7
ROMAN
Ivy isn’t afraid of me.
Not in the way I expected. Not in the way I prepared for.
And I’m caught even more in the web of obsession as I stare at her every move.
She’s awake now, pacing the suite barefoot in one of the robes I left folded on the end of the bed after she finally fell asleep. She touched nothing for hours. Sat curled in the farthest corner like a cornered stray, eyes too sharp, spine too stiff. She fell asleep that way.
A caged angel waiting for her chance to escape.
I was worried for more than a few hours that she’d wilt under the knowledge that I now kept her freedom in my hands.
But she’s moving now.
Calculating.
I watch from behind the glass wall above her suite, through the cameras that cover every inch of the room. She can’t see me, but I can see everything. Hear everything. It’s like I’m standing there with her, even though I can’t be. Not yet. It’s been two weeks, and she still hasn’t adjusted or given up.
The robe drapes over her like it’s stealing her softness, not offering her well-earned comfort. A false luxury she hasn’t claimed yet, but she wears it like armor anyway.
Ivy is afraid, yes. But not enough. Not of me. Not yet.
She needs to know there’s no escape.
There’s no future without the two of us together, intertwined.
She tried to pick the lock on the suite’s private exit an hour ago. Tore apart the drawer liners and used the metal springs from the notepad holder. Smart. Methodical. The kind of girl who learns by testing.
I love that about her.
It means she’ll stop testing me the moment she learns I’m not a variable.
The tray of food I prepared for her again is still untouched.
I press a button on the panel to warm it again.
She did this the first few days also, refusing to eat until the middle of the night. But now, it’s been too long.
She turns sharply at the soft click the suite makes when it resets the lights to evening mode. I see the way her hand twitches as she still looks for a weapon that isn’t there. I almost smile.
I should wait longer before I go down there. Give her more time to soften. But I’ve never been good at waiting.
Especially not with her.
Definitely not with this.
The door opens with a quiet click.
She spins.
Bare feet skid on marble, one hand gripping the edge of the breakfast table like she’s ready to launch it at me.
Her eyes are wide and wild as they lock on mine. And then something sharper flickers there.
Recognition.
