Chapter 3 Not One Tear.

Xandra POV His eyes were the first thing I noticed, and the last thing I wanted to see. Dark. Patient. A smirk sat on his mouth like it had been there for years. Home. I just need to get home. I need Kade. I hated how much I needed him. The stranger dragged a chair to the center of the room and sat as if the room belonged to him. It did. That was the thought that snapped something in me. I'd trained for years. I wasn't going to sit here shaking. I crossed the floor, fisted his collar, and said, low, "Let me out." He glanced at my hand, then at me. His smile widened. "Of course. The door's right there." He stood. I stepped back. He stepped forward. The wall met my shoulders before I understood I'd been backed into it. "Imagine," he murmured at my ear, "a boy and a girl, no blood between them, alone in the dark. What do you think happens?" I shoved him. He didn't move. My breath came fast and shallow, and my heart hammered so hard I thought he could hear it. Then something in his face changed, as if he'd looked at a map and found the point he'd been heading for. He pulled back. The door opened on its own, or someone opened it. He walked out without a word. I slid down the wall until the floor held me up. My eyes were wet, and I hadn't given them permission.

Xandra POV The helper never said a word. She walked half a step ahead of me, a silent shadow in a grey uniform, and pointed instead of speaking: this is your room, this is the bathroom, this is what you'll wear. Her eyes never met mine. Even her footsteps seemed to have been trained. I counted doors as we passed. Eleven. Every one locked. Every window sealed with a latch that wanted a key. So not tonight, then. The shower ran hot enough to turn my skin pink. The food was good, which made me angrier. The bed was soft and the sheets smelled of lavender, as if I were a guest and not a prisoner. I lay in the dark and made myself a promise. I'm never crying in front of him again. Then I slept.

Xandra POV Sunlight woke me, warm across my face. I squinted at the ceiling, then at a strange shape by the foot of the bed. A wooden frame. An easel. A shadow moved at the window. He stood there with his arms folded, watching me as though he'd been doing it for hours. I dragged the blanket up to my chin and scrambled back against the headboard. "What are you doing here?" "Hm?" He tilted his head. "I could ask you the same. It's my house." "How long have you been standing there?" "Long enough to learn you sleep with a fist closed." His smile came slowly. "I've decided to take up painting." "Good for you. Do it somewhere else." "I'd like a model." He lifted a flat box from the chair and crossed the room. "I bought this for you." Inside, tissue paper hid a black gown, glossy as oil. Thin as a rumor. I could see my own fingers through the fabric. I dropped it on the mattress. "No." "Fine." He said it so easily that my stomach tightened. He settled into the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and thumbed a message on his phone. "Then don't wear it." That was the moment I should have run. But I was still thinking about the door, and the door was behind him. Two men came in. They didn't speak. They took my arms, lifted me off the mattress as if I weighed nothing, and carried me to the wall. I kicked. One of them grunted. A panel slid open in the plaster, and steel cuffs clicked shut around my wrists, then my ankles, until I hung there, arms and legs spread wide. Whoever built this house had planned for this. He lifted two fingers. The men left. The door closed, and the silence afterward was worse than shouting. He laughed softly, as if I'd said something charming. "Look at you. Such a pretty girl. I do wonder why you make things so hard for yourself." He crossed to a drawer and came back with a pair of scissors. The blades caught the light. "What are you doing?" My voice came out thinner than I wanted. He knelt and took the hem of my nightgown between two fingers. "It's a pity. I was so careful choosing the dress." "Please, what are you-" "You said you wouldn't wear it." The scissors bit into the fabric with a dry, unhurried snip. "So you won't wear anything. That's the choice I'm giving you." Cloth whispered down my side. Cold air followed it. He cut the second side, then the straps, and the gown slid off my shoulders and pooled around my feet. I stared at a hairline crack in the ceiling and did not look at him. I held my jaw so tight my teeth ached. Not one tear. Not one. Behind him, I finally saw the canvas on the easel. It was already sketched. A woman's outline, a face I recognized. Mine. And the sketch looked weeks old.