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R oger hurls me back into my room the following morning, and I fall to my knees with a strangled cry, weakened and sapped, as the door shuts behind me. His clunky footfalls echo down the hallway, waning from earshot.

Bastard.

My chest heaves with weighty breaths, my body limp and fatigued. I’ve only eaten a slice of bread in the last thirty-six hours, paired with whatever dirt particles and mouse droppings came along with it.

Rooted in place on the floor, I curl my fingers into the shiny tile, grateful I can’t see my reflection staring back.

I’m certain my blue eyes have dimmed to gray.

My complexion has faded to ash.

Hair brittle. Face gaunt.

“Are you in one piece over there?”

I freeze.

Slowly, I lift my chin and look up.

A stinging lump forms in the center of my throat. More than thirst pangs, more than day-old bruising from my lung-crushing cries. I gaze at the white separator beside me, my greatest foe, wanting nothing more than to smash it to bits, turn it into rubble, and burn it to the ground.

That damn wall.

It’s separated me from all the other men and women who have come through here. My companions in death. Tragic transients.

Friends.

Right now, it separates me from him—the man I want to strangle.

A hurricane of anger funnels through me as I jump to my feet and storm over to the wall between us, slamming a fist against it. “Screw you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” My eyes spit fire, my tongue spews wrath. I pace back and forth, my hands curled into fists at my sides, blood pumping, heart galloping with indignation. “You told him to just take me . That it doesn’t fucking matter .”

His chain jangles as it slides across smooth tile, like he’s moving toward the wall. “I knew he wouldn’t hurt you. You’re too valuable. Precious goods.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

“Not a revelation.”

“I can’t believe you were so flippant about my life,” I bite back, white-hot tears nibbling at my eyes. I’m still pacing, vibrating with residual fear. My hand slaps the wall again, because I’ll take this fury over the cloud of defeat raining down on me. “He could have killed me.”

“Could have; wouldn’t have.” He pauses for a beat. “And didn’t.”

“That’s beside the point.”

I hear his hands plant against the wall, inches from my face, causing me to flinch.

“What’s the point, then?” His voice sounds closer than ever. Like it’s a tangible thing I can reach out and touch. “You’re pissed because I didn’t tear down the wall with my bare hands? Call him more names? Threaten his life when I’m shackled like an animal to this goddamn chain?”

My lip wobbles pathetically, my fight draining. I swipe sections of unwashed hair out of my eyes, blinking at the wall as my rage fizzles out.

He’s right. I’m acting on emotion, and that will be my downfall. Emotion is feeling. And, in this bleak corner of the world, feeling is nothing but a guillotine inching its way toward my neck.

A shuddery breath slips past my lips in a plume of resignation.

Nick can’t help me; only I can help myself.

Nick.

Swallowing, I gaze down at my soot-stained toes, then flick my eyes back up. “Why did he call you Isaac?”

Silence.

I knew it.

Stepping closer to the wall, I school my voice into something softer. “Isaac.”

More silence.

“That’s your name, isn’t it? Your real name?”

“Doesn’t matter.” A gritty undertone steals his words, like rocks between his teeth.

“It does matter.”

“Why?”

I press a flat palm to the surface, to the space where his voice vibrates. My forehead follows, and I let out a long exhale, allowing my misplaced tension to thaw out. “Our name is all we have left.”

“Ever the poet. Must be the bodice-rippers.”

He’s deflecting. “It’s the truth.”

“The truth is, I get bored easily. I have a different identity for every day of the week. Andrew Benson. Marcus Maury. Lyle Jenks. That Thursday just happened to be a Nick day.”

My lips twist. “Lyle?”

“Don’t underestimate Lyle. He’s a badass.”

“No.”

“Okay, so maybe I’m a criminal. Let’s not make a big deal about it.”

Honestly, that wouldn’t surprise me. But… “Try again.”

A few beats go by, and then I hear a thump , telling me he’s making himself comfortable against the wall. I mimic the same position and press my back to it, waiting for more as I play with the dirty fringe along the hem of my gown.

“Fine,” he relents, fiddling with his chain. “I dabbled in the investigative field a while back. The day I ended up here, I had an unfortunate run-in with the wrong guy. Evidently, he works for this eccentric, smug piece of shit. That guy knew me as Nick, so I played the role. Then I woke up here…and I went with it.” Faltering, he lets out a sigh of frustration. “Guess I’m not as clever as I thought.”

I consider his explanation. Elements of it ring true, but he’s holding something back. “Sounds dubious.”

“Yeah, well, waking up chained to a wall in Alan Cumming’s evil twin’s funhouse, forced to listen to erotic excerpts from trashy, outdated porno books by a presumed-dead model, also sounds dubious. But here I am.”

My lips twitch.

Touché.

I settle back against the wall, my hair a tangled curtain around my face. “Isaac…” I murmur. The name falls out effortlessly.

I like it.

His tone dips, veering into that place of vulnerability he loathes to idle in. “You don’t need to say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“All sweet and soft, like it’s your new favorite word.” There’s a notable edge to his tone, gravelly and raw. “It’s just a name.”

“It’s a good name. Makes me think of Isaac Newton, the scientist.” I twist my head to the side, curious about him. “Were you named after him?”

“No.” A bitter huff. “It’s more of a hopeful Biblical reference I failed to live up to.”

“Your parents were religious?”

“My mother was, once. I was her penance for being sullied by the devil. She hated me from the second I was conceived.”

I hesitate.

That’s a lot to unpack.

I’m about to press for more, but another thought strikes me. “Who was Sara?”

There’s a long pause, and I know he won’t indulge me. “You ask a lot of questions, Bee.”

Bee.

Something shimmers inside my chest when I hear him call me that nickname again.

A flutter. A little pirouette.

But then the metaphorical guillotine flashes through my mind, glinting silver and flaunting razor-sharp edges, so I press the heel of my hand to my heart and rub away the tickle. “You’re one to talk. Was she your girlfriend?” I wonder. “Wife?”

“If I’ve led you to believe I’m secretly a romantic, I apologize.”

Sighing, I stretch out my legs. “Sister?”

More silence answers me. No rattling chains, no grumbles or sighs of disdain. A handful of seconds tick by in time with my heartbeats as I wait for the sound of his voice.

For something.

“She was…the closest I ever came to hope.”

I kick away the itchy blanket as it tangles between my ankles. I’m restless. On edge. The fluorescent lights have flickered out, signaling nighttime, and the room is now bathed in a muted red glow from my full-spectrum vitamin D lamp.

For being such a depraved psychopath, my captor evidently cares about my bone density. Can’t have me withering away before more costly follicles are suctioned from my womb.

I turn over onto my side and face the wall. The mattress rustles, the only sound penetrating the eerie quiet. While these accommodations are like an all-inclusive beach resort compared to last night’s sleep arrangements, I can’t seem to get comfortable. Peace won’t come, and maybe it’s because I’m too afraid of the grisly nightmares, ready to strike the moment I close my eyes.

Propping my cheek in my hand, I stare at the crimson-tinted divider beside me. “Isaac?”

A light clinking sound breaks through the silence. “Hmm.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Congratulations, now neither can I.”

I collapse back down to the cot, letting out a sigh that makes my loose curls take flight. “Want to play a game?”

“No.”

“Twenty Questions or something. You like questions.”

“Not as much as I like sleep.”

“Never Have I Ever?”

Isaac grumbles something incoherent, his chain rattling louder as he shifts in place. He’s annoyed. I don’t care.

“Sure,” he replies, tone flatter than a deflated balloon. “Never have I ever wanted to go back to sleep more than I do right now.”

My lips pucker as I twist a strand of hair around my index finger, then roll onto my back. “Fine,” I say, dipping my toes underneath the blanket and casting my gaze skyward. “Goodnight.”

The ceiling looks like it comes alive with moving shadows. Black and scarlet shapes. I squint, missing the mahogany ceiling fan above my bed. I used to follow the blades around in distorted circles until a dreamworld dragged me away, Jasper’s arm sliding around my midsection and tucking me into the crook of his arm.

I miss that. I miss so many things.

As the minutes pass by, the boredom rises, making me feel fidgety. Itchy. I sit back up, gathering my mound of hair in both hands and pulling it over one shoulder to make a braid. I secure it with a glittery lilac hair tie given to me by Roger. But the task only takes two minutes, and I’m bored again.

I sigh.

Leaning over the mattress, I reach for a book, knowing I can just barely make out the words through the dim lighting.

Reading helps when my brain won’t shut off.

I’ve read these books countless times, yet there is always something new to discover. Sometimes I’ll imagine myself as the main character. A grand regency lady, a small-town spinster, or a sea wench on a storm-charged sail.

Anywhere but here.

But when the last page is flipped, I return to this torture chamber. This lonely, empty cell. And in that moment, I always feel undoubtedly worse.

I prop myself up, my back to the wall, and bring the pages of warped ink close to my face. The words blur and jumble as I skim through a chapter filled with erotic prose.

Soft caresses, molten heat, heady moans. Throbbing rods and moist centers.

My nose wrinkles.

Biting my lip, I plunk the book on my lap and glance up. “Do you miss sex?”

A long pause.

The longer it stretches, the more I second-guess myself.

But I’m not shy about it, and it’s not like I’ll ever have to make eye contact with this guy. Something tells me he’s not shy, either.

Finally, he responds, “Do you?”

A smile hints. If only he could manifest his top-notch deflecting abilities into finding us a way out of here. “Yes.”

“Go on.”

“I’m reading a sex scene.”

“How are you reading in the dark?”

“I have a LED light,” I tell him. “It’s a vitamin D lamp—not glass, though. Apparently, I live here now, and the sun doesn’t exist in my world.”

Isaac’s chain starts moving as he approaches the wall, newly intrigued by the shift in subject matter. Typical man. “Read it to me.”

I glance down at the pages and make a face, scanning the chunky paragraphs filled with steely erections, aching cores, and quivering breasts.

Do breasts quiver?

“I don’t know.” Slapping the book shut, I toss it onto the mattress and lean back. “I don’t think it’s your cup of tea.”

“Mm. And how exactly do I take my tea?”

“With whisky or bourbon. These characters prefer their tea with a splash of warm, low-fat milk.”

I hear a low chuckle rumble through the wall. “How do you like your tea?”

Hesitation nips at me. I pull my feet up, moving into a cross-legged position while my head rests against the wall. My cheeks grow warm as I mull over a response. “Use your imagination.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

I’m positive he’s using his imagination, and the notion has my heart rate kicking up speed.

Am I flirting?

A stab of guilt clobbers me in the chest. My mind fills with Jasper. His gentle touches, tender embrace, the love seeping from every word, from each soft stroke of his hand. He cherished me. Adored me. And a dark, traitorous feeling still yearned for more.

How I’d give anything to be lying in his arms again, appreciating what I had while I had it.

“Tell me a story, Bee.”

Isaac’s voice is raspier, thick with implication, triggering a tingle to ignite deep in my belly. Something long-since dead, shriveled up and rotted.

“Bet you can do better than the vanilla adventures of Alessandra and Chadwick,” he adds.

Swallowing, I force a feigned huff. “I’m not talking dirty to you.”

“Wildly disappointing.”

His darker tone bleeds with a dash of teasing, but even that doesn’t erase the foreign feeling from thumping in my chest and tightening my stomach.

I hate it.

I embrace it.

“Fine.” I squeeze the skirt of my nightgown in two hands, blowing out a shaky breath. “There was this girl. Her name was…Chloe.”

“Describe her.”

Nervous energy filters through my veins, but not the harrowing kind. Not the anxiety that comes along with being here, listening to the screams and fearful moans that echo through these hallways and freeze my blood to black ice.

It’s different…it’s a flutter of anticipation.

“She’s known for her big hair,” I explain. “It’s a disaster most days, but she owns it. It’s not quite blond, but not brown, either. Dirty blond, I guess. All curls and waves spilling down her back. She’s petite, but strong. And her eyes are blue.”

“What kind of blue?”

“I don’t know…just blue.”

“So, she’s small, and she has not-brown but not-blond hair and just-blue eyes. Got it.”

“You make my descriptive abilities sound really subpar.”

A quiet beat, and I imagine him smiling. “Keep going.”

The tickling nerves return as I close my eyes and exhale through my nose. “She’s married to a wonderful man. The best. She’s his world, and he’s hers. A romance straight out of a fairy tale.”

“But…” Isaac prompts.

“But she’s always wanted just a little bit more.”

“Chloe likes it kinky.”

I scoff at him, my skin ablaze. “You keep interrupting.”

“Are you blushing over there?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“Stop trying to read me through a wall.” Smacking my hand to the divider, I reach for the blanket and yank it up my body, as if I can hide the stain on my skin from someone who can’t even see me. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“You can’t. I’m invested now.”

My cheeks flush hotter as I snuggle into the blanket, tugging it up to my chin. I have no idea what I’m even doing. Confessing my fantasies to a total stranger? An incorrigible one, at that.

I’ve lost my mind.

Then again…I’ve lost everything else.

What’s one more thing?

I close my eyes again, picturing Isaac leaning against the wall, directly behind me. Waiting for more. “Well…Chloe had an unconventional upbringing. Her father died when she was a baby, leaving a newborn and a single mother behind. Her mom had dreams, ambitions. Most of all, she loved to dance. It was her favorite way to express herself.”

I pause, waiting for him to interject. He doesn’t.

“Her mother worked as a waitress for a while, until the low pay and meager tips weren’t cutting it anymore. When Chloe turned seven, her mom transitioned into a new line of work.” I pick at the frayed edges of the blanket, focusing on the tattered little strings. “She became an exotic dancer.”

He’s silent. Listening.

“Chloe never resented her mother for it. On the contrary, she was sort of…inspired. She looked up to her mom, appreciating her drive and strong will. Her mother was gone a lot of the time—late nights, absent during the weekends. But the time they shared together was precious, filled with love and attention. You’d think her mother would have kept the truth from her daughter—a dirty secret, hidden in the shadows—but that wasn’t the case. Her mom was proud and unashamed, and as Chloe got older, she started asking questions. Her mother always answered them truthfully. Chloe felt emboldened by it all. And while she never wanted that for herself, she respected her mother’s choices.”

Pausing, I wait for a crass comment, but not even the tinkle of a jangling chain breaks through my words.

“Anyway, I guess sex just became this acceptable thing growing up. It was never taboo. And as Chloe became an adult, the idea of it was exciting. Exhilarating.”

I chew on my inner cheek, wondering how much more I should give him. These details are private. Not even Jasper understood the depth of my feelings, and I never wanted to shake things up between us. I was afraid, terrified he’d see me in all the wrong ways and distance himself from me.

Isaac shifts in place behind me, his chain scuffing the tile. “So…what you’re saying is, Chloe grew up and found herself employed at a respectable sex club as a hot dominatrix, with whips and handcuffs and?—”

And there he is. “No. God, no.”

“Right. She was all about the strap-ons.”

“You’re impossible.” I smack the wall again, despite the smile hiking up my lips. “Chloe fell in love. She was studying for an exam at a wine bar. Every Friday night, she’d study by herself with a glass of red wine. Enter Jason. Jason was handsome, charming, smart, and savvy. He knew all the right things to say and how to sweep her off her feet. There was an instant connection that led to a marriage proposal one year later at that same wine bar. It was a dream come true. Something out of a movie.” When Isaac falls silent after my words trail off, I tip my face closer to the wall. “Are you still with me?”

“I’m definitely following.” He clears his throat. “By day, Chloe wants a nice gentleman who treats her like a queen and spoils her with pretty flowers and sunlit serenades. But by night, she craves a man who demands she gets on her knees, so he can fist her by the hair and shove his massive cock down her throat while calling her his good girl.”

My eyes grow twice their size, my skin fizzing with neon heat.

I open my mouth to reply, but I can’t seem to conjure up any words.

Isaac taps the wall. “Something I said?”

“That’s…” I swallow down the boulder in my throat. “Descriptive.”

“You should take notes.” He pauses for a breath as a new wave of tension fills the room. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You’re, um—” Scratching my arm, I notice my skin is newly dappled in a rosy blush. Or maybe it’s just the lamplight. “You’re not wrong.”

“Mmm. Thought so.” Another pause. “All right. So, Chloe—she’s tied to this marriage that’s all love but no fire. She’s restless, antsy. Doesn’t know how to express her needs to Justin.”

“Jason.”

“Sure. This Jason guy doesn’t understand her. Doesn’t see her in the way she craves to be seen.” His chain rattles lightly, but it’s loud enough to make me jump. “Then one day, this new guy comes along to give Chloe exactly what she needs. Let’s call him…Nick.”

“We are not calling him Nick.”

“Should we call him Isaac, then?”

All moisture leaves my mouth like a sponge squeezed dry. “Nick works.”

“Great. So, this Nick fella. Let’s say he’s around six-foot-three, works out, has a weakness for petite women with big hair and skilled mouths. She catches his ear—I mean, his eye—and knows exactly what she wants. She likes it rough. Dirty and depraved.”

My heartbeats skitter as I lick my lips.

God, I almost feel like I’m… me again. A young, hot-blooded, robust woman.

There’s something freeing about this, talking to this faceless stranger, not feeling judged or condemned.

It’s liberating.

“What does he look like?” My voice is husky, my thoughts spinning. “Hair color? Eyes?”

“Dark-brown hair. Kind of shaggy, always messy. Eyes are brown; lighter than his hair.”

“The kind that show flecks of gold in the right light?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Clean shaven?”

“Rarely. Facial hair varies by mood.”

I paint a picture of him in my mind.

And I realize it’s not far off from what I’d already imagined.

“I bet he’s attractive,” I add.

“He might have heard that a time or two.”

“Does he have the women lining up?”

He seems to ponder this. “Lining up, sure. Sticking around? Hell no. This might surprise you, but Nick doesn’t really like people.”

“Shocking.”

“Yeah.” He draws out the word in a way that makes me wonder if he’s affected by this, too. “But Chloe is different. She’s a wild card…she intrigues him.”

My breathing is shallow, pulse in overdrive. “Really?”

“Mmhmm. All he can think about is how she’d look sprawled out beneath him, ass in the air, tied to his bedposts.”

I can’t breathe.

All my oxygen feels like a tightly wound knot stuck in the back of my throat. “What would he do? If he had her like that?”

“You tell me.” His voice dips. “What does Chloe need?”

My eyelids flutter closed as I struggle for a full breath. “Cranberry juice.”

“What now?”

“Cranberry juice,” I repeat. “For later. Chloe always needs to have a cold glass of cranberry juice waiting for her after sex.”

Isaac makes a humming sound. “All right. Nick is adaptable.”

“Perfect.” I inhale, trying to regroup. “Where were we?”

“Nick has Chloe tied to the bed.”

“What happens next?” My voice is so low, hardly a whisper, I wonder if he heard me. I wonder if I wanted him to.

“He’d climb behind her on the mattress, run a hand over that delicious bare ass, and he’d ask her… Chloe?”

A pause.

I hold my breath.

The beat drags on longer.

Is he waiting for me?

Mercifully, before I throw caution to the wind and answer for Chloe, he continues. The low intimacy of his tone makes him feel so close, I can imagine his breath against my ear when he says, “Have you been a good girl today?”