Page 294 of Rosetti Family New York

He laughs softly, genuinely entertained. "The law? Sweetheart, we're so far removed from legal concerns that jurisdiction is meaningless. No one knows where you are. No one will comelooking. And even if they did, they’d find a woman willingly staying with her devoted boyfriend."

The way he twists reality, removing my freedom while maintaining a facade of innocence, reminds me of the kind of man he is. Not just dangerous, but smart in using his power.

"Devoted boyfriend," I repeat, feeling the bitter irony. "Is that what you think this is?"

"I think," he says, settling into the chair across from me smoothly, "that you're experiencing the shock of being truly safe for the first time in over thirty months. It's disorienting, I know. Your body is used to constant alertness."

His psychological insight hits close to home. My nervous system is indeed confused by the lack of immediate danger and luxury that doesn't demand a high price. But acknowledging his accuracy doesn't mean accepting his control.

"So your solution is to make the cage comfortable enough that I forget it's a cage?"

"My solution is to give you everything you need while you get used to new circumstances." His tone stays annoyingly reasonable, as if we're discussing home decor instead of captivity. "Food, clothing, entertainment, medical care if needed. The only thing you can't have is the freedom to make choices that risk your safety."

"My safety or your peace of mind?"

"There's no difference. Your death would destroy me, which makes your safety my main concern."

The raw honesty stirs something inside me. Not gratitude, but a recognition of devotion so strong it goes beyond rational limits. This isn't casual control, it's obsessive protection, love that changes moral boundaries.

But understanding his motivation doesn't make it acceptable.

I stand up quickly, needing to move to channel my restless energy. The room feels smaller now.

"I need space to think properly. I need to feel like a human being instead of a collectible you've put on display."

"The balcony offers excellent views," he suggests smoothly. "Fresh air, natural light, complete privacy."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"What you mean is that you want to leave. To test boundaries, explore options, possibly attempt escape." His voice carries patient understanding that makes me want to scream. "It's natural. Expected. But ultimately pointless."

The way he breaks down my psychology, reducing complex emotions to predictable patterns, makes my hands shake with more than just the chemical effects. He doesn't just watch me, he analyzes me, catalogs my responses, and builds profiles like I'm a specimen under glass.

"You think you know me so well," I whisper, anger and something dangerously close to fascination battling in my chest.

"I do know you." His certainty is absolute and terrifying in its completeness. "Surveillance teaches patterns that conscious observation never could. I know you bite your lower lip when you're calculating escape routes. I know you touch your throat when you're lying. I know you sleep on the left side of any bed, facing the door, with one hand under the pillow."

Each observation hits hard, intimate knowledge used to prove my transparency. But it's the gentle way he delivers each revelation, not as a threat but as evidence of care, that makes my vision blur with unwanted emotion.

"Knowing my habits doesn't mean you own me."

"Doesn't it?" He leans in a bit, gray eyes locked on mine with intense focus. "What's ownership, really? Legal documents? Social acceptance? Or truly understanding someone's nature, needs, and weaknesses?"

His philosophical question lingers between us like a challenge. He's right, and it makes my throat tighten. Legal ownership isnothing compared to knowing someone deeply, the ability to predict, provide for, and control through understanding instead of force.

"I want to leave," I say quietly, testing limits with honesty.

"I know you do."

"Will you let me?"

"No."

His straightforward refusal, given without anger or apology, somehow hurts more than a detailed explanation would have. He's not trying to convince me he's right, he's just stating a fact.

"For how long?"

"As long as necessary."