She ate silently as I did my best not to crowd her, though every instinct I had told me to pin her beneath me. Instead of giving in to my darker desires, I sat in a side chair near the window and responded to some Lindstrom Corp. emails on my phone. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She’d dressed in the clothes Timothy had unpacked from her bag and hadn’t touched any of the new things I’d bought for her. Even in jeans and a baggy fleece sweater, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. The ache in my chest started up, reminding me how important it was that I convince her of how right this was.

Picking at her food, she shot me furtive glances every so often. Probably making designs on getting my phone. The odds of her guessing my combination before locking herself out were infinitesimal, and I’d added a second layer of security that had to be entered each time the phone was used. It was a pain in the ass, but necessary for a while.

Though she only ate a few bites, she drank almost all of her coffee.

“Would you like more?” I asked, not looking away from my email to the head of purchasing. I’d dressed casually for the day—jeans and a gray t-shirt. I didn’t expect to go far, and I’d once read that dressing down tended to put others at ease.

“No, thank you.” She cursed under her breath, perhaps angry at being polite to what she saw as her jailor.

“If you’re finished, I’d like to show you around.” I sent the email—an ass-chewing that would ruin the purchasing director’s weekend—and stood.

“Why?” She crossed her arms over her stomach.

“Would you prefer to stay here?” I walked to the door and entered the code, making sure to block her view with my body.

“No.” She stood and took a few tentative steps toward me as I pulled the door inward. I walked out and held the door for her. Peeking back and forth along the upstairs hallway, she stepped out, and I let the door close behind us.

“This door automatically locks as soon as it shuts. Only Timothy and I have the code, and I’ll change it regularly.”

“Thanks for that.” She gritted her teeth and strode past me to look into the bedroom across the hall. “Who sleeps here?”

“No one. We’re the only ones in the house except for Timothy, who you met, and Rita, the cook.” Other than my father, I was the last of the Lindstrom line. He’d turned the house over to me several years earlier as part of a tax shelter plan, and I’d made it my home away from the city.

“Do you always stay out here?” She kept walking, the hypnotic sway of her hips drawing my eye.

“No. I have a penthouse in the city where we’ll stay during the week once you’re ready.”

She spun. “When will I be ready?”

When you accept that you are mine. “I don’t know. That’s up to you.” It seemed like lying was the wisest course at this point. Anything to keep her talking. When she’d almost hyperventilated in her closet, I’d had a moment of doubt. Could I keep her here without breaking her? But then, as I held her in my arms, my doubt faded. The simple contact of her skin on mine told me the truth—unwavering and bright. I needed her. One day soon, she’d realize she needed me, too.

“What, when I bow down to you?” Her bare feet made no sound on the heart pine floor as she peeked into the next bedroom.

“That’s not what I want.”

She spun and put her hands on her hips. “Then what do you want?”

“You.”

Her lips narrowed into a pressed line and her tone came out bitter. “Well, I guess you already got your wish.”

The indigestion was back, but different, as if a small fissure opened in my heart. What was this? “I’d like to show you something.”

“A way out?”

I considered her question for a moment. “Of sorts, yes.”

She shifted from foot to foot, uncertain. “Then show me.”

I motioned for her to walk down the hall toward the stairs. She took a few tentative steps, then hurried past me. Her scent swirled through the air in a vortex of anger and her. The pain in my chest intensified as I watched her storm down the hallway. I followed her.

She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked out the two-story windows that graced the foyer. Through the paned glass, the grounds shone under a warm sun. Despite the cold air, the grass still retained a faint green from the summer months, and the driveway slithered through the lawn like a long black snake.

“This place is huge.” She peered down at the foyer below, the walls lined with priceless art collected by several generations of Lindstroms. The chandelier dangled from the third floor turret overhead, the crystals casting prisms high above us.

She tilted her head back, her delicate neck calling to the primal part of me that wanted to mark her as mine. “Did having all this money make you this way?” She brought her gaze down to mine. “Is that it?”

“Nothing made me this way.” I’d spent countless hours in therapy sessions, thanks to my dad, and each doctor and psychologist had come to the same conclusion. On the spectrum of personality disorders, I was the most psychopathic person they’d ever counseled. It was hard wired into me. Nature, not nurture, had created my monster. “What did you say earlier? ‘It is what it is’? This is who I am, who I’ve always been. It can’t be fixed.”

Her eyes softened for a moment, and she seemed to be on the verge of saying something. Then she appeared to think better of it and abruptly descended the stairs.

What I wouldn’t have given to know what she was thinking at that moment.

Her golden hair shined like a halo as she entered the foyer, and just having her with me eased the ache between my ribs. This was right. It had to be.

Once we hit the landing, the marble floor felt cool beneath our feet, I led her around the flared staircase toward the back of the house.

“Sitting room, dining room, and an office.” I pointed to each doorway we passed.

She followed, only pausing for a moment to peer into the office.

I turned into the last door on the right. “The kitchen. It’s always fully stocked, and if there’s anything in particular you want, I’ll be happy to get it for you.”

Rita bustled out of the pantry, her dark hair in a neat bun and her nurse shoes squicking along the tile floor. “Mr. Lindstrom.” She looked up and stopped. “Good morning. Was there a problem with breakfast?”

“It was fine. I wanted you to meet Camille. She’s the one you discussed with Timothy.”

Camille stared around at the large kitchen, double ovens and stoves, granite counters, and the built-in fridge and freezer.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Rita’s voice was welcoming, but her smile faltered somewhat.

“I suppose you won’t help me either?” Camille’s cutting tone had Rita looking at me, then back to Camille.

“She won’t.”

“Fine.” Camille ran a hand through her newly blonde locks. “Rita, be a dear and show me where the knives are.”

“She’s already locked them away in a safe in the pantry.”

“Yes sir, just as Timothy instructed.” She leaned on the sink, her age showing in the hunch of her back. “Sir?”

“Yes.” This was likely the most we’d ever interacted in the dozen years she’d worked for me.

“You won’t hurt her, will you?” Rita dropped her gaze to the floor and clasped her leathery hands together.

“Never.”

“Good.” She nodded, but still didn’t look up. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Camille.”

“Just Camille.”

“I hope breakfast was all right? I can make whatever you prefer from now on.”

“Breakfast was delicious, thank you.” Despite her attempts at being rude, Camille always reverted back to the real her, the one with warmth and life in every word and movement.

Rita offered a smile before grabbing a scrub sponge and wiping down the already-clean counters.

I motioned back toward the door on the hall. Camille scowled as she walked past.

“This way.” I continued along the back of the house.

The wall gave way to wide windows looking out onto the pool. “It’s heated and covered during the winter, so you can swim anytime you like.” The light blue water rippled, and the waterfall splashed quietly at the far end.

I caught her reflection in the glass. She was taking it all in, but didn’t say a word.

Instead of leading her through the music room, I turned and showed her toward the other wing of the house.

“This place is even bigger than I thought.” She trailed her fingers along the wainscoting. Her voice descended into bitterness. “But I suppose the size of the prison doesn’t matter. Just the bars.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” I don’t know why I enjoyed goading her, but then again, any emotion I felt remained a mystery—one that only she could solve. “This is the last room you’ll see on the tour today.” I pushed through a heavy black door and flipped the switch. Lights began to glow far overhead, and an iron chandelier flickered to life in the center of the room.

She followed and stopped. I turned and backed up a step so she could get the full view. Two tiers of books, bright windows, comfortable chairs, and a warm fire—the house’s library was one of the first rooms constructed over a hundred years prior.

I gestured to a brand new bookcase I had installed in the center of the room. “This is for you.”

Her wide eyes tried to take in the entire space as she walked deeper into the room. She trained her gaze on the bookshelf in the center. “These are mine.”

“Yes.”

She kept walking. “And these are new.”

“It’s a varied selection that I thought might interest you. The newest botanical treatises from various expeditions to the Amazon plus several ancient texts that I had recreated from the Library of Congress. I noticed in your collection that you particularly preferred the journals of Pedro Teixeira, but you only had bits and pieces.” I pulled a hand bound edition from the end of the middle shelf. “This is the recreated journal.” I grabbed the larger book adjacent to it. “And these are modern, cross-referenced maps that correspond with his discoveries.”

She stared at me as if I were speaking another language, confusion flirting with disbelief along her pleasant features.

I re-shelved the books I’d plucked. “The bottom two rows are mostly botany. The middle two are Amazon specific. And the top two are a smattering of texts hand-picked by the phytology scholar in residence at the National Archives.”

The fire crackled and hissed as she walked around the bookcase, her gaze flicking from spine to spine.

Another weird feeling erupted in my chest. Not the burning or the fissure, but something different. My palms turned clammy. Nerves? Was this nerves?

“This is…” She walked around to my side again and stared at the wide bookcase.

I waited, my world revolving around her response.

Her face softened, the flimsy mask she attempted to put up slipping off. She reached out and stroked the spine of the recreated Teixeira journal.

I’d tempted her curiosity, given her the smallest taste of what I could give her, what I wanted to give her.

“What do you think?” The words sounded odd coming from my mouth. I never cared what anyone—other than my dad—thought about anything.

She stepped back and shook her head, my spell broken. The soft look disappeared, and she scowled up at me. “I think an actual trip to the Amazon would have been a million times better.”