Page 74 of The Freedom in Captivity

“I’m assuming Nico will soon search for my father.”

For that, I want to see her expression, but I ground myself with a steady breath. “Most likely. Regretting your choices?”

“Not at all,” she whispers with a fierce determination. “It seems weird, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. You. Me. This. Us.”

Us.I face her again.

Her hands are clasped in front of her, but there’s a gentleness on her face I’ve never seen.

Peace.

“Soon, Dad might not be here any longer and I…I don’t know.” She turns her head, her curtain of matted hair blocking her face from me. “I feel like I should be more upset by the idea than I am.”

This is the ideal opportunity to get out of here. When her emotions are frazzled and she’s not arguing with me. And yet, I stride away from the doorway and toward her, not hesitating when I take her cheeks, one hand on either side of her jaw, and wrench her face up.

“Tell me everything he did to you, Rozelyn. Every fucking thing. I want all the facts you didn’t give the Corsettis.”

Ineedthem.

Fuck the argument I just had with myself—and believed I’d won. That not knowing will be fine since our story ends shortly. Could I let her go without all the puzzle pieces together?

Because no matter who this woman is to me now, shewassomeone to me once. When we find De Falco, I’ll make him pay for everything he did to Rozelyn. For the trauma he’s caused, the shadows he’s forced her to survive in.

She’s limp in my hands, like a doll. Always strong, always wearing her mask to keep others out, yet always so willing for my touch. All mine.

Theonlything that’s ever been completely mine.

“Mon soleil.”

Through her eyes, I see my nickname imbedding right into her heart.

“The hits started before Mom got sick. One day, when Mom and Yasmine were out shopping, he called me to his office. He’d finished a difficult phone call—his words. I was seventeen. Remember standing there, rocking on my feet, trying to figure out why he was bothering to tell me.”

Probably only months before I’d met her. Seventeen. She was a child. My blood runs cold and I have to remind myself to cool the tenseness threatening to take over, before I hurt the woman whose face is between my hands.

“He ranted and raved. At one point, stood from his desk. The more he spoke, the more he yelled, and then he got erratic. Started throwing papers around. His lamp.” Her eyes tighten. “I don’t know if he meant to, but he threw it toward me. It hit the wall beside where I stood. To this day, there’s a dent there. Dad got angry often, but usually not around me or Yasmine, so I was in complete shock. I remember feeling so cold, so numb,” her voice drops to a whisper, her eyes no longer seeing me but rather looking through me, “and I just wanted to leave. I excused myself on the guise of homework, but he shoved the door shut and forced me to remain. Said he wasn’t done talking.”

Ice freezes every nerve in my body. The more she talks, the more body parts he’ll lose.

“He continued yelling, and I kept trying to leave.” Mist fills her eyes. “I barely remember what about; his words were so jumbled, mixed with the copious amount of alcohol I smelled wafting from him. When I tried again to escape, he grabbed onto my hand and squeezed so hard, I ended up feeling the pain for an entire week afterwards.”

Three body parts gone.

“And then his hand swung. I wish I saw it coming.”

Four body parts.

Five.

Six.

“I was in so much shock, trying to process what happened.”

Seven.

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