Page 16 of Dragon Unhinged

He leans in close, and again, I swallow hard, realizing that he might kiss me.

God, do I want him to. I’ve never felt the desire as much as I do with him to want to kiss him and do much, much more.

Instead, he bumps the tip of my nose with his, and then presses his forehead to mine. “I never would’ve thought I would find someone to trust, someone I could share my life, my history with, as a captive. I feel like I dreamt you up, and any minute now, I’ll be shocked awake, and forced to face the truth.”

“I’m real, Declan. I promise.” I slowly, cautiously weave my fingers with his.

My heart starts to pound in my chest as his hand wraps around mine and he squeezes gently.

I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back upstairs, back to being a captive in my own house. I don’t want to leave him to be a prisoner again.

But my phone chimes in my pocket, alerting me to a five-minute warning to get out of here, to get back upstairs and lock the basement before my father and brother get home for our scheduled family dinner.

“You have to go.” He whispers, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining it, or if his voice actually has the pain in it that I feel in my own chest.

“Tomorrow. It’ll be late, after my father goes to bed. But I’ll sneak you something better to eat than the slop on your tray.” I give his hand a squeeze, mimicking the motion he used, and then I get up, carefully removing any evidence that I was here.

I still need to get the rest of the cookies to Ewan, and I’m running out of time, but it’s not making it any easier to leave.

I try to ignore the urge to kiss him, to make more promises.

It’s bad enough that I have to leave. I don’t need to push something that he might not even want.

No matter how curious I am to find out what his lips taste like.

With a sigh, I head out, closing the heavy door behind me. Silently promising to come back tomorrow, and every single day, until I can figure out how to get him free.

Chapter

Seven

BRIANNA

My father enters my room without knocking, without so much as a “hello” as he stands over me at my desk. “How was school today?”

I look up from the textbooks I was pretending to read and smile sweetly at him. “Fine. It was my short day, so I only had a couple of classes.”

“Your driver said you seemed distracted. If you’re not going to take your schooling seriously, you don’t need to attend any longer.” He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know why you insisted on attending in the first place.”

Because I want to be more than a wife and a mother. Because I want my life to mean more than what you can arrange for me. Because I want to choose my life, my own destiny.“I think it’s important to be well educated. If I’m going to hold my own in society, I need to be able to participate in conversation with the politicians, businessmen, and diplomats in our circle. You wouldn’t want your colleagues to think I’m simple, would you?”

It’s a ploy, the same argument I make every time he acts like I’m not performing as perfectly as he expects. Sometimes, Ithink he sees right through it, though I hope not. Going to school gives me an opportunity to be out of this house, time to interact with the people I choose, and time to feel like I can breathe, even if it’s barely more room than inside the cage that is our house.

But if he does think I’m full of shit, he doesn’t call me out on it.

“I’ve invited some guests to dinner tonight. Change into something appropriate.”

I cringe at the thought of having to put on a show. He’s not just invited guests. He’s invited someone he deems a worthy match for his disappointment of a daughter. He expects me to be demure, coy, subservient even.

“As you wish, Papa.”

I wait for him to leave as abruptly as he entered and then I slide out of my desk chair, moving straight to my closet.

Nothing hanging in the walk-in space says anything about who I am, any of my dreams, my aspirations, or anything I actually enjoy. Every stitch of fabric has been approved by my father, and his expectations.

I let out a frustrated sigh as I pull out a knee-length dress that checks all of my father’s boxes when it comes to an outfit for a potential bride.

I want nothing more than to sneak back down to the basement. Eating dinner with strangers looking to arrange a marriage, filled with at best, disinterest and distain. At worst, actual physical torture. Fruitlessly, I scan my room for possible escape options, even though it’s merely a fantasy. There’s no escape from my life. Not even the stolen moments I might get in the dungeon below.

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