Page 34

"Sit."

My fingers find each other, twisting and circling as I watch. I must look stupid, pathetic, small.

God, I feel it.

"I said sit. Fucking. Down." His tone is sharp enough to make me jump. I move quickly, sliding into the small brown leather seat. I stare down at the carpet, the small patterns colliding into each other. It looks like the type of flooring you'd find at your grandparents' house—old and out of fashion. The thought stings as I think of my nana. She loved to play dolls in her living room with me and Rosa as girls. We'd sit tucked up on her carpet and play for hours.

Now the memory is ruined. Tainted by him.

"Why am I here?" I ask, avoiding his gaze. The more I look, the more he sinks into my skin, and I still can't get him out.

"Because you're mine." He leans back in his seat, lifting his feet onto the desk as his hands palm together on his chest. "Because I wanted to see you."

I almost break at his words. Mine. That's all I am now. A possession.

But it's not true. I'm me. I'm still me. Even trapped in this cage, I'll never stop being who I am. A sister, a daughter. A fucking person. I refuse to let him take that.

He doesn't stop. His words flow with ease. I barely take them in, and with every sentence, all I hear is Hailee's scream.

No. Not now. I'm strong. I'm brave. Go back in the box, don't do this to me now.

"Since I saw you for the first time, I knew you belonged to me. I bet you don't even remember, do you? It was a while ago, months maybe."

I look up, confused, my eyes staring at his mouth. His lips go from a straight line into a smirk. I keep my face flat.

"You were at the Art Museum, paint on your overalls. Hair high on the top of your head." His smile rises as I swallow.

"Ashwood Art Museum. The art event..." The art competition I'd entered six months ago. I never thought I'd win, and I didn't really care to. I just loved painting, loved losing myself in every stroke.

"You remember?" His voice rose in pitch, almost singing in my ears with excitement.

"You were there?"

"I donate. I'm an art lover myself, Amora. Then I saw you, standing by the painting of a broken girl. You looked…well." He shifts to sit up straight, feet thudding as they hit the carpet. "There are no words." He moves to a stance, his eyes towering down on me as he moves to my side, his fingers brushing over the bare flesh of my shoulders. My skin crawls with every touch.

"The paintings, the art, the sculptures all faded. I went to buy a painting for my walls and came out with a new need." His hand grips harder now, thumb pressing deep into my flesh.

"A new need?" I let out the words through a breath, my body on fire as he stands behind me. He bends, leaning in close.

"You. You are my need. My craving. Your face, your voice, your fucking body."

My head jolts to the side as his lips brush against my throat, his tongue wet as he trails kisses on my skin. I fight the urge to fight, to scream. My whole body tenses at every kiss, his way of showing me that I now belong to him. I clamp my eyes closed, but inside, I want to fight him. To claw at his eyes that look at me like I belong to him, to snap his fingers that take a part of me every time he lays them on my body.

Think of Rosa. Think of freedom. If you fight him, you'll die. The little voice in my head finally speaks up at the right time, reminding me that the moment I give in and fight is the moment I say goodbye to Rosa for good.

But it's hard. It's so hard knowing that for six months, he's known about me. He's watched me, planning to take away my life. The thought makes my skin crawl.

"You're angry." He pulls away fast, standing up straight. His tone is suddenly colder. I ignore it, dropping my eyes to my hands that sit in my lap.

He planned this. Every part. The guys in the bar, Derek and his disgusting eyes, the cells, the drugs. All of it. It really is my fault Rosa was taken, too. The guilt I already harbour resurfaces, smashing against the grief. I'm drowning in every feeling as they collide, my chest wound so tight it hurts to breathe.

"Angry?" I question with a whisper. Of course, I'm fucking angry.

"You're upset about the other girl…what was her name again?" He doesn't hide the smile or the way his eyes flash at the memory of Hailee. He's sick. So sick. He doesn't care that he killed a child, that he took her life without a second thought. I clasp my hands together, gripping tighter.

"Hailee." My voice is flat. I hate him, oh God, I hate him so much it hurts.

"That's the one. Shame about her, she seemed like a good girl." There's almost a laugh behind his words. I can't stop the death stare, I don't even try to.