Slowly, his grip eased. His mouth ghosted over my shoulder, not a kiss, not quite. Just presence. Warm. Solid. Real.
He pulled out carefully, and I hissed, the loss sharp, my body already missing the stretch of him, the brutal fullness. He didn’t say anything. Just turned me gently, catching me before my legs could give out, and cradled me to his chest beneath the stream.
His lips found my hairline. My eyes slipped shut. I hated that I let him hold me. Hated that I needed it.
"You fight like fire," he murmured, voice quieter now. "But you burn so sweet when you break."
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
He soaped his hands again, rinsing what was left of our ruin from my thighs, between my legs, careful now. Reverent. My breath stuttered. My body was sore. Spent. And still, it wanted more.
Eventually, he reached past me and turned off the water. The silence that followed was deafening.
He wrapped a towel around me, then one around himself. He didn’t ask if I could walk. He just lifted me again, as effortlessly as before, and carried me from the bathroom like I was something precious instead of something he’d just destroyed.
12
GRACE
Freedom was exactly twenty-seven steps away.
I’d counted them over and over, the same way my mind kept circling what had happened in the days since the shower. Since he’d taken me again—slow at first, then harder. Rougher. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like I didn’t want him to. I told myself I did it to survive. That I was biding time. But my body told a different story.
Some nights, he came to me. Silent. Unapologetic. Every time, I told myself I would resist. Sometimes I did. Fought. Snarled. Scratched. Other times, my body betrayed me before the first word left his mouth. And still, always, the ending was the same. Rough. Filthy. Devastating. He knew every inch of me now. Every weakness. Every spot that made me gasp, made me scream, made me beg.
I hated him. I hated what he’d done. Hated what he’d taken.
But worse—I hated how much I wanted it. How much I kept giving.
My body still ached. My thighs were sticky. My lips swollen. Every small shift reminded me how deep he’d gone, howthoroughly he’d claimed me. My skin still smelled like him. Every breath I took tasted like him.
Twenty-seven steps to the staircase. Forty-two down. Thirty to the front door. Ninety-nine steps to freedom.
I clung to the numbers like a mantra, anything to keep from thinking about the sounds I’d made under him. The way my legs had wrapped around him like I needed him to stay. The way he touched me like he owned me. The way I let him.
I shouldn’t have let him touch me.
Worse—I shouldn’t have wanted it.
But I did.
And no matter how many times I told myself otherwise, every night I let him in, I let him win.
No. Not let.
Broke.
My first escape attempt had failed, but it hadn’t been for nothing. I’d mapped the layout, noted the guards, learned the rhythm of the house. Tonight I’d use it.
Rafe had fallen into a predictable pattern. Every night at exactly 10:00 PM, he would come to say goodnight. He never stayed longer than five minutes, and after he left, no one checked on me until morning. The night guard—not Marco, but a younger man named Anthony—patrolled the hallway every thirty minutes, which meant I had a consistent window of opportunity.
Tonight was the night. I'd been compliant for three days, eating my meals, engaging in conversation, giving Rafe the impression that I was beginning to accept my situation. I'd even changed into the clothes he'd provided—soft cotton pants and a loose sweater that were admittedly more comfortable than the leggings and sweatshirt I'd been wearing since my abduction.
Let him think he was winning. Let him lower his guard.
I’d been compliant for days. Played my part. Let Rafe believe he’d tamed me.
But I wasn’t tame.
