Page 120 of Freed
His mouth twitches, but there’s no humor in it. “Come.”
He leads me farther inside, one hand brushing my back like he can’t help himself. Or maybe like he thinks he can soothe the fact that he’s stolen my freedom by giving me prettier walls.
The kitchen opens off the living room, all glossy white cabinetry and brushed gold fixtures, with a waterfall island big enough to seat six. Beyond that is a dining area, then a hallway I assume leads to the bedrooms. Everything is pristine and untouched.
I stop walking. “How long have you had this?”
He pauses too. “Not long.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He turns his head just enough to look at me. “Long enough.”
Which means exactly what I think it means. Something hot and uncomfortable slides down my spine, because there was a time not too long ago when I would have loved a gesture like this. Now it means I’m under his watch, and he’s going to eventually notice that I’m further along than he thought. What is he going to do when he puts two and two together?
I move toward the windows, wrapping my arms around myself as I stare down at the city. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is.”
I can feel his gaze boring into me, so I purposely don’t look at him. Instead, I take in the rest of the penthouse. To the left of the living room, a hallway opens into what looks like a second sitting area, this one softer and more intimate, with a deep sectional, another wall of glass, and a terrace beyond it. To the right, I catch sight of a bedroom—huge, minimalist, draped in pale neutrals with another skyline view and a bed big enough to drown in.
It’s all stunning and none of it matters. Because somewhere under the beauty is the same hard truth waiting for me.
I turn back toward the elevator. The doors are already closed again, a seamless panel of dark metal set into the wall near the entry. No visible call button. No keypad on this side. No handle. Nothing.
A small, cold pulse starts in my chest and I walk toward it.
“Birdie.”
I ignore him and study the panel more closely. There’s a narrow black security plate beside the doors, the sort that looks sleek until you realize it exists to keep people exactly where they’re put.
I press where a button should be. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. Slowly, I turn to face him. His expression gives away absolutely nothing, which is answer enough.
“You need a code,” I say.
He says nothing.
“You need a code,” I repeat, sharper now.
“Or authorized access.”
My laugh comes out hollow. “Authorized access.”
He leans one shoulder against the wall. “This floor is private.”
“No,” I say, my voice rising. “This floor is locked.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “For security.”
“Don’t insult me.”
I go back to the elevator and run my hand over the panel as if I can force it to reveal a hidden escape route through sheer rage. There’s nothing. No simple button to call it back. No way to send it down.
A cold certainty settles into my bones. Oh my god. I can’t leave this penthouse unless he allows it.
I spin around. “You brought me up here knowing I wouldn’t be able to get out.”
“Not without me,” he says.
