"Which is the only thing that matters."
"Is it?" He moved closer, his dark eyes intent on mine. "Is freedom really the only thing that matters, Grace? Or is it safety? Security? Belonging?"
I laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "And you think you're offering me those things? By locking me up? By taking away my choices?"
"I'm offering you protection from a world that would use you, hurt you, discard you." His voice was low, intense. "Your father would trade you like a commodity. The Giordanos would use you as a pawn. At least with me, you have value beyond your name."
The mention of the Giordanos sent a chill through me. The dinner. The alliance my father had been planning. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.
"What value is that?" I asked, genuinely curious despite myself. "What exactly am I to you, Rafe?"
Something flickered in his eyes—hunger, possession, something darker I couldn't name. "Everything," he said simply, echoing his words from our first confrontation. "You're everything."
The intensity in his voice made me step back, my shoulders hitting the window behind me. There was something terrifying in his certainty, in the absolute conviction with which he spoke.
"You don't even know me," I said, hating the tremor in my voice.
"I know you better than you think." He took another step closer, close enough now that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle, with notes of sandalwood and amber. "I know you play piano when you can't sleep. I know you bite your lip when you're concentrating. I know you run the same route every morning because routine makes you feel safe in a world that's always been unpredictable."
Each detail hit like a physical blow. How long had he been watching me? How deeply had he invaded my life before he'd taken me?
"That's not knowing me," I said, forcing steel into my voice. "That's stalking me. That's obsession, not understanding."
"Perhaps." He shrugged, untroubled by the accusation. "But it's more attention than anyone has ever paid you, isn't it? More than your father, who sees you as a bargaining chip. More than your brothers, who see you as a responsibility. More than your professors, who see you as just another ambitious student."
His words cut deeper than they should have, finding insecurities I thought I'd buried. I hated that he could see them, could use them against me.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I said, but the conviction had drained from my voice.
He smiled, seeing the crack in my armor. "Eat something, Grace. Starving yourself won't change anything except make you weaker. And you'll need your strength."
With that cryptic statement, he turned and left, the locks engaging behind him with their now-familiar sound.
I stared at the tray he'd left, my stomach cramping with hunger. The coffee smelled incredible, the toast looked perfectly done, the fruit fresh and appealing.
After a moment's hesitation, I crossed to the table and picked up a piece of toast. One bite wouldn't be surrender. It would be strategy. I needed to keep my strength up if I was going to escape.
And I was going to escape. I just needed the right opportunity.
It came two days later.
Rafe had fallen into a routine—bringing meals three times a day, staying to talk whether I responded or not, leaving after exactly thirty minutes. He was punctual to a fault, arriving at the same times each day: 8:00 AM, 1:00 PM, and 7:00 PM.
I'd started eating small amounts, enough to keep my strength up but not enough to suggest compliance. I'd also started responding to his attempts at conversation, giving him just enough to think he was making progress.
Let him believe he was wearing me down. Let him get comfortable. Let him make a mistake.
On the sixth day of my captivity, he arrived for lunch carrying the usual tray. I was sitting on the bed, leafing through one of the books he'd brought—a collection of poetry I'd pretended to ignore but had actually been reading when he wasn't around.
"Tennyson," he noted, nodding at the book. "Good choice."
I shrugged, setting it aside. "It was this or stare at the wall."
He smiled slightly, placing the tray on the table. "An improvement over throwing it at my head, which I half expected the first time I brought books."
"Don't tempt me," I said, but there was less venom in my voice than before. A calculated softening, designed to lull him into a false sense of security.
He gestured to the table. "Lunch is getting cold."
