Rain slams into the car, seeming to come from every direction at once.

Each drop hits the vehicle with a distinctive splatter, tiny explosions combining to create a dull roar.

I can barely think through the noise.

It cascades down the windows, completely obscuring my vision.

Just one more obstacle between me and freedom.

I stare hard at the shimmering droplets that slide freely down the glass, trying my best to look transfixed.

In reality, I hardly see them, my thoughts racing too fast to process their journey.

Besides, I’ve seen rain like this countless times.

I may have never danced in it or felt the thrill of jumping feet first into a puddle, but I’ve tracked its progress across glass. Many times.

I’ve watched others dance in it.

There’s little else to do when you’re a prisoner in your own home.

Eventually, the sight becomes tiresome, and you cease to even notice the weather. Weather, after all, only really affects those out in it.

Tonight though, I call to mind fascinations that have died, willing my face to pretend at distraction.

Really, I just can’t bear to look at anything else.

I can’t bring myself to confront my current situation.

Or them.

Tristan Montague has me captive. He and his friends from the ball.

The three of them ride along with me, voices occasionally sounding at the edge of my thoughts.

I pretend I can’t hear them, that they aren’t there.

I pretend that I am not here.

But I can feel their eyes on me just the same. Watching, examining. Tristan’s especially seem to pierce me.

My heart beats quickly in my chest.

My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

Most presently, I feel betrayal. Anger.

That my fleeting moment of hope should come from the hands of my enemy makes me feel ill.

The memory of his lips on my own tugs at me, trying to draw me back to that corner of the lobby. To the feeling of freedom that came so easily at his touch.

I know I don’t know him and that he owes me nothing, but my heart screams that he’s betrayed me in the most intimate of ways.

My stupid, stupid heart.

Tears threaten my eyes, stinging as I channel all of my strength into holding them back.

I absolutely refuse to cry here, in front of this man.

Tristan Montague.

The enemy who even now makes my heart race in a way that has little to do with fear.

I feel the ghost of his hands on me, the aftertaste of his tongue in my mouth.

I render myself clean of the thoughts, reminding myself that he isn’t who I thought.

He isn’t my rescuer.

He’s not the embodiment of a desire held for too long.

He’s a Montague, a criminal who saw an opportunity in my weakness, something he could exploit.

I, lost in my own hell, allowed him that. I gave him everything he needed to capitalize on my fear.

Guilt brings the tears rushing back to my eyes, and I bite my lip, forcing them into retreat.

Not here. I can’t cry here.

My mind is a treacherous place, filled to the brim with pitfalls.

I refocus my attention, instead of listening to my captors as they drone on.

“Estbow Manor,” a voice says. It’s one I already feel I know well—the voice of Tristan Montague. “We have to get her out of the city.”

“It’ll have to be there,” one of the other men says. “Nowhere in the city is safe.”

I bite my tongue to keep from chiming in.

They’re fools, all of them.

No place is safe. Not from father.

His wrath doesn’t know any bounds.

They could drag me kicking and screaming to Mars; he’d find me even there.

The thought of my father makes my stomach fold into a knot. Rather than feeling comforted by his imminent rescue, I feel a deep sense of dread.

He’ll find me all right; he’ll find all of us.

He’ll flay them alive for this insult.

Part of me wants to warn them, to turn and tell them all that they have to take me back.

Continuing down this path won’t gain them anything but a painful death.

I refocus my eyes on the window.

I can’t help them now.

Father will find us, blood will spill, and I’ll wear flawless white to my wedding with the Governor.

Nothing has changed—or ever will.

Thoughts of my father paw at my mind, unsettling me to my core. Eventually they lead elsewhere, to those who might really be worried that I’m gone.

When Thelma comes home, what will she think?

I feel her terror as if it was my own, partially because it is.

She’ll be worried sick.

Theo’s image forms in my head next, fearful, angry.

Theo and Thelma aren’t like my father. They aren’t violent by nature. It would take something absolutely dire to make them so.

Something, for example, like me being kidnapped.

I see it all so clearly, the entire weight of the Capulets falling down on these men.

They’re already dead and haven’t even realized it.

I try again to find comfort in the fact, but my stomach only knots up tighter, my skin breaking out in a cold sweat.

I feel a hand fall on my shoulder and nearly jump out of my skin.

Turning so fast I almost give myself whiplash, I find Tristan Montague himself. Somehow, I missed his approach.

“Isobel,” he says, his thumb tracing a line across the bare skin of my arm.

I don’t so much as blink, turning back to the window and the endless stream of raindrops.

“I know you’re probably scared,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

A particularly large drop of water rolls through my field of vision. I pretend it’s the most hypnotic thing I’ve ever witnessed.

“Isobel,” he says again. “You can’t just ignore me.”

I lean towards the window, my forehead pressing against the cold glass.

From behind me, I hear him growl. It’s a quiet sound but nonetheless full of anger.

Chills race through my body.

My hand clenches tightly against the seat.

Still, I say nothing.

“Isobel,” he says, softly this time.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s pain in his voice.

I pretend not to hear.

I pretend that his breath on my neck isn’t making my heart race and my chest heave.

I stare out the window.

Minutes seem to pass—maybe it’s already been hours. In reality, I know it’s been only moments.

Finally, I feel him leave me, a void seeming to open at my back. Cold air rushes in to occupy the space he left.

I hear them speaking, this time in hushed voices.

I don’t try to make out the words. They don’t matter anyway.

I try to calm my traitorous heart instead, try to slow its furious beating.

My gaze tracks the rain.

Outside, the rain never slows. It whips wildly against the car, more ferocious than ever.

My eyes keep track, trying to measure each drop.

Trying to tune out the sound of his voice.