Everything hurts as I peel one eye, then the other, open.

Ugh, why does everything hurt so much?

It feels like the worst hangover I’ve ever had, until I remember that I’ve been stone-cold sober for almost two weeks now. So if this isn't a hangover, what is it? I roll my head to the side and let out a loud groan as I see a flash of white and a sharp, splintering pain pierces my temple. I squeeze my eyes shut as I force myself to ignore the wave of nausea washing over me.

Where the hell am I?

I shift, stretching out my legs and flexing my toes. A scratchy blanket covers me and when I try to push myself up, and my hands connect with the fabric beneath my fingers, another violent roll of nausea passes through me.

No, no. It can’t be. Not again.

Despite the pain, I force my eyes open. One look around me and my blood instantaneously turns cold.

I can’t be here.

I force myself to a seated position on the burgundy velvet couch. I move to shove the blanket off me, but when I look down I see that my hands are tied with a piece of thick, coarse rope. I try to control the wild, racing thoughts within me, but I can’t stop my heart from pounding in my chest and the rush of blood to my ears. I’m panicking and I feel myself losing control with each passing second.

I can’t be back here again. I had spent years banishing away every single memory of this terrible place. But still, like a festering wound refusing to heal, all the painful memories I had spent years forcing away come rushing back to the surface. I remember this blanket. I remember how it felt as it covered my cold, naked body. I remembered the feeling of my fingers digging into the velvet couch beneath me, as I felt his heavy body on top of me. I remembered the feel of the linen pillow underneath me, swallowing my cries. I can’t be here again: this place only reserved for my darkest nightmares.

As unstable and dizzy as I feel, I use all my energy to push myself off the couch. My skin feels like it’s burning where it connects with the velvet couch. I swivel to look up at the large clock hanging on the wall. It’s nine o’clock. How is it nine o’clock?

I lift my hands, bound together, up to my head. A large bump covers my forehead and when I bring my hands down, I can see traces of dried blood on my fingertips. Shit, someone had knocked me out. I probably had a concussion. At least that helped to explain why I felt so slow and nauseous.

Still, I fight through the nausea, pain and sluggishness and push away from the couch. I only manage to take two steps before my knees collide with a coffee table and I fall to the floor with a loud thud.

“Oh, you’re up?”

The sound of MacArthur’s voice sends chills through me as I lay on the floor, my body immobilized at the sound of his voice.

No, this has to be a nightmare. Focus, Daphni. What do you last remember?

I do my best to push aside the blinding, throbbing pain and think back to my last memory. Roman. I remember Roman. We had made love and then fallen asleep, our bodies tangled in each other.

Right, but what had happened after?

It had been early evening. I woke up after a few hours. Roman was still asleep. I heard something. What had it been? Shakira. I had heard Shakira whining. She needed to go out to pee. I didn’t want her to wake up Roman, so I had thrown on some shorts and a T-shirt and taken her outside. And then what happened?

I had gone downstairs and Shakira was acting weird. She was whining, but when I opened the backdoor for her to go out and pee, she just circled my ankles. And the lights. The lights had been out—I remember going back into the kitchen to look for a flashlight.

Then, I had seen someone. A shadowy figure, but someone I had immediately recognized. And then everything had gone black.

My eyes shoot open as I remember, a sinking feeling of dread setting in as I recall the face that had surprised me in the kitchen, jumped out and grabbed me right before everything went black.

“Elijah?” I ask, my voice a breathy whisper as I will myself not to panic.

Why am I remembering Elijah when I am clearly back here, the setting of all my worst nightmares?

No, no this can’t be real. None of this makes any sense.

I push past the dizziness, pain and nausea and sit up. From my position on the ground, I look up. And instead of seeing Elijah standing over me, I instead see the all-too familiar face of MacArthur staring down at me. He wears a victorious smiles on his face as he watches me with his sadistic eyes, enjoying me heaped into this pathetic pile on the floor. And a chill passes through me as I realize I hadn’t imagined his voice, hadn’t imagined that I was back here, in the scene of all my nightmares. Because this wasn’t a terrible dream. This was reality.

“Why?” I ask.

MacArthur rolls his eyes as he sits down in a large stuffed chair in front of me. “You should have known better than to threaten me, Daphni,” he chastises.

I shake my head, the dizziness still impeding my ability to think clearly. “It was you? Sending the letters this whole time?”

MacArthur laughs and the sound sends a shiver of fear through me. “Oh, God no. That’s so pathetic. No, when I heard from Melissa about your little stalker concern, I did some digging of my own. It wasn’t a secret that Drizzle’s friends weren’t of the highest quality and I had heard a rumor that Elijah had a habit of getting… obsessive. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together. I am a bit surprised it’s been taking the wonderful LAPD so long to put it together, however.”

“Where is he?” I ask.

“Oh, he’ll be joining us shortly, don’t you worry.”

I groan with frustration at how my body is still so sluggish and unresponsive. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because you couldn’t keep your stupid mouth shut, Daphni,” MacArthur snaps out as his hands form into fists at his side. “And you are a liability I just don’t have the energy to worry about anymore. And now that you’ve left my label, I have no way to control you anymore. Measures had to be taken.”

“I hate you,” I spit out.

He shakes his head, a sadness overtaking his features. “Perhaps it’s better that you do.”

“What are you going to do to me?” I ask, hating how pathetic and vulnerable I sound.

MacArthur shakes his head, holding up his hands defensively. “You’ve misunderstood, my dear. I’m not doing anything, haven’t done anything. In fact, I was never here.” He pushes out of the chair and gestures with his chin to the left, drawing my attention to the corner of the room. My blood runs cold as I turn my head to see Elijah, sitting in a tall barstool by the large window overlooking MacArthur’s expansive backyard. He had been here, sitting quietly, all along.

“She’s all yours. Keep it clean,” MacArthur says as he passes Elijah.

My body involuntarily shudders as I watch MacArthur slip out the door, leaving me alone with Elijah. Because as much as MacArthur has starred in all my cold sweat nightmares, at least I already knew the evil he was capable of. Elijah was a whole new kind of monster. One I was terrified to discover.

Elijah takes MacArthur’s empty seat and looks down at me, his eyes filled with both concern and twisted, heated desire. His long, pale fingers curl over the armrest, pressing into the fabric as he watches me.

“Elijah? Why are you doing this?” I ask, forcing myself to look him in his beady blue eyes.

“I just needed to get you here alone, to talk with you,” he says, his voice whiny and high-pitched.

“Talk to me about what, you freak?” I bite back.

He growls in frustration. “I am not a freak!” he shrieks, his voice echoing throughout the room and sending a chill down my spine.

I need to pull it together: I cannot underestimate him. He has somehow managed to evade any police or forensic detection, and thanks to this goose egg on my head, I know he’s capable of hurting me. I need to figure out what he wants from me and just give it to him. And then I need to escape.

“I’m sorry for saying that. I know you’re not a freak," I quickly apologize, forcing my eyes to look at him. “I’m just scared.”

He jumps out of his chair and rushes toward me, kneeling down in front of me. His long, bony fingers wrap around my shoulders. “You don’t have to be scared anymore, Daphni. I want to take care of you.” He brings up his clammy hand to cradle my face, and I have to stiffen every muscle in my body to keep from recoiling at the touch of his moist palm on my cheek.

I let him caress me, his warm breath burning my flesh. I hold up my hands, tied together by a thick piece of rope. “I need you to untie me, Elijah.”

My words cast a dark glare over his face and he pushes away, pacing the small room. “I can’t untie you, Daphni.” He looks back down at me. “You’ll just run away.”

I shake my head vehemently. “I won’t run away. Not if you promise to protect me and take care of me.”

He looks at me for a long moment, almost convinced, before shaking his head and resuming his pacing. “I can’t trust you, not yet.”

“Well, can you at least let me sit on that chair?” I ask, pointing to the now empty chair he had just occupied. I can’t stomach sitting back on the couch and I want to get off the floor. “The ground is so cold, and my head really hurts.”

He looks down at me, then at the chair. He nods and I hold my hands up, allowing him to hoist me up from the ground. The movement causes another wave of nausea, but I push it back. And stumble toward the chair and sit down.

“Thank you, Elijah.”

I see a light blush creep up his cheeks, and I fight the disgust I feel when I look at him.

“You never gave me any attention, Daphni,” he says.

I shake my head and offer him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Elijah. I never realized how much you cared for me.”

He balls his hands into fists at his sides as he paces the small room. “You always ignored me. You always acted like you were so much better than me! You and Drizzle, you didn’t appreciate how valuable I am!”

I can see that he is escalating, and I need to calm him down. If he grows more erratic, I don’t know what he’ll do next. I hold up my bound hands. “Elijah, I’m so sorry. You’re right. We never appreciated you or your talent enough.”

Elijah stops his pacing and turns to look at me. “You’re just saying that. You don’t mean it!”

I shake my head vehemently. “That’s not true.” Slowly, I push myself off the chair and take a step toward him. “You know, people have judged me, too. All my life. No one has ever been able to see the real me.”

Elijah turns to look at me, his expression turning from a scowl to one filled with some hope. “I do see you, Daphni,” he agrees, nodding his head frenetically. “You always let Drizzle treat you so horribly. He never cared about you. And he cheated on you, lied to you. I would never do that. Not to you, Daphni.”

I take another step toward him and nod. “I know, Elijah. I know you would never hurt me.”

“Never,” he repeats.

I hold my hands up before him. “Then I need you to untie me. The rope is too tight and it’s hurting me,” I tell him.

He looks conflicted as he looks at my bound wrists and the angry red mark son my wrists from the rope. I keep my imploring eyes on his, keeping my expression penitent and neutral. “Please, Elijah?”

Elijah spins on his heel as he thrusts his hands through his hair. As he turns, I catch the dark glint of a gun tucked into his back waistband and I feel my blood turn cold. I hadn’t realized he had a gun. I need to play my next move very carefully.

After a few seconds, Elijah turns back again to face me. “You have to promise not to run, okay?”

I nod in agreement. “I promise.”

He pulls a long switchblade from his pocket, takes my hands, and cuts away the rope. Although every muscle in my body is telling me to kick this asshole in the nuts and run, I need to play it more carefully. Even if I manage to get him good, he still can recover and shoot me. As much as I enjoy my Pilates classes and have a team of trainers to keep me in shape, even I can’t outrun a bullet.

“Thank you, Elijah,” I say, placing my hand lightly on his arm. My maneuver works, I can see that my touch affects him, and he softens a bit.

“Elijah, can you tell me what you want?” I ask. “Maybe we can go somewhere and talk?” I know it’s a long shot, but I need to try and get him to take me away from here. I know that no one will know to look for me here. MacArthur is too powerful and too clever to leave any clues for the police to find me here.

Elijah scowls and pulls away from my touch. “You’re trying to manipulate me,” he says, his voice rising.

I quickly shake my head and hold up my hands defensively. “No, Elijah. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to think of you,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice calm and steady. “I know how hard you worked to get me here and how important this is for you. Maybe we could go somewhere more romantic? A nice restaurant?”

I bury the disgust I feel at the thought of him taking me out anywhere.

Play it cool, Daphni. Just get him to let you out in public and then run.

Elijah shakes his head. “We’re not leaving,” he says, a tone of finality in his voice.

“What do you mean, ‘We’re not leaving?’” I ask.

Elijah stalks toward me, and I can see he is growing more erratic. Whatever you do, Daphni, keep him calm.

“Enough with the questions!” he shrieks as he thrusts his hands through his greasy hair. “You ask too many questions!”

“I’m sorry, Elijah,” I quickly apologize as he continues to storm around the room in a circle, his combat boots grinding into the tiled floor. He’s growing more unhinged. I snap my mouth shut and squeeze my eyes closed, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my head from the blow earlier. I need a new plan—and fast.