“That’s not possible, Emerson.” The corners of her mouth flirt with a cruel smile, but she’s not made for it, not practiced. “Leo can trace my phone. He can find my location.”
“I deleted the location data before it could upload. All the data from the few hours leading up to your visit.”
“Well, that’s—” Another try at a smile. Her eyes are huge. I want to be closer, but I don’t think she’d allow it. “He’ll have tried to call me. He’ll be able to do it that way.”
“Your phone has been off since we first came into the house.”
“You destroyed it?”
“No. It’s safe. It’s simply not available to you, little painter. Not until you’re settled.”
“Settled?” A tear runs down her cheek. “You think I’m going to settle down? You think I’m going to be okay with this? You’re keeping me prisoner.”
“I’m keeping you safe. I care for all my acquisitions.”
Daphne blinks, hard, spilling more tears. She rises on the balls of her feet. Once. Twice. Three times. Hummingbird.
“You’re crazy,” she whispers. “You’re dangerous. This isn’t happening.”
“I’ll be patient, little painter. You can take the time you need.”
“For what?” A few steps around the edge of the bed, then back. There’s nowhere for her to go. “For what, Emerson?” Horror dawns in her expression. “Are you going to keep me somewhere? A cage?” Daphne’s eyes dart around the room. “Are you going to chain me up in that closet? Is that what you’re going to do?”
The suggestion is a right hook to the cheekbone. Daphne’s shadow covers the muted spines of books in my shelves, the edges of her shape feathering out until it disappears. My shirt moves on her body as she breathes. It’s too fast, too harsh. Her dark eyes well with fear. Unshed tears crystallize the light, fragment it. Each moment compresses. Flattens. Old memories remain in frames, behind locked doors. They remain still. I keep my back turned. I keep my focus on Daphne.
Even now, she cannot bring herself to lean away from me. No doubt there is some part of her that wants to throw itself into the corner, back herself against the wall. No one is more familiar with that instinct than I am.
And yet.
Daphne’s still leaning in, the angle as subtle as the brush of cotton over her thighs.
“Come here.”
“No.”
“You can come here, little painter, or I can come to you. Your choice.”
“None of this is a choice.”
“Nonsense. I’m giving you one right now. Walk over to me, or I’ll walk over to you.”
Her chin quivers, and her hand hints up at her collar, but she controls the motion.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m tired of having this conversation from a distance. Decide, Daphne.”
She looks at the open floor between us. Looks back into my eyes. Her first step forward is reluctant. The second one even more so. But then her chin dips and she comes to me, stopping about a foot away. Her entire body trembles. I catch her peeking up at me from under her lashes.
I reach for her wrist.
Slowly.
Very fucking carefully.
Daphne doesn’t pull away. She lets out a tearful breath when I finally touch her, running my thumb along the inside of her wrist. I count to ten. I count to twenty. And then I move up to her elbow and start the count over. Her upper arm. Her shoulder. By the time I put my hand on the side of her neck and tip her face toward mine, she’s stopped shaking.
“I hate you,” she breathes. “I hate you for using that against me. You did that in the art gallery.”
“You liked it then, too.” And I don’t think she means what she’s saying.
Her pulse is quick but not panicked under my palm. “You have no idea what I like.”
“Perhaps not. But that’s not why I wanted you to come closer.”
A tremor moves through her. “Why, then?”
“I need you to be able to hear me.”
“I could hear you before.”
“There is no cage.” I’ve never seen dark eyes as multifaceted as Daphne’s. Not in any painting. Not on any person. I’m surprised she hasn’t been sought after as a model by every motherfucker on the planet. Her lips part as she takes in the words. “There are no chains. And for the love of Christ, little painter, I will never lock you—” A wave of something cold, something ancient, washes up and chokes me, if only briefly. “I will never lock you in the closet.”
I regret asking her to come closer. Now the art is watching me back.
Curiosity comes back into my little painter’s eyes. A gleam across the depths. Light tracing the outline of a closed door. You know what that means, a voice whispers. A threat.
“So you’re just going to keep me in here, then? Tied to the bed?”
“Do you want to be tied to the bed, little painter?”
“No,” she says, too quickly. Daphne’s cheeks flush. Her terror isn’t enough to hide her desires. Not from me. “I don’t want—please. I don’t want that.”
Under other circumstances, she might. I can see that in her eyes, too. The dark thoughts she’s had. The ones she tries to hide on the canvas.
“It won’t be like that.”
“What, my captivity?” Another laugh, this one raw, nervous. “There’s nothing you can say that will make this better.”
I run the pad of my thumb over her cheekbone.
Daphne leans toward it.
She realizes what she’s doing at the last moment and jerks her head back.
“Just get it over with,” she demands. “Do whatever it is you’re going to do to me.”
“All right.” I drop my hand and turn away. Stride toward the art studio. When I turn back, she’s frozen in the center of my bedroom, one hand in her collar. “This way, Daphne.”
The smallest shake of her head.
She didn’t believe me when I said there was no cage. No chains. No closet, for fuck’s sake. Her breath comes quicker. My little painter is spiraling again, and it’s far too late for that. It’s late in this encounter, late at night, and it will only make things harder in the morning.
There’s nothing you can say to make this better.
Fine, then. Conversation is oftentimes overrated. I cross the studio and open the doors on the opposite wall. I’m not sure she saw them before. Both sets of doors were designed to disappear into the surrounding space so they wouldn’t become a distraction.
Daphne steps forward. Light plays over her face. The angles take my breath. The halo glow of the lamp. The stark cuts of the bulb that shines down on her canvas. She hovers in the doorway, trying to see past me.
I reach behind and turn the switch.
“Your bedroom.”
She searches my face again, no doubt for some sign that I’m joking with her. Perhaps I should, at some future date. Though—is it playfulness, if it’s exactly calibrated to Daphne? If it’s at the outer edges of what I’m capable of?
Violence, yes. Patience, yes. I’m not so certain of play.
But then she takes another step forward, and I feel that pain again. A dangerous one. Daphne is not like the other Morellis. Her art, and her shitty apartment, are testament to that. The snarling creature who tried to scare me off is a facade. Emotion doesn’t translate for her that way. It’ll have to be around the canvas, then. Use her art as a steppingstone.