His eyes widen at the glimpse of jewelry. "Where to?"
"Bus station," I reply, sliding into the backseat. "Greyhound."
As we pull away, I don't look back at the glittering hotel hosting my husband and three hundred of Chicago's elite. My absence won't be noticed immediately—Gage has been in deep conversation with the mayor and developers, pleased with my apparent acceptance of my role these past weeks.
The bus to New York leaves in twenty minutes, with stops in Indianapolis, Louisville, Cincinnati before continuing east. I pay cash, keeping my wrap tightly closed over my makeshift dress. One advantage of bus travel—anonymity that airports with their ID requirements can't provide.
In the grimy terminal bathroom, I transform myself further. The silk gown gets folded into a tight bundle and stuffed into a garbage bin. My wrap, belted with the decorative sash from the gown, becomes a simple black dress. I scrub makeup from my face with rough paper towels.
The woman who boards the bus looks nothing like Mrs. Blackwood.
The Greyhound pulls away from the station at 11:42 PM, exactly as scheduled. I press my forehead against cool glass, watching Chicago's skyline recede into darkness, heart hammering against my ribs. This is really happening. I'm really leaving.
But leaving what, exactly? The question gnaws at me as state lines blur past my window. Leaving a prison, yes – but also leaving comfort, security, and a passion that still haunts my dreams despite my waking resistance. Leaving a man who owns me completely but looks at me with something that sometimes resembles genuine admiration.
Am I running from captivity, or from the terrifying realization that parts of me have begun to accept it? To crave it?The question keeps me awake as other passengers doze around me, their soft snores a counterpoint to my racing thoughts.
For six hours, I barely breathe. Indianapolis appears through early morning fog – the second scheduled stop on the long route to New York. Passengers disembark for a thirty-minute break, stretching legs and seeking caffeine.
The convenience store across from the bus station offers overpriced coffee and packaged pastries. I purchase both, calculating remaining funds with obsessive precision. The cashier barely glances at me – just another traveler passing through.
Outside, morning light casts long shadows across the parking lot. Twenty minutes until the bus departs again. I sip bitter coffee, scanning surroundings with the hypervigilance of prey.
That's when I see it – a black Aston Martin idling at the far end of the lot.
My coffee slips from nerveless fingers, splashing across cracked concrete. No. Not possible. Not this quickly.
I turn to flee back toward the station, but he's already there, materializing from the shadows between buildings. Gage, still in evening clothes, bow tie undone, stubble darkening his jaw. His eyes burn with an intensity that freezes me mid-step.
"Going somewhere?" His voice is dangerously soft.
I back away, glancing desperately toward the station where my bus waits. "How did you?—"
Before I can finish, he's closed the distance between us, one hand gripping my upper arm, the other at my waist as he pulls me into the narrow alley between the convenience store and adjacent building.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find you?" His breath fans hot against my ear as he presses me against rough brick. "That I'd let you go?"
"Let me go," I demand, pushing against his chest, though we both know it's futile. "I don't belong to you."
"Don't you?" His hand slides to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there – a reminder of his physical dominance. "Tell me, Penelope. Where exactly were you running to? Who were you planning to be?"
The questions hit with unexpected force. Who was I planning to be? The terrifying truth is I don't know anymore.
"It doesn't matter," I whisper. "Anywhere but your cage."
"My cage?" His laugh lacks humor. "You mean our home? Our life?"
His mouth crashes down on mine, stealing breath and protests alike. The kiss is punishing, possessive – all teeth and tongue, claiming rather than seducing. I tell myself I'm resisting, but my body betrays me as always, my lips parting, my tongue meeting his with equal fervor.
His hands are everywhere – in my hair, gripping my waist, sliding down to cup my ass through the thin fabric of my makeshift dress. When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard, desire and fury mingling in the scant space between us.
"You're mine," he growls, spinning me to face the wall. The rough brick scrapes my palms as I brace against it. "I'll remind you exactly who you belong to."
His hand slides up the back of my thigh, discovering my lack of underwear with a sharp inhale. "No panties, Mrs. Blackwood? Were you hoping to catch someone's attention on that bus?"
"Fuck you," I gasp as his fingers move higher, sliding through slick folds that betray my body's response to his dominance.
"Already wet for me," he observes, voice dropping to that dangerous tone that makes my knees weak. "Even as you're running away, your body knows who it belongs to."
