Page 16 of The Escape Artist

“How do you know he didn't have money?” the stranger asked with more curiosity than anger. It seemed so odd to think of this man as a stranger. The level of intimacy they'd shared... that of predator and prey, took them well beyond seeing each other as strangers. And now that she'd moved from the captor to the captive, that level of dark intimacy had just ratcheted up another notch.

“He kept me in an old basement, and I could hear him moving around on the top level. He lived there. When I escaped I could see it was a normal-sized house. Maybe even on the small side. And he called me a rich bitch. He said he was going to bring me down to his level and then kill me like all the other rich bitches who thought they were too good for him.”

She dropped her head back down. “Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry. Please don't kill me.”

She flinched when he touched her hair, but it was a gentle touch. Her first captor had never touched her with gentleness—not that she would have wanted him to. But the difference in this man's touch made her foolishly hope she might be able to reach something compassionate and merciful in him.

“I don't kill what's mine.”

Even though she knew it would never happen she still had to say it. “Please, just let me go.”

“No. You belong to me now. After what you did, I've earned the right to keep you forever. You obviously can't be left to run free. I understand someone really hurt you, so prison seems unjust when you were just trying to fight back. But you owe me, little one.”

He'd begun absently stroking her hair, and she hated herself for leaning into that touch, however slightly. He was right, she couldn't be free. But not because she was a criminal who deserved punishment. It was because she'd spent the last three years unable to live and function in the world.

It was too dangerous. She'd experienced the darkness of this life first hand and she couldn't go back to pretending the world was a different, brighter, safer place. Those illusions others naively carried with them had been shattered for her. She'd been barely living.

The first time she'd felt alive in the past three years was when she'd been hurting the man who now held the power of life and death over her—even as hurting him had been slowly killing her. Another whimper escaped her throat.

“My name is Ari,” he said. “But you will call me, Master. Do you understand, little one?”

“Y-yes, Master.” Again, she didn't fight him. She didn't act indignant. There was no giant shield wall of pride that came rushing to her defense. She knew from hard experience that obeying wouldn't make it better, but disobeying or fighting in any way could only make it worse.

The only reason she'd had the strength to fight back the first time was that she'd known she would die that day if she didn't, so what did she have to lose? Her life was forfeit either way, but with fighting she'd at least had the hope of escape.

She had no hope of escape here with Ari. He had far more resources to ensure she never got away. She couldn't even get to the stairs with the heavy chain locked around her ankle. There was no space to run. Fighting him would be foolish.

“Now tell me your name,” he said.

He'd asked her repeatedly in the cell, and now she couldn't refuse him an answer to his question. Or at least she wouldn't if she was smart.

“Claire,” she whispered.

“Claire.” There was a stretch of silence between them, and then he said, “Are you hungry or do you want to wait until morning?”

Why was he being this way? He hadn't made any obvious threats yet—short of keeping her prisoner, of course. Was this a trick? When would he start hurting her for what she did to him? If he was a good man he wouldn't have taken her and locked her up like this. She'd be free.

So then was she not good? Because she'd taken him.

“Claire, I asked you a question,” he said calmly.

She was hungry. Ridiculously hungry and thirsty. Probably a side effect of the drugs. But she also hadn't eaten very much that day at all. The weight of her plan to kill him had pressed so hard on her that she hadn't been able to work up an appetite. She'd been planning to eat... after.

She looked up at him. “Yes,” she whispered. Even though she knew she'd have to eat—assuming he didn't starve her—she didn't want to admit it. He could use it to hurt her. She felt like an injured cornered animal trying to hide any sign of weakness. What if he drugged her like she'd drugged him?

“Yes, what?” He'd gone back to petting her hair, and she couldn't stop shaking beneath his touch.

“Yes, Master,” she said quietly.

“Good girl.”

Those words filled her with an inexplicable warmth and a shame at feeling that warmth.

“I'll be right back.”

When he'd left her, she got back in bed under the covers. Only now was she able to fully process the fact that he'd undressed her and chained her up in his house, and then she'd left the protective shield of the blankets to kneel at his feet like some well-trained dog without even a moment's hesitation because she'd been too afraid of the consequences if she resisted.

Several minutes later the door opened again and he came up the stairs with food. He sat on the floor beside the mattress and set the plate on the bed. He handed her a water bottle.

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