Page 63 of The Last Dance

I bared my teeth. “She can blame me all she wants. She just won’t win.”

He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands open, almost in supplication. The blue of his eyes was bleached of all humanity, just two chips of arctic ice. “No one has to win,” he said. “You just need to accept that this is where you belong. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For you to be safe. For you to have a home.”

I laughed, sharp. “I have a home,” I said. “You broke into it and dragged me out. This—” I rapped my knuckle on the metal rail, “—is not a home. It’s a set piece for a psycho’s fantasy.”

He did not react. He did not need to. The conviction in his face was religious. He believed, with every cell, that this was a kindness.

He circled the bed, slow, as if waiting for me to tire out and collapse. I followed him with my body, keeping the mattress between us, the chain always in motion. I held the book, ready to hurl it at his face or use the corner to gouge an eye if I had to.

He spoke, patient as a parent. “You don’t understand, but that’s not your fault. You’ve been fed lies. Taught that love is violence, that affection is ownership. I’m here to show you another way.”

“By chaining me to a bed?”

He tilted his head, almost pitying. “The restraint is temporary. When you are well, it comes off. I promise you that.”

I spit, for lack of a better reply.

He tensed, but did not back up.

“Iren,” he said, and the way he said my name—soft, worshipful, a prayer—made my skin crawl. “I am not here to hurt you. I’m here to save you. No one else ever will.”

He reached for me, and I threw the book. Not at his face—I was smarter than that—but at his hand, trying to knock his fingers off trajectory, buy myself an inch. He caught it, fumbled, and I used the time to slide sideways, using the full length of chain to put the mattress between us.

“Don’t,” I said, low. “Just—don’t.”

He was done talking. He climbed over the bed, fast for a man his age, and I got my elbow up just in time to jam it into his chest as he landed. The impact knocked the breath out of me, but he barely flinched.

He grabbed my shoulders, pinning me to the mattress, and for a split second I saw the glint in his eye—the moment the fantasy became real, the moment he knew there was no more pretending, no more waiting, just the taking of what he thought was his.

I twisted, kicked, caught him in the thigh with my knee. He grunted, but kept his grip. I used the leverage to roll us off the bed, and we hit the concrete together. The chain rattled like an applause track. He landed first, me on top, and for a second I thought I might have a shot.

I raked my nails down his face, aiming for an eye, and was rewarded with a thin scratch and a bloom of red. He howled, more from surprise than pain, and shoved me back so hard my head cracked against the wall.

I saw stars, but I did not lose consciousness. I used the confusion to scramble backwards, dragging the chain, and he followed, grabbing my ankle and yanking me off balance.

He was on me then, knees pinning my thighs, one hand on my throat, the other yanking at the drawstring of my sweatpants. His breath was hot in my ear, the voice still low, still measured, as if reciting a lesson for a class of one.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said. “I’ll make it good. I know you want this, I know you do, I saw you—”

I bit him, hard, on the web of his hand. He recoiled, enough for me to get a hand free and jab a thumb at his eye. Missed, but caught his cheek, and he howled again. He hit me, once, across the jaw, open-handed but heavy. My ears rang.

He leaned in, pinning me, mouth to my hair. “I forgive you,” he whispered. “I forgive you everything.”

The rage boiled over. I kicked, twisted, flailed, nothing working, everything working. His weight was more than mine, and the chain only let me roll so far.

He got my sweatpants down, just below the hips, and I bucked, trying to use the last of my strength to roll us. He anticipated, caught my wrist, twisted it behind my back. The pain was sharp, bright, but I kept fighting.

He was panting now, a fine sweat on his forehead. The cut on his cheek was beading blood, one perfect red line. He pressed his hand to my mouth, trying to cover the scream he thought was coming. I didn’t scream. I bit down, hard, and tasted blood and something bitter—maybe aftershave, maybe just the stink of his obsession.

The last thing I saw, before the next blow hit, was the dead red eye of the camera, still blinking behind the pillowcase, watching it all.

There was a crash from upstairs—faint, but there—and then a new sound: the pounding of feet, many, fast, and the muffled slam of a door hitting drywall.

Parsons froze.

He looked up, the way a rabbit does before a shadow falls.

I didn’t waste it. I twisted again, the wrist popping, and landed an elbow to his nose. There was a crunch, a flood of warmth. He reeled, fell sideways, and I scuttled back, pulling the chain so hard it cut into my skin.