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Titus? So precious.

“Hi, Titus.” I’m in a deep squat before I can second guess myself, arms open to the chocolate canine. “I’m Delilah.”

Chapter 10

Hothouse Flower

DELILAH

The next two days pass in much of the same way. I wake up to the soundtrack of Titus’ tail thumping against my door quickly followed up by Agnes’ hushed tones telling him to relax before he wakes me up.

Hedoeswake me up.

But I don’t mind either time because it’d almost been enough to make me forget where I was and what my life has become.

Today, I wait until the thumping stops and toss the summer quilt away from my body before walking to the closet to grab a dress from the assortment that arrived sometime yesterday. When I got back to the room after dinner, the closet door was half-open, giving me a peek at the dresses that were magically in my size.

Plucking a lilac sundress from the rack, I lay it on the foot of the bed and head for the bathroom.

For two mornings straight, I’ve fought with the control panel on the wall, trying to find the righttemperature and pressure for my showers. I still don’t understand why taking a shower in this man’s house feels like solving an algebra problem, but at least I’ve figured out how to clean myself without water shooting at me with the force of a thousand knives.

When I’m dressed, I walk into the hall. My eyes take inventory of the same artwork and light fixtures that were there yesterday and the day before.

In forty-eight hours, I’ve etched every detail about my new cage into my memory.

The colossal 1920s Normandy Tudor-style house looks like a speck on the hill it occupies.

Ivy blankets the exterior, crawling up toward the chimney. And the stone embellishments around the door are the same ones around the fireplace in the den.

The turret over the arched entry.

The red brick. The black slated roof.

The two staircases right off the entry, one leading up, one leading down.

The sconces lighting the stairway and the lavish runner softening each step I take.

I know the whole house smells like white sage and sea salt thanks to the diffusers Agnes placed throughout.

I know the windows lining my wall and the Juliet balcony outside my bedroom overlook a pool that’s hauntingly beautiful at night.

It’s beautiful, but a cage all the same.

All the hours I’ve spent pacing the property have embedded every intricate detail into my memory.

I could recite it all to a sketch artist and have a 3D rendering of the property.

The only thing I don’t know is where I am.

Every time I try to set foot on the driveway to scope outthe surrounding area, a shadow by the name of Victor appears out of thin air and reins me back in with a firm hand on my shoulder and a low, “Mr. Samson’s orders.”

And that’s the part that chafes me the most. I don’t have a phone that would pinpoint my location. I don’t know the man who stole me from that auction. I don’t know anything. And Adonis gets to sleep peacefully at night knowing he cut me off from the outside world and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Well, I’m tired of the information deprivation and after conveniently being a ghost for the past two days, my captor is sitting at the breakfast table when I walk in the kitchen today.

He keeps his eyes trained on the plate in front of him. It’s so different than the mountain of carbs Agnes has tried to feed me the past two mornings.

A pile of egg whites, sliced fruit, bacon and a slice of sourdough dress his plate. But it’s not his boring meal that catches my eye, it’s the gun sitting beside his coffee mug.