Farns led me to an upstairs bedroom. He flicked on the light and showed me inside. The room was large and somehow light. I thought I’d be led to a cell with shackles and a metal bed. But no, this was a sweet country bedroom, even homier than my drafty room in town. It was along the side of the house, and two expansive windows filled one wall. Quilts hung along the other walls from floor to ceiling.

They were displayed with pride, some folded on racks and some spread out and exhibited. I scrutinized the nearest one with tired eyes. It bore a repeating pattern of a little boy in overalls and a wide straw hat. The fabrics were mixed, though all seemed well used.

“That one dates to 1897, I believe.” Farns stood behind me.

“Does he collect these or something?”

“No, miss, he doesn’t. His mother did, as did her father, and so on up the Vinemont tree.”

“Who made them?”

“This one was done by a great-great grandmother of the late Mr. Vinemont. The rest were done by other Vinemont women and sometimes men, if they had the knack of it.”

There were so many others, some done in a similar style, others with art deco influences, some oddly modern. The room was a mix of old and new.

“This one,” he pointed to a smaller square of material that was far darker than the others in the room, “was done by Mr. Sinclair’s mother.”

I ran my finger down a particularly straight seam. There was no pattern to the material, just jagged edges on blue and green fabric. The stitching was a deep crimson, discordant and striking.

“I didn’t think people who have been rich forever bothered themselves with being useful.”

“Forever is a long time, Miss Rousseau. Most things aren’t quite so constant.” He gave a slight bow and left, clicking the door shut behind him.

I needed more than veiled information, but I was too tired to follow Farns and ask questions. He wouldn’t give me any real answers, anyway. Still, I went to the door and opened it. It hadn’t been padlocked from the outside or anything. They had a strange way of keeping prisoners.

I pressed the door shut and eyed the bed. It was a four poster affair with a fluffy white comforter and welcoming pillows. I went to the closet and found it mostly empty. Farns had deposited my bag inside. Quilting fabric and thread were perched on the upper shelves, far from my reach.

I pulled out some toiletries from my bag and took them to the en suite bathroom. It was large for such an old house. Soaking tub, small walk-in shower, vanity, and toilet. I arranged my items in the cabinet and along the sink before getting ready for bed. It was odd, doing these things in a strange house, but I did them anyway. Brushing my teeth and changing into a t-shirt somehow put a veil of normalcy on the whole sinister affair.

I returned to my bag and dug out the knife. Tape still lingered on the blade. I pulled out the third drawer of the bedside table and affixed the knife to the bottom of the second drawer, just like at home. No one would find it there. It was like an insurance policy of sorts. I didn’t intend for it to ever spill my blood again. But Vinemont’s? That was a definite possibility.

Once satisfied it was hidden, I sat down on the bed. It was plush, luxurious. I was through the looking glass—nothing made sense and everything seemed somehow backwards. Was it a trick? Would Vinemont drag me from my bed after I’d fallen asleep and throw me into a musty dungeon?

I rubbed my eyes, too confused and exhausted to ponder what would happen in the next few minutes, much less in the hours to follow.

I got up and hit the lights. The darkness was almost a comfort to me, like it was cloaking me from prying eyes. I crawled into the unfamiliar bed, sliding between the smooth sheets. They smelled like linen and faintly of detergent. Clean and cool against my skin. These things, this room, they were all meant to seduce me, just like Vinemont’s voice in my ear. I wasn’t in a fairy tale. Vinemont wasn’t my prince.

I snuggled in deeper, hugging an extra pillow against me. It was down-filled, soft and fluffy. I breathed in deeply and let it out. I would enjoy what I could while I could, because I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Sleep fell like a curtain in front of the stage, slowly obscuring me from view.

A knock at the door jarred me awake. Light streamed in through the windows, giving my cell the appearance of a traditional Southern room.

“Who-who is it?”

“Farns, miss.”

“Oh, come in.” I sat up and pulled my blanket to my neck.

He opened the door and took only a single step inside. “Breakfast is ready downstairs. I wanted to let you sleep for a while longer, but Mr. Sinclair has requested your presence.”

“I haven’t even showered.” I pushed my hair back from my eyes, knowing it was a tangled mess.

“Even so.” He didn’t look at me. In fact, he looked everywhere but in my direction. Modest much?

“Fine. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” I paused, realizing I had no idea which way to go to get down to breakfast.

“I’ll wait while you ready yourself and then I’ll escort you, if you’d like,” Farns said.

“Yes, please.” I dropped the blanket and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

Farns backed out of the room and eased the door shut with a soft click.

I rose and stretched before going to the bathroom, washing my face, and running a brush through my hair. Presentable. But why should I be? Maybe when Farns said “breakfast” he really meant “guillotine” or “the rack.” I had no way of knowing at this point. Were his kindly words and face just another put-on like Vinemont’s?

I donned another pair of jeans, a tank top, and a cardigan. I wasn’t sure about shoes, so I put on some sneakers. I sat for a moment to collect myself, to try and sort through what was true and what was the lie. It was impossible. I only knew one thing for certain—Vinemont was my enemy. Anyone connected with him was suspect, if not an outright danger to me. With that cold thought, I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and went to the door.

Farns was, as he promised, waiting outside. “Right this way, miss.”

I followed him down the long hallway. I peered into rooms as I passed. They were all bedrooms in this part of the house, each with a different theme. Some were flowery, others done in rich, dark fabrics.

“So, do you treat all your prisoners like this?” It came off even more snide that I’d meant it to. I was testy, angry, a seething bubble of emotions that seemed to have simmered overnight while I slept and only now erupted at my surface.

Farns stopped and then took another step, as if unsure whether to continue. “I’m not entirely sure how to answer that.”

“Why? I’m sure I’m not the first slave Vinemont has owned.”

“I, ah. Well, miss, you are the first Acquisition we’ve had for the past twenty years, if that’s what you mean.”

“Acquisition? I keep hearing that word. What does it even mean? Is it some code so you don’t have to say ‘slave’?”

He turned toward me, his eyes kind. He made it hard for me to be cross with him. “I take it Mr. Sinclair hasn’t explained the Acquisition trials to you yet?”

“There are trials?”

“Yes, there are.” Vinemont strode down the hall toward us. “And if you would come downstairs to breakfast, I would explain them to you.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “What’s the rush?”

“Farns.” Vinemont’s gaze darkened and he waved the butler away.

Farns hesitated and then obeyed, retreating back the way we’d come until it was just Vinemont and me. He wore another pair of dark jeans with a black t-shirt, his inked vines snaking down his arms from beneath the fabric. In the morning light, I saw they were a deep green, small leaves done in an emerald, and vicious thorns done in almost black.

He gripped my upper arm and yanked me to walk alongside him.

“Hey—”

“You are testing my patience, Stella.” He stopped and pushed me up against the wall. His eyes bored into me. “Don’t ask Farns questions like that. He can’t help you.”

“I can ask whatever the hell I want.” The cocktail of emotions roiling inside me had made me bold, even in the face of Vinemont’s wrath.

His gaze travelled over my face, down to my lips and then back to my eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

He gripped my hair and pulled my head to the side. His mouth was at my ear again, his Southern drawl whispering darkly to me. “I thought I made it clear that I own you now. You do as I say. If you don’t, I’ll make sure your father feels the brunt of your punishment.”

He stepped into me, pressing my back into the wall and crushing me painfully. I yelped at the sudden aggression. He clapped his free hand over my mouth. I hit ineffectually at his sides, his back. I even tried to knee him, but he took advantage of my efforts and pushed one of his large thighs between my legs and lifted so I was straddling him.

“Fuck.” It was a gravelly whisper.

My heart beat faster and faster, panic welling up inside and drowning out any other emotion. He was going to hurt me. Right here, right now in this sunny hallway.

He pulled my hair harder and harder until I thought he would rip it out. I stopped struggling.

“Better. Here’s how this is going to go, Stella. You are going to stop trying to make trouble. You are going to do as you’re told. This year will pass by much easier for you if you just follow my orders. You can fight me.” His lips moved down to my neck, a hairsbreadth from making contact. “And I’m not going to lie, I like it when you fight. It makes this easier for me. But you won’t like the results.”

He released me and backed away. He ran a hand through his hair as he continued to stare me down. My heart hammered, demanding that I run as far and as fast as I could.

He licked his lips, reminding me of a hungry killer that had scented blood. My blood. I shivered under his gaze, hating that my nipples had hardened from the sensation of him rubbing against me.

Vinemont stabbed a finger in the air in the direction he’d come. “Go.”

I bolted from the wall and tore down the hallway. I found the stairs to my right and maneuvered down them so quickly I almost fell on the second landing. His steps sounded behind me, heavy and deliberate.

I whirled when I reached the bottom, my stomach growling from the smell of food on the air. I turned right, spotting the front door. I didn’t make a choice. My body made it for me.

I ran to the door and wrenched it open. I took off across the porch and down the stairs. The morning sun made the wide expanse of grass seem manageable. The air was crisp, fall had finally settled even this far south.

My sneakers barely touched the pavement of the driveway before I was treading on the soft earth. I ran as hard as I could. I was small. I would make it to the trees and hide. Just curl up somewhere in the roots of a cypress or maybe even climb and hide in the branches. Maybe Vinemont was lying about having the judge in his pocket. Maybe I could go to the police or someone else. I was desperate to believe it as I hurtled through the sunlit lawn.

None of my hopes were true, I knew that, but I didn’t care as long as my legs kept pumping, carrying me closer to the salvation of the tree line. I had to get away from him, from the terror, from the flare of unwanted heat he sparked in me.

My lungs began burning, making me painfully aware of my need to stop and take deep gulps of air. I didn’t. I pushed myself harder, ignoring the pain in my side, ignoring everything except the approaching sanctuary. I’d made it more than halfway across the emerald field.

I fell. Hard. Arms had encircled my waist and dragged me down so I was lying on my stomach. The grass had softened the fall, but not much. The air whooshed from my already tortured lungs, and my ribs felt on the verge of cracking apart and spearing the organs inside. The smell of fertile earth and verdant green invaded my nose, but his scent mixed in as well.

He was on my back. He gripped my arm and pulled me over roughly. He straddled me, his thighs against my hips. I couldn’t see his face. The sun was high behind his head, blinding me. I screamed and tried to slap him, scratch him, draw any sort of blood I could. He captured my wrists easily and pinned them over my head. He leaned over me, blocking the sun yet showing me the scorching anger in his eyes. He was fierce, far worse than he had been upstairs.

“I warned you, Stella. I told you.” His breaths were shuddering even as I gasped for air.

He transferred both my wrists to one of his hands and drew back his palm to strike me. I held his gaze. I wanted him to feel it, to know how much I loathed him, to know what I thought of his twisted soul.

His eyes opened a little wider at my stark stare.

“Fuck!” He stayed his hand and, instead, slammed his fist into the ground next to my head. He let out a roar, guttural and full of pent up rage.

He let my hands go and sat back, crushing my thighs. His head was thrown back, as if he were pondering the shape of the lazy white clouds above instead of thinking about how to hurt me. I lay still, once again blinded by the sun.

“You’re killing your father.” He brought his head back down slowly. His face was calm again, as if some switch had flipped.

“N-no.” My breaths were finally evening out, though my head pounded from the adrenaline and lack of food.

“Yes, you are.” He leaned down over me, bringing his face only an inch from mine. His erection was hard against my thigh. “If you had escaped, what do you think I would have done? Nothing?”

“I-I didn’t think—”

“Exactly. That’s your problem.” He drew a hand up and fastened his palm around my throat.

I tried to pry his fingers off, scratching him and pulling. He didn’t move, only squeezed harder the more I fought. It was as if he were pinching my windpipe, stopping even the slightest flow of air. When the edges of my vision started to dim, I relaxed.

“I thought I made it clear upstairs. I guess I didn’t. What do I have to do to get through to you? Hurt you more? Take more?” He ran his free hand down my side, my stomach, and finally to the vee of my thighs.

I whimpered as he rubbed against the seam of my jeans, right over my clit.

“I will, if that’s what you want, if that’s what it takes for you to understand how completely I own you.” He rubbed harder, building a heat inside me. My stomach clenched. I didn’t want his pleasure, not like this, but my body wasn’t discriminating.

“Is that it, Stella?” He eased his mouth closer to mine as his fingers continued to work. He was so close I could feel his warm, minty breath on my lips. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you. Before I even planned on making you my Acquisition. What do you taste like? I wonder. I’ve wondered it for quite some time. Would you like me to find out?”

His fingers continued their maddening pace, forcing desire to swell where there should have been none, where there should be terror and anger instead. I couldn’t stop the breathy sound that erupted from my lips.

He laughed, low and husky. “You would like for me to taste you, wouldn’t you?”

My hips rose toward his hand of their own accord, wanting more from him. He froze and blinked, as if realizing what he was doing.

“Shit!” He rose up and fell back as if I’d burned him. He sat in the grass at my feet, looking at me like I was a live grenade.

I sat up, blood rushing to my cheeks at how I’d reacted to his unwelcome touch. I saw movement behind him. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun and saw a young man, late teens or early twenties, walking up. He had sandy blonde hair, much lighter than Vinemont’s, and his features, though similar, were softer, friendlier. He waved.

I dazedly returned it, not knowing what to do. Vinemont turned and saw the newcomer.

“Teddy, go back inside.” It was a command, but lacking Vinemont’s usual viciousness.

“What’s going on, Sin?” The young man kept on his path until he stood at Vinemont’s back. “Who’s she?”

“She’s none of your concern.” Vinemont stood and faced him. “Go on in. We’ll be in for breakfast in two minutes.”

Teddy looked from me and back to Vinemont. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s nothing. Trust me.”

Teddy’s gaze landed on me, no doubt taking in my disheveled appearance. “Okay, Sin, if you say so. It’s nice to meet you, um…”

“Stella. Her name is Stella Rousseau.”

“I guess I’ll see you at breakfast, Stella.” Teddy wrinkled his brow, but eventually took Vinemont at his word. I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one who made the same mistake.

Vinemont ruffled the boy’s hair as he turned to trudge back to the house.

Are you shitting me? A hair ruffle from Vinemont?

“Up, Stella. Now.” A growl for me.

I could either keep fighting and running or acquiesce. Vinemont had already threatened my father again. I believed him. He was serious, lethal. The thought of my father in prison grounded me, reminded me of what I had to do.

I had no choice. I’d signed it away. Running had been instinctive. Now, I needed to calculate, to somehow figure a way out of this mess and keep my father and myself alive.

Vinemont offered his hand with an irritated sigh.