Page 16 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran’s hands shook, but he forced himself to keep moving. There had to be something. A window he could open, a phone he could access, anything that connected to the outside world.

The kitchen was unlocked—of course it was, Vale had to eat—and Kieran immediately went for the windows. They were large, offering views of farmland that stretched to horizons he couldn’t see the end of. Beautiful. Isolated. Terrifying.

He tried the first window. Locked. The latch required a key he didn’t have.

Second window. Same.

Third window—Kieran noticed the small sensor in the corner. An alarm system. Even if he broke the glass, Vale would know immediately.

“Shit.” The word came out quiet, defeated.

He turned to the counters, looking for a phone. He found a landline mounted on the wall and grabbed it with shaking hands. No dial tone. The line was dead—or had been cut.

Kieran didn’t know where his phone went.

The refrigerator was full of fresh food—organic vegetables, soft cheeses, things Kieran had only seen in grocery stores he couldn’t afford to shop at. The pantry held enough supplies to feed someone for months. On the counter sat a basket of fresh fruit that looked like it belonged in a still-life painting.

Vale’s been planning this for a while.

The thought turned Kieran’s stomach. This wasn’t impulsive. This was methodical.

How long has he been preparing to take me?

“Good morning.”

Kieran spun around so fast he knocked into the counter, his hip bone connecting with granite hard enough to bruise. Vale stood in the kitchen doorway, his black hair perfectly styled like he’d been awake for hours.

Or like he’s been watching me this whole time.

“Sleep well?” Vale asked, moving toward the coffee machine like everything was perfectly normal and he wasn’t talking to someone he kidnapped.

“The d-doors are locked.” Kieran’s voice came out steadier than he expected, anger cutting through the anxiety. “All of them.”

“For your safety. You’re still recovering—I can’t have you wandering around and getting hurt.” Vale began preparing coffee with the kind of attention most people reserved for surgery. “There are stairs, uneven floors, and equipment in the music rooms. Too many variables.”

“The phone lines are c-cut.”

“Are they?” Vale didn’t even look up from the coffee machine. “That’s unfortunate. Rural infrastructure can be unreliable.”

“Bullshit.” The word felt good coming out, sharp and angry. “You di-did it on purpose.”

“Language, Kier.” Vale poured coffee into two mugs and added cream to one without asking how Kieran preferred it. “Drink this. Caffeine will help with your headache.”

“I don’t want your f-f-fucking coffee. I want to leave.”

Vale set both mugs on the counter and turned to face him fully. His expression was patient, understanding even, like he was dealing with a child having a tantrum.

“Kieran.” Vale’s voice was soft. “I understand you’re upset. That’s a normal response to head trauma and medication. But—”

“St-st-op acting like this is normal!” Kieran’s stutter surfaced stronger, but he pushed through it. “You kidnapped me. That’s n-not trauma management, that’s a felony.”

“Is it?” Vale moved closer, each step deliberate and measured. “I found you unconscious on a sidewalk and brought you somewhere safe to recover. That’s called being a Good Samaritan.”

“You won’t let m-me leave.”

“Because you’re not well enough to leave yet.” Vale was too close to him. “Your judgment is impaired by post-ictal confusion. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m thinking clearly enough t-to know this is wrong.”