They think they are breaking me.
They think they are winning.
They don’t understand.
I have lived through worse.
And I will get out.
Chapter 19
The Devil’s Keyhole
Isabella
The storm outside rages like a scream I’ve swallowed too long. Wind claws at the curtains, tugging them inward in great gusts that breathe life into the room, bringing with it the scent of wet earth and cold, sharp air. The moon hangs low through the open window, cold and watchful, spilling silver light over everything, over the worn wooden floors, over the shadows cast by the lightning, and over the cage.
My cage.
It’s metal, aged and delicate, like something meant for birds, only larger. Just enough to hold me. Just enough to remind me that I can’t move.
My knees are drawn to my chest, toes curled beneath me. I wear only an oversized shirt, soft with age and smelling faintly of antiseptic and something more intimate, something like memory. The hem brushes the tops of my thighs, my underwear already damp with the heat I pretend isn’t there.
I shouldn’t feel safe in here, but I do.
Because I know I’m not alone.
He’s here.
I feel it before I see him, before the shadows in the corner bleed away to reveal him seated in that leather chair, watching me. The storm lights up his face in flickers, carving the sharp lines of his cheekbones in blue and silver. His legs arespread wide, one arm slung across the armrest, his other hand cradling a lowball glass filled with vodka and ice. The glass sweats in his grip, but he doesn’t.
Aslanov.
His tie hangs loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His tattoos are on display; dark serpents curling over his forearms, symbols etched across the hard planes of his chest where the shirt gapes. He’s not looking at the storm. He’s looking at me.
And in his other hand: the key.
The key to this cage.
To me.
His lips lift just slightly at the corners, amused or reverent, I can’t tell. His eyes drink me in, legs folded beneath me, the shirt slipping off one shoulder, my thighs pressed together as if they could keep in the ache I feel blooming between them.
I don’t ask him to open the door.
He knows I won’t beg.
Instead, I watch as he stands. Every movement deliberate, unhurried. He’s not a man in a rush. He’s a man who owns time. He crosses the space between us and crouches beside the cage, setting his drink down on the floor with a soft clink.
His hand—rough, calloused, warm—reaches between the bars.
Fingers curl beneath my chin, lifting it gently, making me look at him. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. His eyes are dark, endless.
‘‘You feel trapped,’’ he murmurs. His voice is low, sandpaper wrapped in silk. ‘‘But not by this cage.’’
I nod. I can’t speak. My throat is dry, my pulse too loud.
‘‘You’re stuck in your skin,’’ he continues, dragging the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. ‘‘In your grief. In your doubt.’’
