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“You’re doing so well,” he whispered against my ear last night.

There are clothes laid out beside him. I can tell they are his, he wants me to wear them. It’s a plain shirt and jeans as usual. Does he know I hate jeans?

I take the clothes from the bed and go back into the bathroom. When I step out again, I’m wearing the clothes. The fabric smells like him. The jeans are tight at the waist. The shirt hangs long, swallowing my hips. My rosary is wrapped tightly around my wrist, looped three times until the beads press into my skin.

I feel his eyes on me.

“I did everything you wanted.” I pause, hands clenched at my sides. “I want to go back to Nonna now.”

He stands and my pulse spikes as I take a step back.

“Don’t tell me you hit and run,” he says quietly. His voice is different. “Shouldn’t we talk about last night?”

“It was a mistake.” The lie scalds on the way out.

He laughs. Not cruelly—almost like he’s amused. Or disappointed.

“A mistake, you say?”

I hate that I can feel him smiling. I hate that I want to cry. I hate that the truth is burning behind my teeth and I can’t swallow it.

Why can’t I ever lie to him?

Why does it feel like he sees through me—without trying?

“I gave myself to you,” I say, voice thinner than I mean. “Just like you said I would.” My gaze flickers to the floor. “Let me go back to my family. Please.”

His chest rises.

“I never planned to let you go,” he says.

The words punch the air from my lungs.

“What?”

“I had no plans of letting you go,” he repeats, slow this time. As if he’s daring me to misunderstand.

My mouth opens, but the words stumble. “You’re… going to lock me up? Keep me here?”

He steps forward.

“I could kill you,” he says, voice low, head tilting slightly.

Then he stops and he shakes his head.

“Stop being silly,” he mutters, walking past me and grabbing a shirt from the closet. “Get something to eat.”

He pulls the shirt over his head. I stay where I am, standing near the wall like a misplaced ghost. My fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, the hem damp against my thighs from where my hair’s still dripping down my back.

Without another word, he leaves. This time, the door stays open.

I stare at it, unsure if it’s a trap, unsure if I even care. The hallway is quiet. His footsteps echo briefly then fade altogether.

I breathe out, then I slip out the door slowly, barefoot, each step light against the cold floor. I haven’t been out alone since I got here. It feels like ages ago since I ran through these walls, desperately hoping to be saved.

“Lunetta?” a familiar voice calls softly from somewhere near the stairs, and then Enzo appears around the corner—hair wild, t-shirt crooked.

He jogs toward me, his face lighting up, until he sees the look on mine. His arm is bandaged from shoulder to wrist.