GRAYSON
Forty-six hours in the cage and London loses the fight.
The mind is a fucked up place.
I push Stop on the recorder, then log the time with my notes. The first half was spent cursing me, blaming me, listing the ways I should die—I enjoyed that part. She doesn’t realize how talented she is—and waiting for the twist. I smile as I jot down her assumption on the drugs. Not a bad idea. Maybe next time.
Her last four hours… Those were her most trying. And the most revealing. Even a strong-willed woman like Dr. Noble can’t keep the demons locked up forever. I watch her on the computer screen now, her arms cradling her body as she sleeps.
Denial is a strenuous mental exercise. You have to be completely, utterly delusional not to bend when faced with veracity in its barest form. Regardless of her behavior, London doesn’t suffer from idiosyncratic beliefs. She’s not delusional. Mastering the art of lying was a survival mechanism to protect herself, to enable her to pursue greatness in spite of the hurt, the harm, to others.
Just had to pull at her thread until the spool unraveled, revealing the truth. I’m pleased with the analogy as my hand flies over the journal page. I want to remember our moment. It will be important later.
Can I claim I knew all the answers before I first entered her therapy room? No, not at all. Not like I typically do. Mounting extensive research on a subject before introductions. But with her—she was different, special. There was only a feeling.
Something I discredited as bullshit my whole life. I work with facts and evidence, not gut instinct or intuition. I trust what great minds before me have tested and studied and produced concrete proof of.
But like I said; she’s different. I sensed that kindred connection to her, and it became a compulsion to tease our relationship apart, dissect it and layer the pieces together in a way I could analyze and understand.
I went against my nature by relying on instinct in this instance. Trusting this strange new sensation that warms my blood whenever I think of her. Love—if that’s what it truly is—decided we were a match, and she’s offered proof. Finally.
I flip the page, resting the ballpoint to the journal as I click back on the footage. Hair in beautiful disarray over her face, she whispers it over and over, rocking against the floor. “He’s not my father.”
I move closer to her image, an anxious thrill squirming inside me. This moment is too visceral to be an act. The admission too specific, explicit. It’s her truth—and her truth matches my own. It’s what called out to me, and why we belong together.
We are the stolen children raised by monsters.
And now she knows it, too.
“I want out.” London’s voice is barely audible. I turn up the volume. “Let me out of this fucking trap.”
She’s so close, but she doesn’t understand it all fully yet. This isn’t a trap. The burial, the cage…it’s preparation for her trap. She can’t go in until she’s primed, her mind open and ready to accept our reality—to accept us.
She’s so close.
I close out the footage and return to the live feed. I crick my neck, working out the kink, then stand and stretch. My body is just as taxed as London’s. She hasn’t gone through this alone. I’ve been with her. And when she enters the trap, I’ll be with her still.
I glance out the window, excited for her to see our masterpiece.
Before her, countless hours have been spent in this room designing, crafting. Modeling. It’s my home away from home, and when it’s gone, I’ll mourn—but I’ll rebuild. Bigger, better, more intricate. With her.
I roll up my sleeves and reach behind my back, trace the tattooed equations between my shoulder blades. Then I pull out my plans, the ones I sketched from the engraved ink on my skin. The design of her trap began nine months ago in a six-by-eight cell. With a few custom tweaks modified for the upgraded specs, it’s now nearly complete.
I put every last bit of myself into this. It’s my heart and soul, if such a thing exists. I built it for her, out of some foreign emotion that consumed me, plagued me, until I was forced to relent. There’s a fine line between passion and obsession—and I crossed that line the moment I saw her.
I haven’t heeded my own warnings, though. Over the course of our entanglement, I’ve become dependent on her success. How much can the mind endure? Even when you know the disaster is coming, you can’t look away. We’re a little sick like that.
This trap will test us all.
I envisioned the moment at sunset. Something about the twilight suits the scene. With the dusting of stars scattering a pale sky, the chirr of crickets in the backdrop. Of course, we’ll have our own orchestra of screams and pulleys, a soundtrack for the perfectly choreographed ballet. London’s dance.
I hook the last key, give it a flick to watch it spin. Shiny silver glints in the setting sun.
When I’m satisfied that every detail is in place, I turn the laptop screen toward me and enable the mic. “It’s time to wake up, love.”
London stirs, then her head snaps up and she looks around. “You twisted bastard. Let me out of here!”
Still so much fight in her. Good. Having her completely broken wouldn’t work. “Are you ready?”
Her hand raises to flip me off. I suppose that’s answer enough.
I’m like a kid in a candy store as I head toward her room. I twirl my key ring, my steps hurried, impatient. At least, I assume this is how a normal, healthy kid would feel awaiting his special treat. I have little to compare this feeling to, dread having been my prominent emotion during my youth.
I flip on the light. London’s demeanor is unsettling as I near the cell. I can’t keep the smile from curling my lips; I’m that eager. “It’s only been a couple of days,” I say, looking over her disheveled appearance. “You look like hell.”
Her glare lacks that certain defiant spark I’ve come to adore. “I’m sick, Grayson. I need a doctor.”
I unlock the cell door with a groan. I thought by now we’d be past the lies. “We’ve already established your sickness, baby. What you have…there’s no cure.” I brace my hand on the bar, blocking the opening. “I’m the closest thing to a doctor you’re ever going to get.”
She stands on shaky legs, her arms hugging her waist. “I have a fever, you asshole. I need a—”
“I have antibiotics.” I step inside and hang the dress on a bar. London notices the black satin gown for the first time. “I have an assortment of medicine for any and all ailments. It’s getting late. We need to get you cleaned up and dressed.”
Her gaze doesn’t stray from the dress. “What the hell is that.”
“Your dinner gown. You are hungry, I assume.”
She drops her hands into fists by her sides. “I’m not your fucking play thing.”
“London, I’ve been exceedingly patient. Let’s go.”
She cranes an eyebrow. “Make me.”
I scrub a hand through my hair. Two days wasn’t enough. But we’re running short on time. For all intents and purposes, the dress isn’t a requirement for her trap. But she uses her expensive suits and pencil skirts to shield herself like armor. I want her out of her comfort zone.
Plus, I tried hard to pick the perfect attire for tonight. The black satin will cling to her curves, the purple slip beneath matches the tinted glass beading of the pearl shawl. Reminding me of her scent of lilac. My groin throbs in anticipation.
I yank the dress from the hanger and unzip the back. “Take off your clothes.”
She steps backward. “No.”
“Another two days in the cage, then?”
A laugh tumbles out. “You don’t have that much time.” She crosses her arms. “I might be feverish, but you forget that I’m still your doctor. I can see it in your jumpy muscles. Your anxious movements and hitched breathing. Whatever awaits me outside this cage is far worse than what I suffered inside it. And you know they’re looking for me. They’re getting close, aren’t they?”
Tossing the dress to the floor, I move in. “If you don’t undress, I’ll do it for you. And I’ll make sure to enjoy it.”
Her features steel. “You were kidnapped as a child,” she accuses, taking another step farther back. “That’s why you refused to talk about your parents during sessions.”
I stop in front of her. “Mind games are for later.” I lunge for her, giving her a second to react and turn before I wrap my arms around her waist.
She’s too weak to put up much of a struggle. I wrestle her to the floor and onto her back, pinning her wrists beneath my knees. “I was hoping we could work in some foreplay before dinner.” She wriggles beneath me as I grip the T-shirt and tear it down the middle.
“You’re sick—”
“We’ve already established that, too.” I ease up to get to her sweats.
Her hand slips away. Before I can recover it, she brandishes a fork. “You can dine with the devil, you evil bastard.”
The fork lodges in my stomach, plunged beneath my rib cage, the way she once stabbed another man who dared to lock her in a cage. I laugh at the irony as I clutch the utensil.
She uses her knees to shove me off, then crawls toward the door, getting to her feet when she clears the cell.
I roll over and brace myself. Gritting my teeth, I yank the fork free. My hand comes away with red, my shirt absorbing the blood. I palm the wound. It’s painful, but not fatal.
I’m following her trail through the hallway when I hear her scream. It doesn’t take long to locate her. She’s sprawled out on the floor, her foot hung on a tripwire.
I grab the back of her pants and lift her off the wire before I roll her over and straddle her legs. “I’m going to assume you meant to miss vital organs.”
She spits in my face, and I love the way the motion makes her tits bounce.
I run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting her. Then closing my hands around her neck, I lean down. “Sweet dreams, London.” I squeeze.
Her gasps for air pulse against my fingers. Her nails claw at my hands. I watch her eyes bead with red as the vessels burst from the pressure. When her hands fall away, I strangle harder and press my lips to hers, tasting her shallow pleas before she fades.
