At 9:58 PM, I positioned myself on the bed, book in hand, hair tucked back, skin still raw from being touched like I was his. He didn’t own me. No matter what my body said.
He entered on schedule. Calm. Polished. Dangerous.
"Still reading Tennyson?" he asked.
I nodded, lying with every inch of my body. He thought he’d won. That I was softening. That tonight had changed something.
Maybe it had.
But not in the way he thought.
He moved further into the room, his eyes doing their usual sweep—checking for changes, for potential weapons, for signs of another escape plan. Finding nothing, his posture relaxed slightly.
"You seem better today," he observed. "More settled."
"Resigned might be a better word," I replied, injecting just the right amount of defeat into my voice.
Something like concern flickered across his face. "It won't always feel like this, Grace. In time?—"
"Please," I interrupted, holding up a hand. "Not tonight. I'm tired."
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Of course. Get some rest. We can talk more tomorrow."
He turned to leave, and I felt a strange twist in my chest—something that wasn't quite relief, wasn't quite regret. I pushed it away, focusing on the plan.
"Rafe," I called softly as he reached the door.
He paused, looking back at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Thank you," I said, the words feeling strange on my tongue. "For the books. They do help."
A small smile curved his lips, softening his severe features. "You're welcome. Goodnight, Grace."
"Goodnight."
The door closed behind him, the locks engaging with their familiar sound. I waited, counting in my head. One minute. Two minutes. Three. Giving him time to move down the hallway, to return to whatever part of the house he occupied when he wasn't tormenting me with his presence.
At exactly 10:15 PM, I heard Anthony's footsteps pass my door—right on schedule. I'd have twenty-five minutes until his next patrol.
I moved silently to the bathroom, retrieving the small metal nail file I'd pried from a manicure set Rafe had provided. It wasn't much of a lock pick, but it was all I had. I'd been practicing on the bathroom door lock, which was similar enough to the main door to give me some confidence.
Back at the main door, I knelt and inserted the file into the lock, feeling for the tumblers the way I'd seen in countless movies. It was harder than it looked, the metal slipping against metal, refusing to catch.
Come on, come on...
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, I felt something give. A small click, barely audible. I turned the handle slowly, holding my breath.
The door opened.
For a moment, I just stared at the darkened hallway beyond, hardly believing it had worked. Then adrenaline kicked in, and I was moving—slipping through the door, closing it silently behind me, padding down the hallway on bare feet.
Twenty-seven steps to the staircase. I counted each one in my head, staying close to the wall where the floorboards were less likely to creak. The house was quiet, the only sound the distant ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere below.
I reached the top of the grand staircase and paused, listening for any sign of movement. Nothing. The foyer below was dimly lit by a single lamp, the marble floor gleaming faintly in the low light. No guards visible. The front door—my target—stood at the far end, dark wood and brass fixtures promising freedom beyond.
Forty-two steps down. I began my descent, keeping close to the wall, one hand on the banister for balance. The stairs were marble, cold beneath my bare feet but blessedly silent.
Halfway down, I heard it—the soft murmur of voices from a room off the foyer. Male voices, one of them unmistakably Rafe's. My heart stuttered in my chest, but I forced myself to keep moving. Slower now, more cautious.
