I lock the bedroom door. I know it won’t keep him out, but I do it anyway. Trembling, shivering, fucking freezing, I back away, covering myself. I look down at my chest, see his prints in red. I raise my hand and find skin and blood under my fingernails.

What happened? What the fuck just happened?

What the hell have I gotten myself into? He’s going to kill me.

I look around the bedroom. A bed, two nightstands, one on either side of the bed, a vanity, a dresser. I go to it, begin to shove it toward the door, but the thing must weigh a thousand pounds because I can’t budge it. I give up, take the chair before the vanity and slide it beneath the doorknob. I don’t think it’ll hold if he wants to come in here, but it’s something. I open every single drawer to find a weapon, something, anything I can use to defend myself, but come up short. In the bathroom, same thing. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner, bath wash and lotions, a toothbrush in its package, toothpaste. But nothing I can use to hurt him. Maim him.

Back in the bedroom, I listen for him. I force myself to put my ear to the door and hear nothing. There are two windows but we must be at least twenty floors off the ground. I’m not exiting that way.

He said I could leave anytime I wanted. I can’t though. I know what that means for Jones.

Jones. Fuck. I’m so fucking stupid. He said he’d been clean for months and I believed him. Jones, my big brother. The one who gave up so much because of me. Who lost so much.

I sit on the edge of the bed. I remember what he went through at the house. I know why he’s the way he is. He was brave once. Courageous. But that was beaten out of him good and hard.

Tears fill my eyes, wet my face. My stomach is empty but it feels like it’s filled with bricks. This is an impossible situation. I have to do what he says. I have to give him anything he wants. Everything he wants.

What happened just now though makes me pause. He could have taken it tonight. He’s bigger than me. Stronger than me. He could have made me, but he didn’t. What was it that triggered his violent reaction? Not the word bully. He knows he’s that. He doesn’t care that he is that. Things changed when I accused him of being a rapist.

I stand, shaking my head to clear the image of that glass shattering in his hand.

He won’t take what I don’t give. But the question is, how long will he allow me to not give it?

I walk to the bathroom, lock the door behind me and switch on the shower. The water is steaming when I step under the flow. I wince at the heat but force myself to stay and when my body adjusts to the temperature, I wash away the blood, the skin under my nails. I scrub my hair and body and only switch off the water when I can’t stand it anymore. I wipe the steam from the mirror before wrapping the towel around myself. My reflection looks back at me, my tired, reddened eyes, the bruises darkening in the shape of his fingers at my throat. I squeeze the moisture from my hair, wind it into a bun, use a rubber band I find in one of the drawers to hold it in place. I then tear open the toothbrush packaging and brush my teeth like a normal person. Like it’s a normal night. Like I’m not trapped like some animal waiting her turn for slaughter.

When I return to the bedroom, the chair is still where I put it. He’s not here. He didn’t break down the door. He won’t, I think. I think he was as shocked at his reaction as I was.

I pull back the thick, heavy comforter. It feels nice, luxurious. I climb into the bed naked because I have nothing to wear, but I don’t switch off the lights and somehow, I drift off to sleep.

* * *

I wake because I’m hungry. Famished, in fact. The clock tells me it’s been almost twenty-four hours since I’ve eaten.

I rub my face and sit up, the events of the evening returning in vivid multicolor. How did I manage to sleep? I climb out of the bed, picking up the towel I’d discarded the night before and wrapping it around myself. It’s still raining. Still gray. It’s been raining for days. New York in the fall can be beautiful but when it rains like this, it kills me. I followed Jones here and not a day goes by where I don’t wish he’d never moved away from Colorado.

But I can’t leave him on his own. My being here, in this penthouse, under these circumstances, is evidence of that. He’s too vulnerable. Too breakable. I need to be there to put him back together if he breaks and I feel like he’s always one step from shattering.

I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth, then walk to the bedroom door. After listening, making sure I hear nothing, I pull the chair out.

He told me not to leave my room but I have to. I don’t want to. God, the last thing I need is to run into him. Break one of his rules. Will he still be angry? As angry? Will he have calmed?

I turn the doorknob, wincing at the pop of the lock releasing. It doesn’t creak as I open it wide enough to peer into the hallway. It’s empty. And it sounds like the entire penthouse is empty. There isn’t even a guard stationed at the elevator.

The kitchen is at the other end of the living room. I’m just going to tip-toe in there, grab something to eat. I don’t want to admit that I’m going to scurry back to my room like a frightened little mouse because that’s exactly what I am right now. A scared shitless little mouse.

The apartment is dark. No lights are on and too many clouds hide the sun. I get to the kitchen and have to wonder if he ever eats in here. It’s spotless. Not a crumb on any surface. I open the fridge, worried for a minute there won’t be any food, but it’s stocked. Shockingly full, actually. I’m about to take out a carton of juice when I hear the ding of the elevator and my heart lurches into my throat. I’m standing there, the carton in my hand in front of the refrigerator as the elevator doors slide open. A woman steps out and if she’s surprised to find a stranger wrapped in a towel standing in the kitchen, she doesn’t let on. It takes her all of one second to smile.

“Mr. Killian said he had company,” she says.

She’s older, maybe late fifties. And behind her a man in a suit steps off the elevator. Him I recognize. He gives me a nod. It’s the man who smashed my head into the wall last night.

“It’s raining cats and dogs out there,” she says, setting her bag down on the kitchen counter while she takes off her coat. “Are you hungry?”

I’m so confused.

She comes around, takes the juice out of my hand, guides me to sit at the counter. She closes the refrigerator door.

“I’m Helen, honey. I cook and clean here. What’s your name?”

“Um. I’m Priscilla.” I shake my head. “Cilla.” I haven’t used Priscilla since...well, since mom died.

“Nice to meet you, Cilla. Now, Mr. Killian said I was to take care of you.”

He did?

“What would you like to eat?”

“Uh…I can grab a…granola bar or something.”

“Nonsense. How about an omelet?” She looks me over and I’m very conscious I’m wearing only a towel. “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”

Her expression puts me at ease, at least a little. “No. I’m not.”

“Good. Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll make you a nice breakfast.”

“Oh.” I look around the living room for my coat, panties and bra. Find none of them. “I don’t have any…”

“Just a minute.”

Well, whatever she thinks of that information, she doesn’t let on. Instead, she disappears down the hallway and returns a few minutes later with a bathrobe.

“You’ll at least be more comfortable in this.”

“Thank you.”

She turns her attention to gathering the ingredients for my breakfast and I quickly slip the bathrobe on. I fold the towel and set it on the stool beside the one I sit on. The scent of bacon frying has my mouth watering.

“Is there a phone somewhere?” I ask, emboldened.

“Afraid not,” she says, her back to me.

She doesn’t embellish. I get the feeling she’s been told not to let me use a phone if there is one.

“I just wanted to check on my brother,” I try again. Maybe she has a cell phone she’ll lend me.

“Well,” she plates up an omelet so perfect, my stomach growls in anticipation. “Mr. Killian will be here soon. I’m sure you can ask him about that. Coffee?”

I nod and pick up my fork. Mr. Killian will be here soon. As hungry as I am, I have to force the food past the sudden lump in my throat.

Helen makes a cup of coffee and sets it in front of me. “Cream or sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, I’d best get started. If you need anything else, holler.”

“Thank you.”

Helen disappears and I eat the plate of food, wondering about what’s happening. If he told her to take care of me, then maybe he’s calmed down? I’m thinking about that when the elevator dings again. I turn, sliding off my stool as Hugo enters followed by a man in a suit. He looks me over. Nods his greeting.

I stand there like an idiot.

“This is Doctor Horn. He’ll be handling your exam,” Hugo says to me.

“My exam?”

He turns to the doctor. He doesn’t bother to introduce me.

“If I can set up?” the doctor asks Hugo.

“Third door on the right.”

The room I’d slept in.

“What’s going on?” I hug the lapels of the bathrobe to me as Hugo approaches. I take a step away when he veers left with a chuckle and goes to the coffee machine. He makes himself a cup and turns to me, leans against the counter, looks me over.

“What the hell happened last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“You did a number on Kill’s face. Those scratches are usually on the back.”

My mouth falls open but he just swallows his coffee and sets his cup in the sink.

“Let’s go. We’re on a tight schedule,” he says, taking my arm.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. What exam? I have a doctor. I don’t need—”

“You need to be checked for STDs and we need to make sure your birth control is up to date.” He’s dragging me toward the hallway.

“What? Oh my god. You’re crazy!”

He stops.

“If you’d rather wait for Kill, we can do that. He’ll be here soon. I’m sure after last night, he’ll be very lenient.”

I look at his face, his eyes. They’re hard. He’s not messing around. I move when he begins to walk.

“I don’t need an exam,” I try, but I know my words fall on deaf ears.

In my bedroom, Dr. Horn has stripped the bed of everything but one pillow. He’s also set up his tools on a tray beside the bed. I recognize all the implements. My gynecologist uses them when I go in for my annual visits.

“Please disrobe and lie on the bed.”

Hugo has released my arm but I stiffen at the order. When I back away, I hit his wall of a chest.

“Do as you’re told and don’t waste the doctor’s time.”

Dr. Horn looks at me. “It’s just an examination. Routine.”

“It’s not routine. I don’t need—”

Hugo picks me up by the arms and carries me to the bed. I’m fighting but it’s useless. Once there, he sits me on the edge and takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look at him. “I can tie you spread eagle to the bed or you can lay back and do what the doctor says and have it over with. This is happening. You decide how it’s happening.”

Instinct takes over and I try to make a run for it. Logic isn’t working because if it were, I’d know I have no chance of escape. I kick and scream as Hugo hauls me onto the bed and links my hands with a set of leather cuffs already attached to the top of the bed. Once I’m secured, he grabs one kicking leg at the ankle and drags it wide, his cold eyes on mine as he does. He links it to the cuff there. I’m still fighting when he takes the other leg and does the same. I’m spread wide, the robe barely covering the essentials, but Hugo keeps his eyes glued to mine as he unties and opens it wide, exposing me to him, to the doctor, to anyone who chooses to walk by the open door.

He then shakes his head at me. “She’s all yours, Doc.” He moves to the far wall where he’ll have an unobstructed view between my legs, and folds his arms across his chest as he leans against it and watches. I see Helen walk by the door but she doesn’t glance inside. She’s whistling and carrying on with her cleaning as if this is totally normal.

Dr. Horn’s gloved fingers press against me, opening my folds, smearing lubricant into me. I squeeze my eyes shut, hate the tears that slide from their corners as he does his work, taking a smear. It’s over within moments. I open my eyes to watch him place the sample in his bag and retrieve two syringes.

“What are those for?”

“Birth control and a blood sample.”

He comes to the top of the bed and I start to struggle. Hugo steps forward.

“Blood first,” the doctor says.

Hugo grips my arm so hard, I can’t move it. It hurts when the doctor sticks the syringe in, taking the sample. When Hugo releases me, I do the only thing I can. I open my mouth and bite his hand.

“Fuck.” He swipes it away.

It wasn’t even hard enough to draw blood.

“I can shoot this one into her hip if you turn her over and hold her still.”

“With pleasure.” Hugo uncuffs one leg, but his grip is so tight as he folds it over the other, that I can’t move it at all. I feel the cold cotton swab readying the area and flinch when the needle penetrates skin. I’m so caught up in what’s happening to me that I don’t even hear Kill when he enters the room.

“She’s compliant, I see,” he says when the doctor pulls the needle out and Hugo releases me so I roll onto my back.

“That’s her. Compliant,” Hugo deadpans.

I look at the scratches down Kill’s face. I got him good. But I know he’ll get me better.

I meet his eyes. The rage of last night is gone. He still looks terrifying even wearing the expensive suit, but he’s not out of control. He shakes the doctor’s hand.

“Thank you, Dr. Horn. Your services are appreciated as is your discretion.”

“Of course, Mr. Black.”

Mr. Black?

But I don’t have time to think about this now because Kill turns his full attention to me, looks me over, walks to the bed, and sits on the edge of it. His gaze wanders over my naked body, pausing at my sex before his eyes meet mine.

“I’m going to teach you to obey me,” he says, and I know he hasn’t forgotten what happened last night. He undoes my still bound leg, then my wrists. I sit up, rub them, cover myself as best I can. From inside his jacket pocket, he takes out a cell phone, scrolls to a number and dials it, then hands me the phone.

I take it, confused, put it to my ear.

“Cill?” It’s Jones.

“Oh, God. Jones.” Relief washes over me and tears warm my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay, sis. Are you?”

I glance at Kill. I’m not sure how to answer that. “Where are you?” I ask instead.

“I can’t say, but I’m safe. I guess he needs you to know that.”

“Are they hurting you?”

“No.”

I nod, but he can’t see me.

“Sis, you shouldn’t have done that,” he says.

I’m crying, wiping my face with one hand, pressing the phone to my ear with the other.

“There. You know he’s not hurt. Now say goodbye,” Kill says.

My eyes snap to his.

“One month. You’ll see him after that,” he says.

I study him, trying to gauge if he’s telling the truth, that he’s not going to hurt Jones. Jones sounds okay though. Not under duress.

“I have to go,” I say. “I’ll see you again when this is over, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Jones says. “I’m sorry for being an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Say goodbye,” Kill repeats.

“Goodbye.”

Kill takes the phone and puts it into his pocket. He gets off the bed. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.” He motions to the shopping bag I hadn’t noticed.

“Leaving?”

“We’re taking a trip.”

“Where to? I have a job. Rent.” I’m a freelance journalist, but still. I need to work to pay the bills.

“You told me that last night. I took care of everything. All you have to worry about for the next month is pleasing me. You do that, and all will be well.”

“You said I could leave.” I don’t know why I bring that up. I won’t leave. I know that.

“I changed my mind.” He gives me a long look, then turns and walks out the door, closing it behind him.