Caleb blackmailed me? Lied on me?
He beats me? Rapes me?
He holds me hostage in plain sight?
August wouldn’t understand. He’d tell me to run. He’d say leave, but getting away is not enough. As long as Caleb has any claim to Sarai, getting away is not being truly free.
I glance over my shoulder, but Caleb’s out of sight.
I tip up on my toes and kiss August’s cheek. He reaches for my waist, but I step back, already aching for a touch I never should have allowed myself. It only makes this harder.
“I have to go.” Tears burn my eyes. “Goodbye, August.”
I turn and run from the community center, praying Caleb didn’t leave. I spot Ramone immediately, standing on the sidewalk, the jailor to my prisoner, his eyes insolent. I walk past him with my head held high and climb into the back seat.
I don’t know what I expected—probably a slap across the face as soon as I sat beside Caleb—but I’m met with eerie silence. It persists, the minutes stretching out on a torture rack while we leave the city and head toward my palatial prison. Sarai drowses in her car seat until sleep takes her again.
“Caleb, I can explain,” I venture softly.
The look he levels on me is a guillotine, falling and slicing through any excuse I could offer, any lie. He knows the truth, and there’s no way I’ll avoid paying for it. Wanting August West is a high crime to Caleb. It’s treason.
Off with my head.
When we pull up in front of the house, I unsnap Sarai and walk her swiftly inside and up to the nursery. I lay her down in her crib and linger there. My mind races over possible escape routes, but as usual, there are none. None that actually solve my problem.
“Meet me in the bedroom, Iris,” he says from the door. “Stop dawdling. We need to talk.”
Talk.
I know better.
Once in the bedroom, my eyes rove the corners and surfaces for a possible weapon. I’ve resisted before. It usually makes it worse for me, but tonight I can’t imagine just taking it. That’s usually when he brings out the pistol, against which I have no defense.
“Strip.”
That one word is the slap I was anticipating. I hesitate, unsure how to play this. He sighs impatiently and pulls the pistol from his pocket, holding it up.
“Why does it always have to come to this, Iris?”
“Don’t ask me to pretend this is normal,” I say harshly. “You raping me at gunpoint is not normal, and I won’t pretend it is.”
“I bet West wouldn’t need a gun, would he?” His eyes narrow. “I said strip, you low-class swamp whore.”
He tries to demean me with his words, but I don’t feel it anymore. His words are a dog with no bite. They have no teeth with me.
But who needs teeth when you have fangs?
With unhurried movements, he unbuckles his belt.
Eyes trained on the pistol, I unsnap my overalls, dropping them to the floor and pulling the T-shirt over my head. I undo my bra and take off my panties.
“Bring those to me.”
I freeze, staring at him in disbelief.
“I said bring me the panties, Iris.” False calm is a needle threading his words.
I walk over to him and he snatches them from me, squeezing them in his fist.
