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“Before she left. She was drawing something in the dust over there.”

I turn around to look into her cell for the first time since she walked out and I see it. Faint streaks of letters and symbols remain, but before I can piece together the message, the dregs return and step into her cell. They strip the bed, stomp all over the food, and shred her pillow. Their boots scuff over the dust, smearing the letters before I have a chance to see what she wrote, then they leave with the mattress. I could kick myself for not looking at it sooner.

Damon lets out a frustrated grunt, and his cot creaks when he lowers himself onto it. Then I hear that damn metal clinking in a steady rhythm that I haven’t heard since the night they brought Zoey in here.

28

ZOEY

The door clicks shut behind me, and my stomach twists when I take in my surroundings.

The room is massive but feels claustrophobic, like the walls are pressing in despite the sheer size of the space. Eugene’s presence stains everything. His sick, twisted ego seeps into every inch of the mismatched furniture, cluttered shelves, and the massive bed in the center draped in dark sheets. Random objects litter the surfaces, like a thrift store exploded in here, but no one bothered to clean up the mess.

On instinct, I glance toward the windows. They’re barred. Of course.

“This is where you’ll live now,” Eugene says with a smugness that makes my skin crawl. It’s almost as though he’s convinced himself he’s offering me some kind of prize.

“I’d rather go back to my cell.”

Eugene clicks his tongue and shakes his head like I’m some unruly child. “You’ll get used to it.” He strolls to the door and flips the lock with an audible click. “The door and windows will stay locked, so I guess it’ll be like your cell, but with a better view. You should be comfortable.” He looks over at me and I roll my eyes. “No running off again. In themeantime, you’ll learn to love me. Or at the very least, respect me.”

Love him? My stomach turns. I force my face blank and swallow back the bile clawing its way up my throat. “Right. And pigs will fly.”

His arm swings out, and the back of his hand connects with my cheek. A resounding smack fills the air. My hand reaches up to cup my cheek.

I’m silent, stunned, and filled with horror, yet he strolls over to one of the two closets like nothing happened. He throws open the door with a dramatic flair. “This one’s for you.”

Rows of clothes hang neatly inside. Dresses, jeans, sweaters. Every type imaginable. More options than I’ve had in years. I glance down at the same outfit I’ve been wearing for weeks, then back at the closet.

Beneath the hanging clothes, I see shoes, bags, and other accessories arranged like some kind of dystopian department store.

It’s all wrong. Disgust curls in my gut. “What the hell is this?”

“Your wardrobe.” He gestures at the closet like he’s unveiling some grand masterpiece. “Take your pick. Anything you want.”

I stay rooted in place. “I don’t want anything from you.”

His jaw tightens, and he shuts the closet door with a sharp click. His gaze rakes over me before stopping at my brushed hair and clean white fleece jacket. “Avery let you shower. Even gave you clothing that you clearly have no problem wearing.”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

His nostrils flare, and he steps closer. “It is. He had no business messing with what’s mine.” My skin prickles when he leans in and sniffs my hair like some kind of deranged animal. His face twists in disgust. “His scent is all over you.”

“I used soap, not his cologne,” I snap back.

His fingers twitch like he’s debating grabbing me, and I flinch at the memory of his hand on my face. “From now on, you’ll use my bathroom. My things.”

I scoff. “Not happening.”

His expression hardens. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.”

A dangerous silence stretches between us before his patience snaps. His hand clamps around my arm, and he yanks me toward the en suite bathroom. “You don’t have a choice.”

I stumble, but dig my heels into the floor. He’s stronger, but I won’t make this easy. Still, he yanks me into the bathroom.

The room is sterile. It’s too clean for someone like him. White tile, a large shower stall, and a single sink with a cracked mirror decorate the room, but what draws my attention most is the door handle. “There’s no lock.”