1
DAPHNE
What do you say when a beautiful, terrible man announces that he owns you?
You’re my newest acquisition.
My mind swipes between shock and disbelief in big, unwieldy strokes. I could paint the trajectory. Harsh angles. It’s real. Emerson’s keeping me here. No. It can’t be real. Oh, but it is.
“You’re not serious.” My face arranges itself into a smile, but I don’t feel like I have control over my expression. I don’t want to smile. Not until I can’t do it anymore. “You’re not, Emerson.”
He tilts his head, the angle so subtle I’d miss it if I wasn’t watching him with every bit of my being. This is how he’s always looked at me. That’s how he knows so much about me. Emerson’s focus is how he tricked me into trusting him. That, and the way he touched me. And kissed me. And fucked me. It made me want to be here.
“What makes you think I’m joking, little painter?”
“Maybe you’re not joking. Maybe you’re—” He said something similar before, in the studio. When he was inside me. “Maybe you want to have sex again before I go home.”
Emerson’s gorgeous, standing there in his sleep pants, standing there with his carved abs and breathtaking eyes. “I want to fuck you. But you’re not going anywhere.”
My body wants to believe this is a joke. It wants to believe that I’m not in danger. But my mind won’t stop working the way it always does. My mind won’t stop searching for the truth in his face. Look at the set of his mouth. Look at the steadiness of his hands. His body. I’m used to looking deeply at a subject. I spent four years at college learning how to see so that I could make art. I can’t turn it off now.
“Until the morning,” I offer. “You don’t want to take me home in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t store my acquisitions where I can’t see them.”
“Emerson.” A panicked laugh bubbles up and I put my hands over my mouth to stop it. “Store me? Do you hear what you’re saying? I mean—no. You can’t actually believe this.”
“It’s not about what I believe. It’s about what I own.”
“Is this a game?” I search his eyes, and all I find there is sincerity. The most sincere blue-green color I’ve ever seen. “You’re playing with me. Some—some sex thing.”
“Sex is part of it, now that I’ve fucked you. But this isn’t a game.”
“It has to be.”
“Do I seem…” He wrinkles his nose, almost as if he might laugh. “Do I seem playful to you right now?”
He’s really asking. His expression turns serious almost immediately. Emerson’s gaze has a physical weight. It’s a presence against my skin. Against my pounding heart. I can’t help responding to it. I feel pulled to him. I want him to keep looking at me. It’s wrong. The things he’s saying—I should be screaming. I should be running. The rational part of my brain points out Emerson is between me and the door. The animal part hisses warnings that he’s bigger. Stronger. Faster.
“Oh my god.” I fold my arms over my chest, trying to hold in my disbelief. Panic fades like paint stretched too thin over canvas. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m a piece of art.”
“You’re much more than a singular piece, little painter. Beautiful and smart and kind. Perfection. You’re far too valuable to be left out in the world.”
I pace around to the foot of the bed, then pace back. I can’t stay still. I know better than to run. Anger turns my skin hot. I didn’t get angry when I lived with my parents. It was too dangerous. I’m not in their house now. I’m in Emerson’s. It could be equally as risky here. But I can’t stop it. I’m cycling through emotions like an old black-and-white movie. Flickering up there on a screen. We painted still shots from that kind of film during my freshman year.
He waits. Watching. Every move I make is giving Emerson more information. He takes it all in. He knew how I liked my coffee. He knows about my family.
My family.
I can’t let it happen, Daphne. I can’t let this collector take anything from you against your will.
Leo’s not going to let this happen. Well—he couldn’t stop it from happening. I wanted to come here. But no matter how pissed he is at me, no matter how hurt he is that I kept a secret, he won’t let this continue. The thoughts that nearly suffocated me with guilt are comforting now.
I left a light on in my apartment. My security team is required to check on things like that. They’ll have discovered I’m missing. They’ll have called Leo. Woken him up.
He’s on his way.
I know he is. My brother always knows when danger is coming. My mind wheels through old memories. Fragmented ones. Coloring on the carpet in the sitting room near my father’s office. Leo appearing at the door, his arms out, a smile on his face. I don’t remember my father carrying me on his hip. Only Leo. Only turning back to look over his shoulder. Only my arms around his neck, my coloring book clutched in my hand. I’m gonna drop my crayon, I’d said. Hold on, he said back. Hold on, Daph, hold on.
Emerson’s still watching when I round on him, anger burning up through that memory.
“You’re unbelievable.” His eyes flick between my lips and my eyes. “You’re a liar. A fake. You made me think—” All those texts. His mouth between my legs. The way he touched me in the art gallery. “You did all those things so that I would trust you, and I did.” My voice rises, but I control it before I’m actually yelling. Before my shame can overwhelm me. I need to stay pissed for this. “You’re a manipulative bastard. Did you mean any of it?”
“Any of what, little painter?”
“You were careful with me. You paid attention.” He saw more than I wanted him to notice. He saw everything. “You did that on purpose.”
“Of course.”
“To lure me here.”
Emerson shakes his head. “You asked me to come get you. Your messages were clear.”
“Listen to this message, then. I want to leave. I want you to take me home.”
“I won’t.”
“Then—”
“I didn’t lure you, little painter. That’s all I meant. It was your choice to come.”
“Because I thought you were better,” I snap, and for the first time, I hear my brother in my voice. I understand what it is to speak when screaming and raging would be more appropriate. “I thought you were better than this.”
Fresh shame scorches my cheeks. I never gave Emerson’s name to my family. Not Eva. Not Leo. Not anyone. But I defended him. He’s not like that. I said that to my brother’s face. Leo was a day out from surviving a deadly fever. I was so certain.
“Take it as a compliment,” Emerson says. I want to say that I hate him. That I hate how good he looks. That I hate how I can’t stop noticing. I’ll call this feeling hate, but in the back of my mind, I know it’s not the right word. I can’t turn him into something ugly.