Page 14 of The Freedom in Captivity

His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”

I turn my head away, feigning indifference. “It means I’ve spoken enough for the time being.”

With a final huff, he grants my lungs a welcoming burst of fresh air as he opens the basement door, stepping into the carpeted hallway. I follow behind, without him needing to pull on the chain, enveloping myself into the Corsetti richness.

Wow.If I thought I grew up well, the Seven did not set Dad up in any way comparable to this luxury. This isn’t a mansion. It’s a fucking castle.

Flynn immediately strides down a connected hallway, not pausing to wait for me to catch up as his gait quickens. I speed up too, ensuring he doesn’t reach the end of the chain.

“Where are we going?”

Of course, he doesn’t answer. He silently leads me toward another hallway, but before taking the turn, my eyes complete a final sweep of the high, vaulted ceilings, the ornate décor on the walls.

Somewhere within this place is Della and Ariella. Somewhere else, a room full of Corsettis. Yet, as we stride through the hallways, we see no one. Mentally, I calculate the days passing Aurora’s drugging. The weed gummies were laced with enough Fentanyl to keep her down for a few days, but nothing long term, so it’s possible she still hasn’t awoken and they’re all at the hospital.

“Where is everyone?”

Again, no response.

Flynn leads me down a hallway with a dozen doors, passing many of them until stopping in front of one almost at the end. He slides out a key from his pocket and when the door unlocks, it hits me.

He’s brought me to his room.

Flynn steps aside and, taking my arm, shoves me through the open doorway, immediately following. So close, his back brushes mine as he nudges me through the space before slamming the door shut. He flicks on a light and bathes the small space in colour.

A bed is pushed to the far side. A single table beside it with a lamp and a phone’s charging cable. There’s no décor, and everything is orderly. His dresser drawers are shut, no clothes hanging out. Across from the bed, there’s another small doorway, and I catch the sight of white tile, a pedestal sink, and a toilet.

I breathe the room in. It’s entirely Flynn. The same scent I spent months burying myself in. I used to enjoy hugging him, smashing my face into his shirt to inhale the musk of his natural scent.

He drops the chain unceremoniously and it thumps to the back of my legs, hitting a muscle at a precise angle that makes me hiss in pain. I reach behind me, bringing the end into my hold.

“Use the bathroom,” he demands, stationing himself against his door as a guard. His hands press together in front of him: a stance he’s obviously familiar with.

“Your room.” I peek behind me, meeting his dark, watchful eyes, which give nothing away. “Why are we in your room?”

“So you can piss.”

“Butyourroom.” Not one of the many bathrooms I’m sure this place is outfitted with. I feel there’s a purpose, a deeper meaning, to bringing me to his space.

I wander through, pretending to head for the bathroom, but angling myself toward his bed. It’s made, the comforter pulled taut. Like the rest of this place, it’s clean and orderly.

“Don’t like decorations, huh?”

Heavy steps come up behind me. His hands clamp my arms and roughly, he spins me, shoving me toward the bathroom. “Five seconds, Rozelyn. You have five fucking seconds to enter that bathroom, or we leave, and you hold your bladder until tomorrow.”

He doesn’t fight when I jerk my shoulders from his hold, sneering as I obey him because I have zero doubt he’s bluffing.

Going pee is awkward, which almost ends up being impossible with the chain around my neck. It requires positioning the leash, for lack of a better term, to the side, heavy and chaffing against my skin. I take my time, enjoying my bit of freedom before he re-ties me to the chair inside the stagnant basement.

Once I finish, I return to the main part of the room but pass him and head for his bed instead of the doorway. I perch on the edge of it first, and then push myself to the centre. It’s soft, and I don’t remember the last time I was in a normal bed. The night before Dad rushed us out of our home, maybe.

Flynn watches me from the doorway, his jaw taut, his hands forming fists by his sides. I’m sure he’s imagining every way possible to kill me but until then, I fall backwards, almost moaning aloud at being able to lie horizontal.

I shut my eyes at the exact second I hear his steps move from the door. They approach, paced, one in front of the other, until the chain is tugged on so roughly, I’m lurched upright with a squeak.

Angry, stormy eyes collide with mine. The fist by his side now clutching the chain like a lifeline.

There’s more than anger in his eyes though, and for all his claims, I find the past.

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