A knock on the door disturbs my thoughts of fury and pain. I know it’s him but, as usual, I don’t call for him to enter. He walks in anyway, a wide grin on his face. He’s wearing navy shorts and a polo shirt that strains against his hard chest. “Morning, Rosebud.”

He gets no response from me.

I’ve spent two weeks after he rescued me from death’s grip drifting in and out of sleep. Although my wrists itch, a good sign the wounds are healing, I can’t seem to find the energy or will to live. I’m finding it hard to climb out of the deep, dark abyss of depression. I’m not even sure I want to find a way out. My body has escaped the coffin but my mind is still there, trapped six feet under, clothed in darkness.

Damien promises that once I get back on my feet everything will be great again, that we’ll have a fresh start. He swears he’ll never hurt me again, whispers those words to me at night when he holds me till I fall asleep, and repeats them first thing in the morning when I awaken. I recoil at every promise which lands on my ears. I want to believe him, but it all seems too good to be true. How can he change so drastically from monster to saint?

“Time for your bath.” He comes to stand at the side of the bed.

Despite his smile, the light in his eyes is dim, and the shadows under his eyes are darker than they were yesterday. Can it be he really does regret his actions and wants to make things right? After all, he rarely leaves my side—spending most hours of the day feeding me, reading to me, combing my hair, and even bathing me.

Four days ago, the first time he attempted to undress me in preparation for my bath, my old fighting spirit briefly flared. I put up such a fight that he quit. No anger or frustration flickered in his eyes, only sadness. He left me alone for two days before trying again. He kept trying patiently until I gave up the fight and he undressed me and gently washed my body. He never tried to have sex with me, which I had feared.

Today, like every other day I allow him to remove my clothes—a simple cream night gown and black cotton panties. But when he moves to lift me off the bed, I hold out my hands to stop him.

“I’ll do it myself.” Despite my conscious effort to harden my voice, it comes across as shaky.

I find enough strength to cover myself with a bed sheet and walk unsteadily to the bathroom. I close the glass bathroom door behind me and lean my back against it, heart thudding.

After catching my breath, I run the bath and carefully lower myself into the warm water. It’s hard to wash myself without getting the bandages on my wrists wet, but I refuse to ask for his help.

He’s watching me through the misty glass while ordering lunch from a restaurant. My stomach groans with hunger. For the first time in days I look forward to a meal.

After only fifteen minutes in the tub, I pull my dripping body out and pat myself dry. I throw on a bathrobe and exit the bathroom.

Damien perches on the edge of the bed, his cell phone in his hand. “You can’t imagine how happy I am to see you on your feet again. You look so much better.”

I don’t know how to answer him. I can never find the right words.

I head over to the dressing table and open the first aid kit, ready to attempt changing my own bandages.

“I wish you would talk to me.”

I find my voice then and shoot him a blazing glare. “What exactly do you want me to say? You wanted me to be your slave. I’m here. What more do you want?”

He drops his head before he looks back up. “I never wanted that . . . I wanted you to be my wife.” He stands and comes to kiss the top of my head and proceeds silently with helping me change my bandages.

When he’s done, I return to the bed to lie down. He joins me, spooning me with his body, weaving his hands through mine, his heart slamming against my back.

“I’m not a monster. You don’t have to be afraid of me ever again.” His warm breath hits the back of my neck. His touch is both comforting and revolting. “I didn’t have an easy childhood,” he continues. “I was pushed into doing things I’m not proud of.”

I’m aching to ask what sort of things but I don’t want to disturb him. He’s letting me into his complicated mind, unravelling it for me to take a peek inside, to see the damaged parts of him.

“My father—stepfather—owned chains of brothels across the globe. He introduced me to my first sexual encounter at fifteen, said it was time to turn me into a real man. Since his plans for me were to eventually join the family business, he wanted to ensure I understood every aspect of it.”

I take a quick breath, astonished by what he could be implying. “He forced you to sleep with prostitutes?”

“He made me do all kinds of things with them . . . to them. As the years passed, the sick son of a bitch forced me to see women through his eyes. As nothing more than objects. Once I slept with them, they became mine to do with as I wished. Nothing was off limits”

I don’t know what causes me to face him, but I do. Shadows from the past darken his features. “Who would do something like that to a child?” I blink away warm tears.

“I should have fought harder against him.” He looks away in shame. “But he was a man who always got what he wanted.”

“You speak of him in past tense.”

“That’s because he’s dead.”

“What happened to his broth . . . businesses?” The word brothel feels slimy and rotten on my tongue.

He took a deep, unsteady breath. “My brother and I . . . we inherited them.”

I narrow my eyes. “You never mentioned having a brother.”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Sorry,” I murmur as his earlier words sink in. “So, that’s how you make your money? Prostitution?”

“Not for a long while. A year after my stepfather died, I walked out and went to college. I changed my surname from Damien Devereux to Damien Steel and kept my reputation clean.”

“What happened? Where did you find the courage to pull away?”

“A woman happened. Kristi.” He touches a lock of my hair, wrapping it around a forefinger. “Her hair was the same shade of red as yours.”

The name Kristi brings back memories of the wedding dress I found in the closet days ago. “You married her?”

“I fooled myself into thinking I could have a normal life, a healthy marriage.”

“What happened?” The words have a hard time moving through my throat. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

He removes his hand from my hair. “We were happy for a year. Then she became pregnant. She lost the baby. The pain of loss changed her. I did everything to hold the pieces of our marriage together.” He gives a sad chuckle. “I was foolish. Even when she told me she no longer loved me, I refused to let her go. She stayed but had an affair, which I forgave her for. I tried to make it work. But . . .” He gives a low laugh. “In the end, she left me anyway. She died.”

I wait for a few heartbeats before asking the next hard question. “You killed her?” The words are thick on my tongue.

He jerks at my question but recovers in a heartbeat. “No. She took her own life.”

“Oh, Damien, I’m so sorry.” Why the hell is my heart breaking for the man who had stolen me and kept me captive?

He places a hand on my cheek. “No, I’m sorry. For everything.” He pauses. “When Kristi died, I refused to accept it. I was in therapy for a long time. I never thought I’d fall in love again. Until you. You made me feel again. You gave me my life back, Ivy. I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you die.”

Silence falls between us but it’s disturbed by the doorbell ringing to signal our lunch has arrived.

During our meal of green salad, fried chicken, and vegetables, I bring up more questions about Damien’s life, his wife, even Jennifer, but I find the door closed. He no longer wants to talk about the past, insisting we should focus on the future.

“I love you, Ivy. My heart aches knowing you don’t feel the same for me. I want you to be here with me, to be my future. But I finally get that keeping you here will not make you mine.” He takes a swig of wine. “Loving you drove me to insanity. It took me back to the man my stepfather wanted me to be, the man I fought so hard to leave behind. I admit I went too far.”

“What are you saying?” I stop chewing and push away my plate.

“I’m setting you free, Rosebud.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” A sarcastic smile curls the corners of my lips. “If I leave right this minute, you won’t stop me?”

“I will stop you.” His gaze holds mine as he dabs his lips with a napkin. “But only because I want you to recover completely first. Once you’re strong enough, I’ll give you back your freedom.”

I cross my arms and lean forward. “What if I walk out of here and call the cops on you?”

“After what I put you through, it would surprise me if you don’t. Whatever you decide, I’m prepared to face the consequences of my actions.”

“You’re willing to go to prison?”

“If that’s what you want.” His tone is strong and determined.

“How do I know you’re not playing a game with me? Maybe you want me to walk into some kind of trap.”

He pushes his chair back a few inches and pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He hands it to me. My hands are shaking so much I almost drop it. “Call your mother or your friends to let them know you’ll be home in five days.”

Expecting him to snatch the phone away, I dial. I can barely make out the numbers through my teary eyes.

With every heartbeat I cannot believe he’s letting me go just like that. There has to be a catch, a price to pay for my freedom. But if there is, why would he allow me to reach out to the outside world?

Damien rises and goes to stand at the window. I dial with the corner of my eye fixed on him, a solid knot of anxiety heavy in the pit of my stomach.

My mother’s number is still disconnected and Chelsea won’t answer her phone. When prompted to leave a message, I hang up instead. How can I explain in a few words that the friend she thought to be dead is alive?

I wrestle with whether to call the police but when I look at a Damien, I can no longer see the threat that had loomed over me during my time in captivity.

“Couldn’t reach anyone?” he asks, walking back to the table.

I nod and hand him back the phone.

“Feel free to try again any time.”

“Why are you really doing this?” I ask softly.

“Because I love you, and I’m disgusted by the man I was close to becoming.”

When night falls, Damien climbs into bed with me and draws me close to his body, holding me so tight I almost can’t breathe. I lie in his arms, my face tucked into the crook of his shoulder, shocked that the man who had once terrified me now makes me feel safe.

Before I fall asleep I ask him a question that has been troubling me since my attempted escape.

“Did you know that the wedding band you gave me is fake?”

He’s silent for a long time and I almost fear he won’t answer, or worse he will return to his evil self. But when he speaks, his voice is gentle in the night. “It belonged to Kristi. We bought it from a beach vendor during a holiday in Hawaii. It was a souvenir at first but when we got married, she said I didn’t need to buy her an expensive ring to prove my love.” He exhales. “I’m sorry, it was cruel of me to give you the ring that belonged to my first wife.”

I don’t say anything more. Instead, I shut my eyes and force myself to sleep. Behind my eyelids, I see the shadowed face of the woman who came before me.