking until his shins almost touch my kneecaps. “You look nice in that position, but you can stand.”

“Spanish?” I ask.

“I picked it up when I was younger. I do it without thinking, since I spend so much time in Mexico.”

My gaze wanders over the script and images that paint the skin so close to my face. On his forearm is the tattoo Frida noticed: a small, oxblood rose with “Riv” curling through the center.

“Like them?” he asks.

My eyes jump back to his. “No.”

“Shame.” He licks his lips while running one finger down my throat and hooking it under the neckline of my sweater. He drags it across my collarbone, and goose bumps pebble over my skin. “I’d love to mark you with something.”

Even though I’m cornered, I try to step back. “Can I eat?”

He glances over his shoulder and nods. The boy passes him handcuffs and leaves the room. Guy drops and dangles them in front of my face. “Arms above your head.”

“Why?” I ask quickly. “I can’t go anywhere.”

He waits silently until I give in and extend my fingertips toward the sky. He’s tall enough that he can easily lock a cuff around each of my wrists. “You think Calvin overreacted by hiding you these past few months,” he says as he works, “but he understands that when we want something, we can be ruthless.”

“You saved me from those men, though.”

“I saved you,” he says, pulling up on the shackles so I’m forced onto my toes, “for myself. Because you have something I need.” When he drops his hands, mine remain. I tug and look up to see they’ve been hooked over a rusty nail protruding from the wall. My feet are arched and my midriff peeks from under my sweater, but he says, “Perfection.”

He bends down to the tray and returns with a colorful, hand-painted bowl of strawberries. Their happy red and sweet smell are out of place in this dour room of dust and concrete. He presses the tip of one to my lips until they part. I bite down, just grazing his fingertips with my teeth, and he discards the stem at our feet. Without removing his amused eyes from my face, he feeds me another one.

After the third, he trades the bowl for a bottle, gently tipping it to my lips. Water floods and drips over my chin, but I lap it up to wash away the grime settled in my mouth.

He screws the lid back in place and picks up another strawberry. I go to bite, but he pulls it away so my teeth snap at nothing. “Now for what I need,” he says. “Tell me about Hero.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“I know he’s Calvin Parish, and I’ve seen him fight. I saw him take a bullet without flinching—out of his armor. Carter swore he didn’t know how he did it. Seeing how easily he gave you up, I believe him. So, what do you know?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. If he wouldn’t tell Carter, why would he tell me?”

“If you tried, I believe any man would give you all his secrets.” He bunches the fabric of my sweater in one hand and lifts it, letting his knuckles graze up my stomach. When his fingers slip underneath, a touch both rough and tender, my nipples harden. His other hand trails the strawberry up the same path until it’s between my breasts. “You’re very responsive,” he says when I shudder.

“Why are you doing this?”

He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Hero killed the Cartel’s leader. The mindless idiots out there,” he says, nodding backward, “want revenge. They don’t know what I saw, though. I’m the only one who knows his identity and his capabilities. Tell me the truth. You have my word it’ll remain our secret.”

“Did you send those men after me?”

“In the forest? Yes. With Carter’s help, obviously. But they didn’t know anything other than their assignment.”

“Why do you want this information?”

“I don’t need revenge. I don’t see the past. I see the future. I see opportunity. In my world, power is greater than currency.”

“What does that have to do with Hero?” I ask, nearly drunk with truth. After all the information Calvin withheld, I’m basking in Guy’s every word.

As he speaks, he runs the fruit along the curves of my breasts. “I recognize some of myself in Hero. He’s a man with mission, purpose, driven by something to the point of obsession. But now I know that physically, he’s more than that. Men put bullets in his chest, yet he didn’t fall. I want that.”

“You wouldn’t use it for good.”

“Good,” he says. “What is good? All my life I’ve struggled to survive. Nobody’s ever shown me good that I haven’t forced from them. Let me ask you, is Calvin Parish good?”

“Hero is.”

“Hero’s a killer.”

I swallow and look away. “Only to those who deserve it.”

“And who decides that? You’re defending a murderer. One who tried to break you. I can see it in your eyes. You return to me a different girl.”

“I don’t return to you at all,” I say. “And you know nothing about Calvin or Hero.”

He arches an eyebrow and raises the strawberry near my face. “Your determination is surprising. Let’s try this again. Three months ago, you were snatched from under my nose. I assume you were in that mansion the whole time. What’d you see there?”

“Nothing.”

The sick-sweet smell invades my nostrils as his other hand slides into my hair. He grips the roots and pulls hard enough that I yelp. “I admit, Cataline—my dick’s got it bad for you. You’re getting the royal treatment here. But that doesn’t mean I’m your lovesick hero. Answer my fucking question, or I’ll show you how this type of thing normally goes down.”

Banging on the door jolts my body.

“Pinchependejo,” Guy mutters. “This is Carlos. Our secret, remember?”

Guy opens the door and blocks the entrance with his body, but a man who can’t be much older than me pushes his way in. His black hair is slicked into a ponytail, and his chest inflates when he sees me. He laughs at the handcuffs. “¿Quéonda, Guy? I thought you never play with the merchandise.”

“She isn’t merchandise.”

Carlos comes so close to me I can smell rancid cigarette smoke on his breath. He looks everywhere but in my eyes. “Bueno, I don’t care what you do with her as long as she’s in one piece when he gets here.”

“She’ll be ready.”

Carlos inclines toward my wounded lip. “What’s this scrape? It’s not enough. She needs to look bad.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Carlos raises his chin. “Don’t fuck this up, Guy. I want him sorry he ever looked in Riviera’s direction.”

“What do I have to do with this?” I ask.

“Shut up,” Guy says.

Carlos looks at me and lightning fast, snatches my chin. “He hurt mi familia. My family. I want his head rolling at my feet. But first I want to hurt him back. If I could find his family, I would bring them all here and make them beg for mercy while he watches. But all I have is some fucking white girl he follows everywhere.”

I twist my face from his hand. “You’re wasting your time. He won’t care what you do to me.”

He chuckles. “I think you’re wrong. Pero, anyway, we can find other uses for you. You good at sucking dick?”

Guy crosses his arms, unblinking.

“That’s none of your business.”

Carlos looks over his shoulder at Guy, who shrugs.

“You’re going to let her talk like that? Maybe I should find someone with balls to do this.”

“I got her here, didn’t I?”

“Nah. I think I should take over now.”

“I said I’ll handle it,” Guy snaps. “Give me your belt, asshole.”

“I’m your boss now, gringo. You can’t talk to me like that.” Carlos unbuckles his belt, muttering to himself. He slides it from his pants and hands it to Guy. “I’m going to watch. If you can’t do this, we got a problem later.”

Guy comes at me and whirls my body around so my arms twist. “Stay put,” he says as my front presses up against the wall. The belt slaps across the seat of my jeans suddenly, and I cry out from shock. I’ve barely registered the sting when he lands a second blow.

“No, pinche gringo,” Carlos says. “Like this.” I turn my head over my shoulder. Carlos grabs for the belt, but Guy catches his forearm.

“Get the fuck out,” Guy says slowly. “I’m getting pissed.”

“Fuck you,” Carlos says, wrenching away. I strain to watch as Guy pulls him back by his shirt and shoves him toward the door. Carlos flips him off, but I hear the door slam a moment later.

“Why is he doing this?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s an idiot. If not for us, he wouldn’t have made it a day without his father.”

“But—”

“Forget him,” he snaps. “We’re running out of time. You need to tell me what you know about Hero.”

“I just found out he was Hero the other day. I swear. He wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

He closes in on my back, and I wince when his pelvis presses against my ass. “Was he born that way?” he asks close to my face.

“I don’t know.”

“How did you entertain yourself there?”

My eyelashes flutter at the strange question. “I read. Took pictures.”

“Is he immortal?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I honestly don’t.”

“Open your mouth.” When I don’t respond, his fingers come around to my jaw, squeezing until my mouth opens with a gasp. He traces a strawberry along my upper lip before setting it between my teeth. “Don’t bite.” He rips open my fly and shoves a hand in my underwear. When he finds me, he inhales deeply and moans by my ear. I want to look, to protest, but the flavored saliva pooling in my mouth distracts me. “Three months,” he says hoarsely while his fingers tease my entrance. “Did you suck him off?”

The abruptness of his question turns my cheeks hot.

“Did he touch you? Fuck you?”

My answer is a whimper.

“After all that time,” he continues, “you have no other information?”

I shake my head.

Guy untwists me and drops into a squat, grasping the waist of my jeans like handlebars. They slide over my ass and to the middle of my thighs when he pulls. I ram my knee into his chest, but he catches it in a strong hand before he can fall backward. His teeth pull at my panties and then release so they snap back. Breath heats my skin as he kisses me through the fabric with his whole mouth, his hard tongue snaking lower and lower.

He looks up at me, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Should I continue, or will you tell me what you know?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer but pulls my underwear down to meet my pants. His hands slide between my thighs. Both thumbs pry open my folds, and I swallow as best I can, breathing hard through my nose. “Así me gusta,” he murmurs. “If I were Calvin, I would never let this from my sight.” I feel something cool against my skin and look down instinctively. Drool drips from my mouth onto the floor as Guy rubs another strawberry along my slit. I squirm, trying not to clench my teeth. He dips the tip inside me then looks up and takes a bite.

My mind scrambles to keep up, but all I can think about is not closing my mouth and the searching fingers between my legs. Would Calvin care if someone else touched me? Is it enough of a reason to give up his secret? Guy’s eyes are fiery with the burn for information, something I understand all too well.

He puts his middle finger in his mouth and sucks. He’s looking at me in a way no one else ever has—like I’m something to be both cherished and devoured. He pushes his finger inside and hooks it, massaging me. I gasp up at the ceiling, nearly choking on my own saliva. “For such an innocent girl, you are sinfully wet,” he says.

He fingers me with an even rhythm, cupping my clit with his palm when he’s up to his knuckle. I’m fighting off the warmth pulsing in me, straining against my cuffs. Any amusement fades from Guy’s face; instead, his brows draw up in an almost pained expression. His thumb circles over me, and my hips jerk involuntarily. I close my eyes and think of Calvin, picturing his face as my struggling weakens and my body surrenders. His hand disappears suddenly, leaving my insides grasping at nothing. He stands and touches his slick fingertip to my bottom lip. My breaths are shallow as he spreads my wetness over the corners of my mouth and up to my cheeks until his finger is dry.

“I bet you’re a beautiful fuck,” he says. “There’s guilt in your eyes, but the way you flush pink is making me so hard.”

My heart stops at the word fuck. Calvin owns that part of me. He’s the only one I want there. Guy shows me both hands in surrender. “Tell me, innocent, stubborn Cat. What makes him Hero?”

My protest is indistinguishable due to my aching jaw and schooled tongue. Guy’s hand caresses me again; his touch is deceivingly light, but my body reacts, already so close to the edge. “I’m beginning to think you enjoy this.”

My head shakes hard, even as my pussy grows wetter, throbs.

“Why are you protecting him?” he asks. “Do you love him?”

Before I can answer, he picks up the belt from the ground. He turns me again and lashes my bare ass. The sheer surprise of it causes my teeth to clamp down and slice the strawberry in half.

“Oh, bad girl,” he says, tsking when I spit out the other half. He whips me twice more. All the blood drains from my face at once, and my skin flames. Metal hits the concrete, and he’s behind me again, massaging an ass cheek with his palm. His other hand twists my head over my shoulder and traps it there with a kiss to bruise. I recoil instinctively, pain firing from my wound, but his fingers dig into my cheeks to hold me still.

He wraps his arm around and thrusts his fingers into me. They search, tease, pleasure with the same intensity as his lips. I gasp, and his moans echo off my teeth. When I picture Calvin’s face, a nip on my bottom lip brings me back. My climax crests with Guy’s fingers inside me, his tongue so far down my throat I can barely breathe, and his hot chest hard against my back.

His exhale is heavy in my ear as he rests his forehead against the wall in front me. He removes his hand after a moment and tugs up my pants but leaves them unbuttoned. When he returns me forward and releases my wrists from their cuffs, my arms fall lifelessly to my sides. They prick and tingle as life flows back into them, momentarily as useless as they were above my head. I stand dumbly while he watches me. His eyes are clear, but the devilish slide of his grin reminds me of the moment we first spoke.

“You’re an intoxicating and, apparently, distracting girl. Broken in, but not broken.” He looks over my head at the window and then back at me. “I had one goal, to get answers, but you managed to derail me. Too bad, because our time has run out.”

“Run out? Why?”

“Hero has been notified of your whereabouts.”

“Please,” I say. “Don’t do this. He’s not what you think. People depend on him. Wh-what if he is immortal? He could kill all of you.”

“You’re right. He could.” He looks wistfully at me, the way I imagine a lover would right before he broke your heart. “Hero’s going to get his own private show, Cat. His precious girl on her hands and knees for all of them—us.”

“What?” I step back against the wall. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

“This isn’t about you. You could be anyone to them. It’s what you are to him.”

“I’m not what you think,” I say, pleading with him. “He doesn’t even think of me as a person.”

“You don’t know what I saw. I spent two weeks tracking Hero, trying to find something to give Carlos. Did you know he would stop by your apartment building each night to check on things? Did you know he walked you home after work most nights? He cares, chiquita. I wouldn’t waste my time on you otherwise.”

“Those things aren’t my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“They don’t just want to kill him. They want their suffering to become his suffering. And sadly, that’s where you come in.”

I slump backwards as my head swims.

“What’s wrong? Don’t think your hero can save you first? I thought he was your knight in shining armor.”

My shoulders sag from the weight I carry. I don’t have the answer to his question. I can’t declare with the same confidence I used to that as long as Hero is near, I feel safe.

“Finally you look scared. And you should be.” He smiles. “But I can save you, Cataline. I’ll take you with me. Tell me what you know. Where does he get his strength, and how does he survive bullets? If he’s not immortal, what kills him? I’ll make all this go away. You have my word.”

The door rattles when someone pounds on it. “Vamos, Guy.”

“Last chance,” he says.

Whatever the Cartel does with the information will put lives at risk, most of all Calvin’s. I don’t care. I’ve already sacrificed enough. I urge myself to speak, to spill Calvin’s secrets and take my revenge, but I remain unshakably mute.

Someone opens the doors.

“Yavoy,” Guy shouts and slams his fist into the wall. “Fuck. I can’t help you then. I don’t know why you’re keeping his secret,” he pauses, glancing over his shoulder, “but there’s a chance it’s about to get you killed.”

I swallow thickly. Before he turns away, he pulls my face up to his and kisses my cheek. He leaves without a look back.

46

Calvin

My bare hands have served me well so far. They are my weapons. My skin is my shield, my strength is my lifeline, and Cataline, my motivation. I’m not sure there’s greater motivation to me at this point. I am alarmed to learn all the things I would risk for her.

We arrive at the East Side in record time. I don’t know what to expect, or even who from the Cartel will be present. The call didn’t come long after our contacts around the city were alerted to our emergency. I’d snatched the phone from Norman, trying to listen for Cataline in the background, but the messenger had already hung up.

McCormick is a weak substitute for Carter. I’ve employed him as my driver for years, but the possibility that Carter betrayed me has deepened the fissure of mistrust I carry with me. I watch him closely as we drive. He has one command: get Cataline to safety with or without me.

Overgrown weeds lick at my boots and dirt crunches beneath them as I approach the shithole where I’ve been directed. I’m still in full uniform, though I’m not sure it’s necessary. Part of me hopes seeing me this way will restore some of Cataline’s faith in her hero.

There’s a small crowd of men out front, some I recognize, others I don’t. What links them all is their ink. To send a message, I grab the nearest Cartel member and shove him in the dirt. My boot flies into his ribcage, sending him onto his back. “Take me to Riviera.”

The only one who doesn’t step back flicks his cigarette on the ground and stamps it out. “This way.”

I throw my shoulders back and follow him inside, my eyes scanning the space around me. My body locks into a tense knot when I’m led into a room with seven men. As if on cue, they simultaneously raise their guns. Carlos Riviera stands center, his arms crossed and his chin raised.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“She’s safe,” he says. “Play nice, and she can go when we’re done with her.”

“Let her go now, and maybe I’ll kill you with mercy.” I step forward and a chorus of gun hammers sound.

“Espera. Wait,” Carlos says, holding out his hand to them. “This kill is mine.” He rips the gun from the hands of the man nearest him, but as I anticipate the shot, he calls out, “Get her.”

One of the men pounds on a side door, and Cataline comes hurling through it. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, her mouth is gagged with fabric, and the clothing she left the mansion in is covered in dirt. But it’s her undone pants that blind me with a white-hot rage. The thought of Carlos’s hands on her ignites a burning in me that only his blood will extinguish. When she sees me, her eyes widen and she whimpers.

Riviera’s head snaps to the boy who comes in after her, and under his breath, he asks, “¿Qué pasó—dónde está el gringo?”

The boy shrugs. “No sé. Se fue.”

“He left?” Carlos asks. “Stupid motherfucker.” He yanks Cataline’s upper arm and places the gun against her temple as his eyes dart off the walls and back to me. “We fuck her while you watch. Hope you taught her right, ‘cause if she’s good, we keep her. If not, she dies. Then we kill you.” Cataline’s lashes glisten with fresh tears, and her eyes are heavy with resignation.

“This doesn’t involve her anymore. You got me where you want me, now let her go.”

“Don’t tell me what the fuck to do.” He grabs the hair at the back of Cataline’s head. “Get down,” he says, pushing her to her knees.

My feet are moving across the floor, but I stop when Carlos grinds the gun’s muzzle into her cheek. “Either you watch as she blows me and my crew, or I put a bullet in her head right now.” Without taking his eyes from me, he says, “Untie it.” The man next to her sets down his gun to remove the gag. Cataline’s shoulders quake as Carlos traces his barrel down her cheek.

“Stop,” I say, but I barely hear it because my heart pounds furiously in my ears.

Carlos wrenches her head back and looks directly at her when he says, “Open your mouth, bitch.”

She swallows, and her effort to avoid my eyes is obvious. My skin is so hot it would burn anyone who touches it. Carlos hands his gun off and undoes his pants. Her skin pulls taut across her face, but I can still see her grimace through it.

“You can have whatever, I’ll go wherever you want,” I say. “Just stop.”

“Calvin,” Cataline whispers.

“Did you hear that?” Carlos asks her, his voice eerily low. “Hero’s going to trade his life for yours. He’s going to sacrifice an entire city for you, leaving them unprotected. Did you know about his obsesión?”

This unfamiliar impotence unnerves me in a way I can barely contain, and I know I’m going to erupt if he doesn’t let her go within seconds. Cataline looks at me finally, and the resignation from before has vanished. In its place is something wild I recognize from the night she cut herself open. She has nothing left to lose. Her message is clear: she’s going to fight back.

My first step lands heavy on the concrete, upsetting a cloud of dust. As Carlos looks up, Cataline buries her head in his thigh. I lunge forward just as he cries out and throws her to the ground by her hair.

Men are coming at me, but I only have eyes for Carlos. I just dodge a bullet as I tackle him, but Cataline’s scream shatters my focus. Two men are dragging her from the room with a knife pressed into her cheek. Its blade is red with the reflection of her blood. I leap to my feet, ignoring the shot that burns into my calf. The man drops the knife and runs, so I swipe it as someone jumps on my back. I turn, grabbing behind me, and throw a man across the room.

When another shot rings out, my muscles tense, but nothing hits me. Carlos runs, and I pounce, catching him by the back of his shirt and hurling him. He collides with a wall, where I pin him with my forearm on his neck.

“What are you?” he wheezes.

“I’m a predator,” I say, my voice unnaturally deep. “I target, and I kill. You mistook me for a hero. I can’t be outrun. Nobody can escape me. Nobody can hide.” I spear the knife into his chest, pull it out just as quickly, and drop it. He grunts an inhuman noise. “Now you know my secret,” I tell him. “I cannot be defeated. And nobody touches what’s mine.” His mouth moves in a silent plea, his eyes round when I drive my fist in the wound. My hand wraps around his thumping heart, and I rip it out. It’s seconds before he collapses.

I turn to find another body slumped over feet from Cataline. Her ashen face is a canvas for silently streaming tears as she stares at the man she shot. Her cuffed arms are taut and trembling. The gun in her hands remains raised.

“Cataline.”

She jumps and aims it at me. A man’s life drips over my clenched fist as our eyes lock for a few static seconds.

“What now?” she whispers.

“I’m taking you to the mansion.”

“I’m not going back there.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Blood, some of it hers, is sprayed and smeared across her skin. I want to lick it all away, clean her beautiful face, and then keep her forever so I can protect her. My ache to be near her is oppressive in its urgency. She’s frozen still as I cross the room. I walk until the gun’s barrel is jammed into my rubbery armor, right over my heart. “Do it,” I say.

“It wouldn’t matter. You said yourself nobody can escape. Nobody can hide. You can’t be defeated.”

“Maybe it will be the one bullet that kills me.”

I search the strangled depths of her eyes—blue like the air, grey like the sky. I sense the twitch of her index finger near the trigger. Finally her hands open at the same moment, and the gun clatters to the ground. She heaves like she’s going to vomit and falls into a squat, dropping her head between her knees.

More Cartel members enter the room. They look from the bleeding bodies to me to Cataline. I throw the red pulp of a heart on the floor and make short work of killing each and every one of them.

47

“Try it.”

Cataline’s entire body flinches, and she looks over her shoulder at me. On the kitchen counter sits her half-eaten sandwich and a glass of milk. It’s some time after midnight, hours since Norman cleaned her and took her upstairs.

“Go ahead,” I say.

She reaches out tentatively and touches the back door’s handle. Even from where I stand, I feel the increase of her heartbeat as she turns the knob. The door opens when she pushes it, but she looks back at me again.

I step into the kitchen. “You’re not my prisoner. I brought you here so you could heal.”

“Heal? How can I . . . after all this? I bit a man’s leg today. And then I,” she hesitates, “killed someone. A person.”

“You survived.”

“I didn’t even think about it,” she says to herself. “I just did it. One second he was coming toward me and the next he was on the ground. I aimed for his heart.”

“That’s not what I wanted for you, but it’s done. You did what you had to do.”

Her posture falls, and she looks out into the night. “I wouldn’t even know what to do out there. You could still find me.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“Do you want me to want to?” My feet are drawn toward her, stopping only once I’m staring down at the top of her hair. “You could stay.”

Her head snaps up. The bandage on her cheek wrinkles.

“Stay because you want to,” I say. “Because I want you to.”

I break eye contact to pull my sweater over my head and hand it to her. I wait as she takes my cue and puts it on. My hand slips quietly around hers. “Come.”

At this hour, the outside air is still. Only the moon illuminates our path as I lead her through the yard’s labyrinth of rosebushes. “My parents bought this land before I was born. My father helped build the house. My mother designed the interior and the garden. Roses were her favorite flower. When they moved to Fenndale, they kept the house because there was no question they’d return one day.

“I inherited enough money from their death to start my own business. I picked media because it would give me some control over my image. I knew that would be crucial to maintaining two identities. I don’t need all this,” I say, gesturing at the house, “but it allows me the privacy and security that I do need.”

“Do you miss your parents?” she asks.

“Yes. I wish they could’ve seen their creation come to life.”

“Do you think they’d be proud?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, I think I lost sight of what they wanted.”

“What did they want?”

“They wanted to make the world a better place, starting with the city they loved. I don’t know what I was supposed to be. An answer, I guess. For my grandmother’s death—until it became greater than that.”

“What’s it like to be a hero?”

I glance down at her. “I don’t know. I don’t think of myself that way.”

“Why do you do it, Calvin? Really?”

“I can’t put into words how it feels to save a life. Nor can I describe how it feels to take one. Nothing compares to that kind of power. In the beginning I did it for my parents. Now I could never walk away. I’d be abandoning millions of people. That, and . . . I care about this city. It’s the only thing I ever cared about.”

Her expression softens. “The only thing?”

“What do you want to hear?” I ask. “That I care about you? I fucking killed for you today. I put everything on the line.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that. I never asked for any of this.”

“No, you didn’t. But you got it. I can’t explain why it’s you, how you feel like mine. If you could see what I’ve seen and all the evil in people—” I swallow through gritted teeth, “you’d understand. I want to protect you from that because it’s my fault you have no one else. And because . . . ”

“Because what?”

I sigh and shake my head. “Never mind.”

After a few moments of walking in silence, she asks, “What were they like, your parents?”

“I told you. Extremely smart and kind-hearted.”

“But what else?”

“They never gave up on anything. Or anyone.”

She bites her bottom lip. “Do you think they maybe asked too much of a sixteen-year-old boy?”

“No,” I say. “They gave me a gift.”

“What happens if you stop?”

“Stop what?”

“The injections.”

“I don’t know. Why would I?”

She stops walking and turns to me. “You said it’s the K-36 that makes you this way. This—I don’t know. Aggressive. Cruel.”

“They amplify my human urges. Anything bad, any darkness in me becomes worse. But it also makes me strong and capable.”

“Could you stop if you wanted to?”

“Yes, but I have no reason to.”

I release her hand, and she glances down. “Was I wrong about Hero?” she asks.

“What did you think?”

“That he was good. He’s a hero because he can’t be anything else.”

She’s still my little bird, a delicate flower in my hands. I’ve closed my fist around her and crushed her so many times. “You weren’t wrong.”

“Am I wrong about you, Calvin?”

“No.”

“How can that be? How can you be two opposite people in the same body?” She gets right under my chin. “It makes you this way.”

“What?”

“K-36. It’s a drug.”

I blink slowly at her and raise my eyebrows. “Drug?”

“That’s what your injections are. Drugs. You get high just like any other junkie.”

“They make me better,” I snap. “Without the ‘drugs,’ I’m nothing. I’m a criminal, just like them. That ‘drug’ is what saved you today. They’re what make it possible for me to protect what needs protecting.”

“Fine,” she says. “I don’t even know why I care.”

She turns, but I grasp her arm and pull her back. “We’re not finished. Don’t walk away from me.”

“There’s the Calvin I know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know that other guy, the version of you who holds my hand and tells the truth. The one who saves the world. But this man,” she says, looking at my hand on her, “this one I know.”

“You think because I put on a mask you don’t know me? That’s bullshit.” My grip loosens, and I take a deep breath. “Look, Cataline, the truth isn’t pretty. It’s fucked up. But that doesn’t change what we’ve been through. The other night you said,” I pause on the verge of unknown territory, “you said you loved me. Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. Whatever’s coursing through my veins, I don’t recognize it. I think I smile, but I’m not even sure because it’s been so long since anything has made me happy. That’s when she says, “But I don’t anymore.”

48

Cataline

My muscles ache, my head pounds through a haze. The room is dark when I open my eyes, but I know where I am. I recognize it by what I can’t see. By what I smell. By the sounds. But I don’t think it would matter if I were deaf, dumb, and blind, because I recognize it mostly by the way it feels. I’m back in the mansion in my bed. The thought sinks into my brain as I doze, dragging my heart down with it.

The next time I wake, the room is awash with sunlight. It makes me irrationally angry that nobody closed the blinds, and I’m now assaulted by the reality of my situation. I don’t bother to dress or fix my hair; I just slog downstairs to the kitchen, hoping to find food.

I’m not surprised to be greeted by mouth-watering smells, but I am surprised to see Calvin sitting at the head of the table reading a newspaper.

“What day is it?” I ask, surveying his grey t-shirt and charcoal, plaid pajama pants.

He glances up. “Friday. How are you feeling?”

I grab a strip of bacon and fall into my usual seat at the opposite end of the table. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask as I chew.

“I’ve been waiting for you to get up.”

“Why?” I mutter. “I’ll be here when you get home.”

“I’m taking some time off.”

I scoop scrambled eggs onto my plate, trying to avoid his eyes, even though all of his green is fixed intently on me. “Can you, like, do that? Or will you still be out there doing . . . Hero things?”

He folds the paper and sticks it under his arm. “Don’t worry about me. Just focus on getting better.”

“I’m not worried. Just trying to make conversation.”

“Duly noted. Will you answer my question?”

“Which one?”

“How are you feeling? You slept through most of yesterday and half this morning.”

I shrug. “I’m a little stiff.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” he says, clearing his throat. “We haven’t really discussed it. I’m sorry that you saw everything you did.”

“You removed a man’s heart from his body.”

“Does that scare you?”

I scrape my fork against the plate. A sarcastic answer sits at the tip of my tongue. The fact that I’d rather tell him the truth, though, makes me want to stab the fork into my thigh. Why can’t I hate him like I’m supposed to? Why didn’t I shoot him when I had the chance, for everything he’s put me through? “It scared me more that they might hurt you,” I say finally. “There were a lot of men there. Are you okay?”

We watch each other across the long table until he says, “Come here.”

I shake my head.

“Defiant as ever.”

“Demanding as ever.”

“Come here, Cataline.”

Curiosity urges me up and that inexplicable draw to him moves me forward. He pushes his chair back. I perch on his knees so we’re eye-level, and he brushes his thumb over my split lip with unexpected gentleness. “You’re hurt.”

My eyes close. His smell is intruding on me, an unwanted reminder of what it can be like to have him this close. His thigh muscle is so strong under me, his hands so tender.

“Did they touch you?”

Guy Fowler’s sinister grin is clear in my mind. “No.”

His fingers grasp my chin, and I open my eyes to meet his intense gaze. I almost don’t recognize his inhumanly deep voice when he says, “I killed them for you.”

I shake my head. “Not for me.”

He blinks slowly. “For you. I held Riviera’s heart in my hands. You want truth? Here’s the truth: I enjoyed every minute of it. Because that’s the monster I am. Now are you scared?”

To have anything other than fear and hate for him makes no sense. Maybe I could have loved him, maybe I did, but how can I now? My brain tries to reconcile the gap between the man I thought he was, the man he is, and the man I want him to be.

I’m so confused that I press my lips against his. We sit that way, inhaling and exhaling each other until I part my mouth. He opens with me, returning my kiss with a hungry tongue.

Without disconnecting, I shift to straddle his lap. “Wait,” he says, pulling away and rubbing his eyes with tense fingers.

I ignore him with a softer kiss. I move my hips, seeking out his hardness. His hands race over my back and under my nightgown, scrunching the fabric up to my shoulder blades.

His skin on mine makes me needy. He rips away again, his breathing labored. “Does it hurt?” he asks, staring at my lip.

“I like the way it hurts,” I say, bringing him back to my mouth by his t-shirt.

“I don’t think this is a good—”

“Stop,” I say, shoving against him as I get to my feet. “You want to hurt me, but you’re bothered by a split lip?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, anger just below the surface of his words. “I never did. I want you bad, Cataline, but I think we should slow down. Start over.”

“Oh my God,” I say with a hollow laugh. I gesture between us. “We can never start over.”

“What I mean is that sex won’t help anything right now.”

“Jesus,” I say, covering my face. “Just stop. You’re making everything worse.”

“Talk to me. Tell me what’s worse.”

I look up from my hands and before I can stop myself, I’m climbing back onto his lap, pushing the elastic of his pants over his erection.

“You’ve been through a lot,” he says. “You need to talk.”

“I need you,” I say, kissing his cheek. I tug aside my panties and glide myself along his shaft. “Come on, Calvin,” I taunt against his skin as my hands find their way into his hair. “I know you want to.”

He swallows loudly, and I remain there, my breath on his cheek, my fingers fisting his hair, my thighs trembling as I hover over him. His chest deepens with each inhale, but neither of us moves.

“Look at me,” he says.

I want to, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing all the ways I’m hurting. In this moment, ripped open by desire, I know my face is raw with confusion, pain, and unfiltered need.

“I’m a monster,” he whispers, sending a direct line of shivers down my spine. “You’re in control here. I don’t want to take from you anymore.”

“Yes, you do,” I respond. “That’s all you know. Take it, Calvin.”

He shakes his head.

I muster all the grit I can from my throat and lean in so he’ll feel the heat of my breath on his ear. “Fuck me like the little slut I am. Do it hard. I know that’s what you want, to teach me a lesson. Show me that you own me, all the ways I belong to you—”

He vaults the chair out from under us so we both fall to the floor. I’m on my side when he seizes my hips and drags me backward. My hands scramble to catch up and just as I’m getting to my knees, his fingers are opening me up, spreading me for him. He works his crown inside, opening me wider and wider, teasing me so my fingernails dig into the wood.

“This what you want?” he asks, mocking me with short thrusts. “To be fucked like a dog?”

“Yes,” I moan.

“What else do you want?”

“Make me real again,” I say. “Make me feel it.”

He gives my ass cheek a light slap.

“Harder,” I grate through my teeth.

His one hand curls into the crease of my hip, and he hauls me backward, filling me all the way. “In my dreams, I’ve spit in your pussy, fucked you with my fist, turned your lips red and swollen from sucking my cock.” He rolls into me leisurely like he’s testing me for the first time. “Would you let me do all those things to you?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “You can have it all. This is what we are. You’re the enemy, the master. I’m your slave.” My words have the desired effect, and his hips start smashing into mine faster, his cock more slippery and unbridled with each thrust. “This is how it should be,” I groan. “I deserve this.”

His palm burns my ass with another satisfying slap. I gasp into the resounding sting of each subsequent smack as it lives through me. I push back against him, stretching my arms out in front of me to take him deeper as I beg for more with my body. He answers by wrapping my hair around his hand and pulling me into his thrusts. “Tell me you’ll always be mine.”

“Always,” I lie, crying it loudly.

His body closes over my back and forces me down. He props himself up on my shoulders, mashing me into the ground with each drive of his hips.

“Lick the floor,” he says. My tongue flickers over the wood, and his fingers dig into my skin. “Want to fill you up so bad, Sparrow. Come for me so I can finish.”

My ass bucks upward with his feverish demand, and he has me just right so I’m shuddering, descending into nothing but vibrations and buzzing electric currents. He groans from above, his heat spurting and trickling throughout me, claiming me from the inside as it seeps into my bones.

One hand leaves my shoulder and then the next so he’s propped above my body. He thrusts slowly, softening in the puddle of his cum and mine. “Cataline . . .”

I shake my head as best I can against the floor. My eyes close, and my fingers curl into my palms. “It’s what I wanted.”

I flip onto my back when he pulls out of me. The waistband of his pajama pants is still gripping his thighs. I begin to feel the effects of him losing his control. My lip and cheek throb, my shoulders are stiff, my breasts tender.

I know his eyes are on me as I get to my feet, but I can’t bring myself to return his stare. Pulling on the hem of my nightgown, I say, “I think I just . . . need to be alone.” Before he can respond, I climb back up the stairs to my cushy prison cell.

49

Calvin

It’s the click of Cataline’s closing door that jars me from staring at the floor where she just was. Anger riots through me for allowing her to drive me to the edge. I wanted to be better. But I’m still her own personal brand of fear, the creator of the demons inside her, the shadow blocking any light. I lost control, and she got the confirmation she was looking for: I can’t be anything other than this. Do I love her? I don’t know what else to call this way she’s consumed me.

Before I know it, my fist is through the wall, my face burning as I overturn the table. Food, pitchers, dishes clatter to the ground. Fuck all of this. Fuck my parents for putting this life on me. Fuck Cataline for not being able to protect herself from me. Fuck me for not being good enough.

* * *

Nerves are unfamiliar to me. After staring hard at Cataline’s door for some minutes, I inhale deeply and rap twice. She makes me wait.

“Come in,” she says eventually.

The room is orange from the flood of late afternoon sunlight. Under the comforter, she’s in bed, curled onto her side. Her heavy lids and dull, red-rimmed eyes tell me she’s been sleeping. She looks at me expectantly, so I clear my throat and close the door behind me.

“You’ve been up here a while,” I say, sitting tentatively on the edge of the bed. “Thought I’d check on you.”

She shrugs. “I’ve been thinking.”

“This whole time?”

“I also took a catnap.”

“Catnap?” I repeat.

She raises her eyebrows and smiles. “You’ve never heard of a catnap?”

I shake my head.

“It’s just a nap but quicker, I guess.”

“I see. A nap for pussycat.”

“No,” she says, smiling wider. “It’s just catnap. No pussy.”

“Is there such a thing as a pussynap?”

She giggles and hides her face under the covers.

“I, for one, think it’s a great idea,” I say.

She peers over the blanket, and I can see by her eyes that she’s still smiling. “I’m sure you do.”

I take the comforter from her hands and slide it over her bare shoulder. “Just out of curiosity, are these catnaps done naked?” I run my fingers over her skin, watching the trail of bumps they leave behind.

“Sometimes,” she says.

“And this time? Do I have your permission to find out?”

“Do you need it?”

“No. I’d like it, though.”

She swallows and nods, so I slip my hand just under the covers and take her soft breast in my hand. It fits perfectly into my palm, and when I squeeze, she moans softly.

“Just one touch, and I’m hard. Nobody else does what you do to me.”

“Calvin,” she whispers. I pinch her nipple, and she bites her lip. “You can move it lower.”

I want to. But this morning is fresh in my mind, so I release her reluctantly. “I didn’t come in here to feel you up. I actually came to invite you somewhere tonight.”

She pulls the cover back over her shoulder. “Oh. Where?”

“I’m on the Board of Directors for an organization that focuses on fighting poverty in the city. We implement programs in the East Side to develop services for families in need.”

“The East Side is in such bad shape.”

“I know. Trust me, I know. That’s why they need us.”

She sits up against the headboard, clutching the comforter to her.

“It’s formal attire,” I tell her, “but you should have plenty to choose from.”

She looks down at a spot between us and tucks hair behind her ear. “Are you ordering me to go?”

“What?”

“Do I have to?”

“No. I meant what I said. You’re not my prisoner anymore.”

“Why would I go?”

“Because I want you there.”

The hair falls back into her eyes when she nods. “Okay.”

I reach out and run my finger under her jaw. “We leave in two hours. I’ll send Rosa in to help you get ready.”

I’m thankful that she’s willingly agreed to accompany me. Cataline will be the first guest I’ve ever brought to a function, although she won’t be the first I leave with. I’ve found that the graver the charity these functions benefit, the easier it is to find women. Somehow, that seems inconsequential now, as though it were a lifetime ago.

That evening, I wait for her downstairs, pulling at the bowtie that strangles me. When she reaches the top of the staircase, I’m certain I’ve never felt anything like this. For so long I’ve watched her, but I have yet to see her this way. She’s dressed to perfection with no trace of the little girl I met sixteen years ago. She’s an adult, striking and confident. Her dark crimson dress is the color of ripe blood and that she chose it isn’t lost on me. It reminds me of holding Riviera’s still-beating heart in my fist, his life dripping over my knuckles in red rivulets. For her, I pulled that heart out, and just to know she’s safe, I’d do it again.

Her bare shoulders and chest beg for my hands, but I shove them in my pockets. Her breasts are pushed up and plump. I want to slide my dick between them and come all over her long, slender neck. I blow out a breath as she descends the stairs and try to find a spot where I don’t see the slit traveling up her thigh or the slight bouncing of her tits. She’s incredibly stunning. I think about how nothing will stop me from getting my hands on her later until I reach her steely eyes.

“Calvin?”

I blink slowly. “Yeah?”

She’s standing a foot from me now, her head inclined toward her shoulder. “Are you just going to stare at me, or should we go?”

“You look . . .”

Her cheeks tint pink as I grasp for the right word. “Beautiful” doesn’t begin to describe the creature in front of me with a pound of dark hair piled on her head and eyes rimmed in charcoal.

“You look nice too,” she says. She leans in, and I’m sure my cock will break right through my pants if she touches me, but she reaches behind me to take something from the foyer’s table. “You forgot your glasses.”

I’m rigidly still as she takes two tiny steps into my body, infiltrating my space with a fresh scent that seems to scrub away everything bad inside me. She lifts both hands and slides the glasses on my face. After adjusting them, she steps back again, leaving me in her dissipating cloud. “There. Now you’re ready.”

Ready. What she means is that I’m back in one of my disguises, a person she can catalogue in her mind as good or bad. I still haven’t figured out which version she thinks I am now, though. I’m not sure I know myself.

When we walk through the doors of the event, Cataline can’t hear the low whistle of one man or see the way he nudges his friend and nods in her direction. But I can. What he doesn’t know is that her date can snap his neck without batting an eye. “Stay close to me tonight,” I say.

“You’d tell me if there were danger, right?” she asks. “Please, Calvin, don’t keep me in the dark anymore.”

“There’s no danger,” I reassure her. “But I want you close anyway.”

“Are you afraid I’ll say something I shouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if that were the case. However, I’d advise you to be careful. I’m trusting you.” Her fingers compress around my bicep as she nods. “What’s your poison?” I ask.

She scans the room up to the second floor balcony and over the crown molding along the ceiling. “They’re even richer than you.”

“Helpful when it comes to charity functions.”

She looks back at me while biting the inside of her bottom lip. “I was never much of a drinker. Can you order for me?”

“Gladly.” I get her a glass of red wine and keep her close as I roam the party and make my presence known. In the wake of this week’s headlines, it’s important as ever to maintain a sense of normalcy. Cataline’s Hero fell days ago, so I haven’t bothered sharing the news with her. When the story broke, not even my own publications could skirt publishing the photos.

Cataline shows me someone new at the party. She’s the woman in the crimson dress: sophisticated, sexy, restrained. Hardly the same girl I kidnapped months ago. I don’t know how to feel about it. Mostly she’s composed, smiling and nodding at the right times, but I note how her fingers curl in and out of little fists. Finally, mid-conversation with two other couples, I still her hand with mine. She blinks up at me as I lace our fingers together. Her mouth opens slightly, and she squeezes my hand. I wonder how it would be to kiss her here, claiming her in front of all these people.

I only break our gaze when the mention of Hero draws me back into the conversation. The mayor and his wife have joined the group, so I bend my mouth to Cataline’s ear. “Will you refresh our drinks?”

She nods and leaves with my glass.

The mayor shakes his head, talking to the man next to me. “I know as much as you do. Nobody suspected he was anything more than a vigilante—trained fighter or soldier, something like that. Chief Strong’s been working around the clock, looking for an answer.”

“We were shocked,” says one of the women. “Brian insists it’s something extraterrestrial, but I told him that’s absurd.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t be good,” says the mayor. “We’ve been fielding phone calls all week from concerned citizens. I don’t even want to know what the force is dealing with, what with the FBI all over them.”

His wife shudders. “What if one day he suddenly turns on us? Can you imagine that, a man who can’t be killed? I do hope he’ll just go away, and leave us alone. What’s your take, Calvin?”

I’m struggling for an answer when something across the room catches my eye. “I think Brian’s onto something,” I tell her. “It was only a matter of time before the aliens found us. If you’ll excuse me.”

I step away from the group and just out of Cataline’s sight as she accepts two drinks from the bartender. A man I don’t recognize won’t stop smiling at her. I’m not in the habit of listening in on people’s conversations, mostly because there’s nothing worth hearing. Now, though, I’m rapt as he leans in and speaks.

“You look familiar,” he says, “but I can’t put my finger on it. Have I seen you at one of these before?”

She glances around the room so quickly that it’s almost imperceptible. “It’s my first time. I’m a guest.”

“Of?”

“Calvin Parish.”

“Aha. I wasn’t aware he had guests.”

“Meaning?”

“He never brings anyone to these things.” The man grins and whispers loudly, “He’s a bit uptight if you haven’t noticed.”

She smiles at the floor but answers clearly and loudly, probably for my benefit. “Oh, I definitely have.”

“Rob,” he says, sticking out his hand.

She hesitates a moment, unmistakable fear in her eyes. I can see her newfound wariness fighting with her innate politeness. That a strange man scares her doesn’t surprise me. “I should really get this to Calvin.”

“Oh, come on, chat with me for a minute. You’re the only other person in the room under thirty. What’s your name?”

“Cataline.”

“Nice to meet you, Cataline.” He cocks his head. “You do seem a little young for such a stuffy event. And much too pretty.”

Her forehead bows to the ground again as she smiles a little. I can see that it radiates warmth, even though it’s not directed at me. Suddenly I’m too far from her, and this man is too close.

“Thank you,” she says.

An unusually long silence stretches between them as her eyes travel up to meet his again. His eyebrows lower, joining in the middle as he studies her. Something about the way he’s looking at her propels me out of the shadows and briskly forward.

“Hang on. I think I do recognize you,” he says. “Aren’t you the girl who was kidnapped?”

Her eyes widen instantly. “What?”

“I’ve seen flyers downtown with your picture.”

“My picture?”

“Are you?” he asks. “Are you the girl who was kidnapped?”

My heart is racing as I approach her from behind, restraining myself from clamping my hand over her mouth.

“No,” she says, and I almost stop in my tracks. “It must’ve been someone else.”

“Shit, are you okay? You don’t look so good.” He touches her arm. If I react how I want, I’ll draw unwanted attention. “Should I call someone?”

“Cataline.”

She whirls around at my voice and immediately huddles into my chest. My arms instinctively surround her trembling shoulders. “Is there a problem here?” I ask the man.

“I’m sorry, no—”

“What’d you say to her?”

“I thought—I’m sorry. Nothing.”

“You’ve clearly upset my girlfriend. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t level you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Parish. I was mistaken.”

I lean over her head and glare at him. “Stay the fuck away. She’s with me, got that?”

Cataline’s fingers curl into my shirt as I watch him leave.

“Shh,” I say into her hair. “It’s okay, Sparrow. I’m here.”

“Flyers?” she whispers.

“Frida, I think. She’s the only person I know of who’s never given up looking for you.”

“Oh, God,” she says into my chest. “Poor Frida.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. Poor Frida.”

Her hands still clutch me, and I fucking love it. I love that for once she needs me. In this moment, I am her solace; I’m good Calvin to her. I take a chance and stroke her back, running my hand up her neck. I kiss the top of her head, careful not to disturb her nest of hair.

She doesn’t respond at first. We stand that way until she says, “You called me your girlfriend.”

“I know.”

She looks up at me finally, our eyes locking together. “I’m sorry for this morning,” she says. “I know you were trying.”

“You pushed me. You wanted me to lose control.”

“Ever since I found out about Hero—about you . . . I feel numb. Different. Everything is turned inside out.”

As she’s talking, her eyes grow warm and alive again. The eyes she used to stare at me with in the office, like she might love me in some weird way. Eyes I’ve seen here and there over the past few months, but not since the night she learned the truth.

I can’t help myself. She’s a magnetic force field, and I’m a man without a chance. I lower my head, hungry to gobble up that bottom lip of hers that’s quivering, begging for me. Doing what I do, being who I am, I’m never unprepared. But that’s exactly what I am when she shoves me away.

“I can’t,” she says, and I’m left open-mouthed with empty arms. “This isn’t what we are. I don’t want you. I don’t love you. And whatever this is, I can’t do it.”

50

My last promise to Cataline was that I’d let her be, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I’m leaning against a brick wall near her apartment, impatiently waiting until a black town car pulls up. Cataline gets out with a small duffel bag and nothing more.

Norman’s right behind her, watching while she puts the bag at the doorstep of her apartment building. People pass them by, oblivious. The look she gives Norman makes my throat constrict. All I got in the car on the way home from the charity event was a cold shoulder and no explanation.

“I don’t know what to say,” she says to Norman. “It feels wrong to say thank you or I’ll miss you, but that’s what I want to say.”

He nods, and I’m sure the sentimental old man has tears in his eyes. “I want you to know, if you ever need anything, you can come to me.”

They hug, and she kisses him on the cheek. Then he’s gone, and she’s alone. Since he doesn’t take her upstairs, I know he knows I’m here. She approaches the building’s entrance and pushes the button to her apartment with an unsteady finger. She’s biting on her thumbnail when a voice comes through the speaker.

“Yeah?” Cataline just stares. “Hello?”

“Frida?” A silent beat. “It’s me, Cat.”

I realize I’m holding my breath until Frida says, “I . . . I’ll be right down.”

Cataline sighs and closes her eyes, and I have to remind myself why this is right. I want to bolt across the street and take her in my arms, crush her in a hug that reminds her I’m not just a bad memory but a real person who needs her, who no longer knows anything without her.

Frida bursts through the door and almost knocks Cataline over with the force of her hug. They cling to each other like they’re in danger of drowning in their own tears.

“Oh my God,” Frida chokes out. “Where have you been? What happened?”

I justify spying because I need to know what she’ll say. In fact, I wouldn’t care if she went to the police and told them everything. Exposed me as Hero. She deserves that kind of justice.

“You wouldn’t believe any of it,” Cataline says, gripping her friend by the shoulders.

“Was it the Cartel?” Frida asks.

Her answer is immediate. “Yes.”

“I knew it,” Frida says tearfully. “I knew you didn’t run away. I never gave up.”

“It’s over now. It’s over. He saved me.”

“Who?”

“Hero.”

Frida’s mouth falls open. “Hero? Were you afraid?”

“Afraid?” Cataline asks. “Of Hero?”

Frida shakes her head quickly. “One thing at a time. Come upstairs. Tell me everything.”

There’s supposed to be this moment where she feels my eyes on her and pauses to turn around, but she only follows Frida inside. I leave before I’m tempted to listen to the whole fucked-up fairytale.

51

Cataline

3 Years Later.

“I’ve got this, Melinda,” I say. “Go home to your boys.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“I’ll close up tonight.”

She winks at me. “You’re a good boss, Cat. See you Monday.”

“Monday,” I agree.

I lock the door behind her. The sun has just set through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the room is darkening quickly. I flip on two yellow lights, just enough to finish my paperwork. My eyes wander around the gallery. Do you see? I want to cry out. I’ve done it. I’ve done it without any of you. Without your money or your support. I’m speaking to all of them—those who left me with nothing, those who never gave me anything, and those who took everything away. It’s my gallery, with my signature on the checks, my sweat in the floorboards, my brushstrokes on the walls. I was there every step, building from nothing. Do you see?

Instead of pride, I feel my usual, inexplicable defeat. My arms are heavy at my sides. This feeling never seems to leave, but it’s been months since it weighed this much. As if on cue, my phone rings. I rub my eyes and return to my desk.

“Hey, babe.” Grant’s voice puts me at ease. “How’s it going?”

“As of today, my exhibit is officially the gallery’s best yet.”

“Wow,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re a star.” He smiles because he’s proud and he loves me, fissures and all. He’s patient; he’s sweet. He worships my body when we make love. He is not Calvin. “Coming over for dinner?” he asks.

“Actually, I have some things to wrap up. Can we hang tomorrow?”

“You know, if you lived here, I could see you tonight.”

I nod, familiar with his teasing. “So you keep saying.”

“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate and that moving would be a pain in the ass, but . . . once it’s done, things will get easier. Not just financially.”

“I know, honey. I promise it’s on my mind. Along with a lot of other things.”

“Okay. As long as you’re considering it. Did you lock the gallery door?”

“Yes.”

“I worry about you there by yourself. I don't like that you’re so close to the East Side.”

“I’ll be careful. Love you.”

“You too. Call you in the morning.”

I hang up and stare at the phone for a minute before setting my face in my open palms. I do this most nights without meaning to—take a moment to myself once I’m completely alone. Sometimes to remind myself that I’m doing what I love. Sometimes to think about my parents. Sometimes I wonder about Guy Fowler and why he set the Cartel leaders up knowing Hero would knock them down one by one.

But tonight I don’t think about any of those things. Like most nights, I only think about Calvin. Not Hero, and not my captor. Just Calvin.

I replay the look on his face when I told him I couldn’t do it. Three years later, it’s just as clear. It’s seared into my heart because I’d never seen him look like that before. I’d seen anger, domination, frustration, maybe even remorse in his eyes. But this was something else—pain that came from the depths of a man I never got to meet.

Nobody ever knew my soul like Calvin, even if it was a forced entry. Not before then, not since then. That’s what I’m thinking when I hear a noise and look up. Calvin stands in the doorway, one shoulder against the doorframe as he watches me.

My heart’s in my throat in an instant. Some slivered-off piece of relief floods my system, like part of me was afraid I’d never see him again. I guess that part was wrong.

“Cataline.”

“Calvin?” My elbows are still on the desk, my hands frozen where my forehead had been. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes scan the walls, lingering over my photographs. “I had to see with my own eyes,” he says quietly. “Why now?”

I follow his gaze. The exhibit took me this long to present, but it still threatened to reverse the progress I’ve made the last few years. My hell, plastered in color, black and white, and sepia against eggshell walls. Yet, in being surrounded by photographs taken in the mansion, I’ve also found comfort because they take me back to him.

“Why are you sitting there, your head in your hands, looking miserable?” Calvin asks. “You of all people know what misery is. It’s not this.”

“I think I should be the one asking the questions.”

He glides a hand through the air, an invitation.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“I read about the exhibit.”

“So?”

“I watched you take some of these photos. I know what they mean to you.”

“That’s it?”

He sighs and after a moment, walks further into the room. “Tell me one thing.”

My hands drop into my lap. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s just broken into my gallery after three years and is demanding answers from me.

“Are you happy?” he asks.

Years ago, I would’ve asked him what he cared if I was happy, or why it mattered to him. I would’ve asked him what right he had to know that about me. But all this time away from him, missing him, has loosened the angry knot that replaced my heart when I left. “I don’t know, Calvin. I don’t think I know how to be happy.”

“Do you still not love me?”

“That’s two things.”

His lip twitches into a half-smile. “Do you?”

The question dangles in silence as I look at him. He absentmindedly slicks hair away from his forehead and then burrows his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He’s not wearing his glasses, only a dark, pullover sweater with pushed up sleeves and he’s just Calvin.

“You broke me,” I say just above a whisper. “And nobody can put me back together but you.”

He inhales a deep breath.

The confusion I’ve always felt since the mansion throbs in my veins, heightened by his presence. “Why are you here? To torment me?”

“Because I love you. And I’m not a strong enough man to bow out like I should. After three years, that love hasn’t waned. Because I’ve always loved you, since you were a little girl, I just didn’t know I was allowed to.”

“Who says you are now? Who says you’re allowed to love me? After everything we’ve been through, how could we possibly be anything but what we were in the mansion?”

“I want to set you free. Let me heal what hurts.”

“You hurt,” I say, tearing up as I place my hand over my heart. “Here. You put the wounds here, and now you want to heal them. You’re the captor who wants to set me free.” I ask him the questions I haven’t stopped asking myself since the night I learned the truth. “How can you be evil and good? How can I love and hate you? How can you be both my savior and my enemy? How can I want both punishment and forgiveness for you?”

He latches onto the word immediately. “Forgiveness?”

“I forgive you,” I say.

“For what I did to you?”

“No. I forgive you for my parents.”

Unfiltered pain crosses his face in a way that I know he couldn’t have hidden if he tried. “How could you forgive me for that?”

I rise and walk from the desk to where he stands. “Because it was never your fault,” I say, holding his gaze. “You’re not responsible for their death, for my childhood, or for me.”

“I am,” he says. “I’ve failed you, over and over.”

I flatten my hands against his chest. “It’s not your fault,” I say with an unsteady voice. “But I know you need to hear that I forgive you.”

His hands circle my wrists, and he brings my palms to his lips to kiss each one. There is wetness at the corner of his eyes, and I wipe it away. “You’re so good,” he says.

“I don’t know why, but your pain is my pain. I’m impossibly connected with you.” When hope appears on his face, I wrest my arms from his grip. “But I have a life now, and a boyfriend who loves me.”

“A boyfriend you love?”

“I don’t know what love is either. I’ve been stripped of it too many times.”

“I’ll teach you how again.”

I can’t believe that here, surrounded by photographs of my hell and my sanctuary, the enemy is asking me to love him.

He touches my face so gently I’m sure I’m imagining it. My lids fall shut as he brushes his thumb along my cheekbone. “I’m nobody without you to care for.”

“Don’t do this,” I say. “Don’t you dare kiss me.”

The heat of his mouth is near my cheek, his body inching closer until it’s pressed up against me. It’s familiar in the best way. He kisses my forehead, the bridge of my nose, the corner of my mouth. My lips are parted to grasp at small breaths, and suddenly, silently, there’s nothing to breathe but each other. His arms circle around to pull me as close as I can get.

I touch the sides of his face, and our mouths meet. He tastes like Calvin, a taste I’ve wanted since the day I laid eyes on him. What I’ve been starving for since I left. My hands feel him, my lips touch his, yet I still ache for him.

His tongue is a warm plea, licking along the inside of my bottom lip, and then back across the edges of my teeth. Finally it connects with my tongue, and my arms squeeze around his neck, trying to pull him deeper, because I want us to fade into each other, merge into one. His fingers dig into my back, his erection into my stomach. Calvin my captor isn’t altogether gone.

He walks us backward until I hit the edge of my desk. He pulls his head away to watch as he slides his hands in my top, feeling me everywhere. They are calloused, memories burned into his palms, his fingertips brash as he runs them over my body. I’m panting up at the ceiling while his thumbs glide up the length of my throat and under my chin. He puts his mouth to my ear and whispers. My moans are soft with his hands around my throat, his teeth sharpening themselves along my jaw.

“Can you?” he asks.

“I already said I do,” I respond in a short breath.

My heart beats in my ears and between my legs. He touches the tip of his nose to mine. “For everything? Can I have your forgiveness?”

I see the word in the air, letters flashing in front of me like they’re spelled out in fire. They break off and fade all at once, and the room is spinning. The hairline cracks inside of me are shifting and widening, my blood spilling through them, turning everything red.

His touch is disappearing.

Was he ever here?

Forgiveness?

There’s complete silence, and it’s possible I’ve dreamed the whole thing. But I jerk back to reality where the world is a blur, and all I hear is, “No, no, no, no, no . . .”

“Cataline.”

Calvin’s back, and there’s fierceness in his green eyes. His features are sharp enough to scrape my skin open like shards of glass, and that’s what I want. I want to cut myself open with Calvin.

“Where’d you go?” he whispers hotly, my face in his hands. He looks into my eyes for so long, I think he’s counting the flecks of grey.

“Take me home,” I tell him.

We walk the five blocks to my building in silence. When we arrive, I take his hand and lead him up the stairs, our only contact the tips of our fingers. As I unlock the door to my apartment, he stands so close that I feel his nose against the back of my head.

The door slams shut behind him. I leave the lights out and walk to the bedroom knowing he’ll follow. The moonlight flooding the room reminds me of the mansion, the way it turns the comforter into rolling hills of light and shade. I never close the blinds.

At the foot of the bed, he gathers my hair in a fist and inhales. “You,” he says. “Your smell.” He turns me around and spreads his hands over my scalp.

His kiss is like a drug, feeding me, quenching my thirst, my never-ending thirst, my infinite void, and planting himself inside me again. He pulls my dress over my shoulders and strips it away so I’m in my bra and panties. We fall back on the bed where he covers my body with his. His lips leave shining circles of saliva over my collarbone and the mounds of my breasts. He stops in the valley between them and taunts me with the tip of his tongue. My back arches to meet his mouth when he sucks my nipples through my bra. He splays his hand over my belly, skating it down over the lace, the only kind of panties I wear now. He grabs my pussy as if to possess it and lets it go just as quickly.

His body slides down the bed to explore my hipbone. I’m already trembling, imagining how it will be when I blissfully smash into pieces underneath him. He always knew how to touch me.

“What’s this?” he breathes. His finger is inches below my panty line, at the very tops of my thighs. I don’t need to read it for him, but I do anyway.

He traces the cursive ink as I say, “You’ll always be—”

His finger falls away, reappearing on the inside of my upper left thigh and swiping across it.

“—my superhero,” I finish.

He stops. The ceiling I’m staring at becomes blurry, and I know he’s watching me.

“Oh, God,” he whispers into the air. “And this?”

His touch on the small, careful scars below the words is the only thing I can feel in this moment. “That,” I say, “is so I know I’m still alive.”

“No,” he says.

I nod. “You protected me from everything, Calvin. Everything but myself.”

He buries his face between my legs, his hands spread to grip the outsides of my thighs. “Cataline,” he says over and over into my pussy. His nose pushes into my clit, his weighty words vibrate deep in my stomach. My body is convulsing in silent sobs, heat knotting deep and low, desperate for release as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

* * *

It feels like hours later when I rise onto my elbows, but it’s only been minutes. Calvin lifts his head to look at me, so differently than he used to. I reach and gently pull his hair, sifting the silky brown strands through my fingers. My hand runs down his cheek, and his eyes close when my thumb touches the corner of his lips. “I want this,” I say.

His eyes are still closed when he says, “I can’t. Look what I’ve done. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“Then why did you come here?”

My eardrums threaten to explode from the quiet that follows.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “But I think I need you.”

I sit up all the way and he does too so we’re facing each other, cross-legged on the bed. I lean over to my nightstand for a blunt and a lighter. Even in the dark I feel the heat of his stare as I sit up, spark it, and put it to my lips. I take a drag and close it up inside myself, letting it work its magic. When I open my mouth, he distorts behind the smoke.

“It numbs,” I explain. “But you know that.”

“I don’t want you smoking that shit, Cataline.”

“What are you going to do? Forbid it? Tie me to the bed so I can’t?”

He inhales loudly and asks, “Do you want me to tie you to the bed?” His rumbling voice is so thick that it fills the space between us, and for a moment, I think I can touch it, put it in my hands, and roll it around.

“No,” I lie. The truth is, since he walked into the gallery, I’ve been aching all over, gaping like a wound I want him to Band-Aid himself over. I cut my skin because I haven’t felt anything real since the last time I felt him. Because the only thing that makes it better is watching the pain bleed out. I want him on top of me, inside of me—I want him to make himself a part of me again. But instead we sit in silence, the smoldering orange embers of my blunt the only sign of life as I take another hit, blowing more smoke in his direction.

52

Calvin

The cloud surrounding us is pungent, thick, and elucidating. What Cataline’s numbing should be healed by now. “You’re not ready for this,” I say.

Her eyes close as she sinks deeper. She’s more assured than I’ve ever seen her, as if very little truly matters to her. I might as well be watching her from outside the window.

She sighs, coaxing her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll never be ready,” she says. “But I don’t want you to go.”

Leaving her to find peace would be the right thing to do. But I can’t convince myself, after tonight, that she’s better off without me. I might be the piece that’s missing. I’m definitely the reason that piece is gone.

Time is slow as she brings the orange light to her lips. Her eyes are lidded, and she’s peering at me over the joint, sucking and watching. After a beat, smoke leaks from one corner of her mouth. “I haven’t been properly fucked since the last time you were inside me.”

“Christ, Cataline,” I say, standing from the bed. The image of her body flush against the dining room floor as she took every inch of me is burned into my brain. I could do it again right now, take her just as hard. But another part of me, a new part, wants to remove every article of her clothing and touch her everywhere at once, slowly and as fast as possible. I haven’t felt out of control this way in years.

“Where are you going?” she asks as I back away.

“I don’t trust myself.”

She sets the joint in an ashtray on her nightstand and just looks at me. When enough time has passed that I think she’s going to let me go without a word, she blinks. “Why did you come here? To screw with me some more?”

“You know that’s not what I want.”

“Just get out. I didn’t even know until tonight that I’ve been waiting for you. How fucked up is that? And now that you’re here, you’re leaving? Have you been hiding in the shadows, waiting until I’d put some parts of myself back together?”

“That isn’t fair,” I say, crossing my arms to allay my reaction. “This is new for me too. I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

“Goddamn it. I’m so tired. If you’re going to shatter me, then be a fucking man and do it already.”

“That’s not—”

“Do it, and get out.”

“I don’t want to break you. I want to heal you.”

“You’re not a healer,” she seethes. “You are everything that’s wrong with me, but I still love you. Is that what you want to hear? I love you, even though you’re the worst part of me.”

I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I know I am. I know.”

“Finish what you started. Break me for good. Tell me you don’t love me and that you never will.”

My heart pounds inhumanly hard. I want to throw her on the bed, hit her, fuck her, and make love to her all at the same time. “I can’t tell you that,” I say, “when the truth is that I do.”

“No, you don’t,” she says through her teeth. “You want to control me. That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right. I want to control you. I want to make you love me, own you from the inside out. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you too.”

She stands up and walks straight for me. Two tiny palms connect with my chest as she shoves me backward. “You’re a liar. You don’t love me. Say it. Say you don’t love me.”

I catch her wrists in my hands. “I can’t.”

“God,” she cries up at the ceiling. “Just finish me off. All these years I’ve been clinging to the memory of you, and I can’t do it anymore. I—”

“I can’t take back what I did!” I explode. “You have to deal with it. Wake the fuck up. Deal with the pain, and move on.”

“Get out,” she shrieks, ripping her arms from my grip. I jump out of the way when she picks up a stiletto and launches it in my direction. She sits on the bed and sobs into her hands, and every wounded mewl is an incision in my black heart. I want to go to her, but I know I can’t. Not until I know I can stay as long as she needs me to.

The next day, the wound I’ve torn open is throbbing with need for Cataline. She’s the only thing on my mind. Seeing her again is the first time I’ve felt anything since she left. And I never stopped worrying about her, but today the worry is like an extra limb. She cut herself when I wasn’t there to stop her, to take the pain for her. When I think of another man failing to heal her, I’m indignant at the intrusion on our life.

The smooth control of being in the driver’s seat calms me, so I drive until it’s after midnight and I’m outside Cataline’s apartment. I climb her fire escape, remembering how breeze lifted the white curtains the night before.

Through her open window, moonlight makes her an angel in the dark. Her naked body is outlined by a thin white sheet that drapes over her curves as she lies coiled into herself. She sleeps alone, but even if she didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Her boyfriend will be debris from the explosion of us soon enough.

I whip my t-shirt off and drop it on the floor. My shoes and everything but my briefs follow. I’m so hard for her it hurts. Only her. From the moment I met the little girl whose life had just been irrevocably changed, Cataline and I were permanently interwoven. I press my front to her back so only the sheet separates me from her warmth.

She awakes with a start, jerking away immediately. When she flips on her back with her hands in fists, I grab her wrists and force them down against her chest. “Shh,” I say. “It’s me. Calvin.”

Her heart beats up against her ribcage, and there’s terror in her eyes. “Calvin,” she repeats as she blinks rapidly.

“I’m here.”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” she whispers suddenly. “You’re not the worst part of me. And you are a healer. You healed everybody but me.” I can barely hear her next words through her cracking voice. “Can you just hold me?”

I release her, and she shifts back onto her side. My arms surround her in a tight embrace, and my face buries in her hair. My leg links with hers over the sheet like it belongs there. I wait to fall asleep until her breathing evens out.

In the morning, she’s in a chair by the window wearing nothing but a white, satin nightie and scrunched wool socks. Her feet are crossed at the ankles as she stares out the window.

I sit up and wait until she looks over at me. “You’re really here.” Absentmindedly, she pulls on the thin strap at her shoulder. She turns her head back, looking at the window. “But I guess you always have been,” she murmurs, “watching me, protecting me.” She sighs. “Why didn’t you tell me what everyone was saying about Hero?”

“There was nothing either of us could do about it.”

“Some called you a freak. They put a huge bounty on your head. People were scared, Calvin. Couldn’t you have prevented it?”

“Maybe. But it was time to give up my title. I’m not anyone’s hero, I just do what I have to do.”

She looks back at me. “You’re a wanted man.”

“Hero is, yes.”

“But there are still Hero sightings.”

“I couldn’t stop. I just had to learn to be even more careful.”

“If I’d known . . .” She pauses, and I watch her fingers glide back and forth along her forearm. “Maybe I would’ve stayed.”

“I wouldn’t have let you stay out of pity.”

She frowns. “Why’d you come back here?”

“Part of me wishes you would move on and be happy with someone else.”

“I have someone else.”

“He can’t put you back together like I can.”

She just stares at me, her expression tired. “No. He can’t.”

“I don’t deserve you, but I won’t let you go. I’m back for what’s mine, what’s always been mine.”

“I don’t want Hero. I want Calvin.”

“You have Calvin.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t be with two different people. It almost killed me the first time.” She looks at her hands, and I get up from the bed. “New Rhone was never your problem,” she says, her eyebrows gathering. “What your parents did to you was unfair.” Her eyes drift up to mine again. “They put the world on your shoulders and left it there when they died. Nobody ever helped you carry it. I’m sorry your childhood was stolen like mine.”

“I wish it were the truth that I do it for them, but it’s not,” I say. “I thrive on it. It’s ingrained in me.”

“What is?”

“All of it. The instinct to kill. The desire to protect innocent people. I don’t just do it because I promised my parents I would. It’s in my blood.”

“You put it in your blood with a syringe. None of this is your responsibility. You can be happy without it. You deserve that.”

“What are you saying?”

“Stop taking the injections. New Rhone is not your burden to carry.” Her hands lace in front of her breasts. “Choose me over the city. Choose us. Choose yourself.”

“I’ve been this way for over half my life. I don’t know what I am without it.”

“You’re just Calvin,” she says. “And I can only love you that way.”

I swallow as I try to find the words. “I’ve already stopped.”

“What?”

“I can’t be the man you deserve while I’m still Hero. I want to be better for you. I made the decision to stop a few weeks ago when I also decided I’d be coming for you.”

She attempts a smile, but her nose wrinkles as if she’s holding in tears. “What about New Rhone?”

“It’ll survive without me. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve been reducing my K-36 dosage each week, and I’ve stopped patrolling completely.”

“Oh, Calvin. What does Norman say?”

I try to hold her gaze, but I can’t. I have to turn around. “He tried to tell me I didn’t have to be this. He said if my parents were alive, they wouldn’t’ve let it get so far. He was right.” I pause to inhale. “You’re both right. My parents—I never even questioned the things they expected of me. I’m only beginning to see the danger in what they created, in how they played with a human life. But Norman always knew.”

“What is it?” she asks when I don’t continue.

“Norman passed away.”

“Calvin,” she whispers.

“I don’t think he ever saw me the same again after your time at the mansion. It was hard on him to watch. He’d never desert me though, so he died instead.”

Two arms slip around my waist as Cataline squeezes my back to her front. “You have to stop blaming yourself for everything,” she says quietly. “Norman loved you. I forgave you. He sees how you’re trying to be better, and he forgives you too.”

“You still believe,” I say. “Even though you’ve lost so much.”

She rubs a hand over my stomach. “Maybe I was sent to save you. Maybe it was God’s plan all along.”

Her words light chills over my skin. I’m a product of science; in my world, there’s no room for religion. But if God does exist, he’s not letting me anywhere near those pearly gates. Yet, here is Cataline, thinking I can be forgiven. I take her hands in mine, wrapping her arms more tightly around me. “You saving me,” I mutter, shaking my head. “It makes so much goddamn sense. There isn’t a person in this world who could save me but you.”

She jerks against me as she sniffles. “I’ve been alone my whole life,” she whispers.

“I’ve been there.”

“But not like you’re here now. Tell me you won’t leave. I want to love you, Calvin. Can I love you? Will you let me? I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

I want her to say she can’t live without me. That I’m the only one she ever wanted. But I’ll take what I can get, and not wanting to be alone is one way to love somebody. That’s not how I love her though. My existence depends on her like my next breath. I love her like I need her—like I won’t know anything without her.

I turn in her embrace and hold her close as she exorcises what lives inside of her. I don’t know if these tears are sad or happy, but I wipe them away dutifully.

My fingers rake through her hair as far as her tangles will allow. “You’re not alone,” I murmur. “I’m here now.”

She tries to pull away, but I secure her to me with little effort. She looks at my chest. “Where would we even start, Calvin?”

I wait until her blue-grey eyes return to mine, endless in the way they’re always searching for me. I smile. “Let’s start with breakfast.”

The End

Content

Hero
Hero - 1
by
Leighton Del Mia

1

2

3

4

5

6 Master of the house

7 Cataline

8

9

10

11

12 Calvin

13 Cataline

14 Calvin

15 Cataline

16

17 Cataline

18

19 Calvin

20

21 Cataline

22 Calvin

23 Cataline

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25

26

27 Calvin

28 Cataline

29

30

31

32 Calvin

33 Cataline

34 Calvin

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36 Cataline

37 Calvin

38 Cataline

39 Calvin

40 Cataline

41 Calvin

42 Cataline

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44 Calvin

45 Cataline

46 Calvin

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48 Cataline

49 Calvin

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51 Cataline

52 Calvin