Page 3

I’ve destroyed this entire fucking room.

As I sit on the bed, surrounded by shredded sheets and marveling at my handiwork, I wonder why Dante hasn’t come in to punish me yet.

It’s been two days since I realized that I was trapped in an empty house with the devil.

I haven’t slept more than a few minutes at a time since I got here, worried that I’ll wake up to find myself trapped under the weight of Satan himself, the cold steel of his favored blade pressed to my skin.

The blade that still gives me nightmares.

But so far … there’s been nothing.

There is no sign of him, and as much as I dread coming face to face with him again, the not knowing is slowly killing me.

In the past, he was always quick to dole out pain, but then again, he always liked his mind games, too.

I can only guess that that’s what this is.

There’s no other reason I can think of that would answer the question of why he’s let me destroy everything in sight and hasn’t come in once to try and stop me.

I would take solace in silence, but he never was a kind man.

Despite the anxiety it causes—or more likely because of it—the music has continued.

Bach’s Chaconne plays on a loop from somewhere not too far away.

It’s another mind game.

One that’s working because I’m starting to feel like I’m on a carousel that never actually stops.

I know I’m being watched.

I can’t see the camera, but I know it’s here.

It was always there in the past.

Even knowing he’s looking, I’ve turned this room upside down searching for something I can use as a weapon for whenever he inevitably returns.

Because I know it’s only a matter of time.

So far, I’ve gotten nothing.

All the furniture here is old, ornate, and, unfortunately, made with better craftsmanship than anything you’ll find at IKEA.

Even trying to remove the leg of the chair that Dante occupied when I first woke up here was fruitless.

It reminded me of that old saying about things not being made the way they used to be, only in reverse.

The chair was too well made.

When I realized I couldn’t do more than knock things over and shred the bedding, I’d done just that.

The old me would’ve cowered in a corner, doing nothing and waiting for my inevitable punishment.

That was the version of me that Dante had systematically broken down over the course of six years.

The woman I’d become since I’d escaped him was different.

Stronger.

If he thought for one second that I wouldn’t fight him every step of the way, he was dead wrong.

And if given even the smallest chance, I’d make that dead part stick this time.

There was only one window in the room.

Before I even checked, I knew it would be locked and probably have bars on it.

I’d still checked.

Frustration bubbles inside me like a witch’s cauldron, and I swear, if I make it out of this alive, I’m gonna familiarize myself with an arsenal’s worth of hexes.

As Bach continues to play in the distance, I grip my hair in my hands, pulling hard on the strands.

Anything to keep myself grounded.

It would be so easy to dissociate.

To float away and never come back.

Old Siren would’ve already checked out.

But if I allow myself to do that, I’ll never be able to catch Dante unaware.

And I need to get the hell out of here.

Since that fateful night nearly three years ago, I’ve built a new life for myself.

One that I’m proud of.

One that I miss.

So, for now, I sit in the middle of the ruined bed and wait for the devil to reappear.

I don’t have to wait much longer.

Soon, the click of a key in a lock has my eyes shooting to the door.

It takes Dante a moment to realize that he can’t get it open more than a few inches, with the upturned dresser in the way.

Guess his stupid fucking camera missed that.

The sound of a low chuckle has me grinding my teeth seconds before a series of loud bangs erupt.

Kicking the door several times, he finally manages to get it open enough to enter.

I don’t move from my place in the center of the bed.

Legs crossed, I straighten my spine and watch him warily.

He takes his time surveying the damage even though I know he will have seen the worst of it from his vantage point at the other end of a recording.

As I watch, he looks down and brushes a piece of invisible lint from the tie of his immaculate three-piece suit, the picture of sophistication.

Wanting to catch him off guard, I speak first, setting the tone of the conversation.

This, too, is something new.

“You should’ve stayed dead.”

Arching an eyebrow, he cocks his head and stares at me.

One minute turns into two, and still he says nothing.

But I refuse to squirm.

It’s what he wants, after all.

Soon, his husky voice comes.

“Something’s changed.

You’re … different.

I think I might like it,”

he says, humor lacing his tone.

His Italian accent is just as pronounced today as it was eight years ago when we first met.

Only now, instead of sounding romantic, it makes me wanna barf.

Narrowing my eyes, I say, “I don’t know what you have planned, but I won’t make it easy for you.

I’ll fight you every step of the way.

I’m not the same scared little girl you used to know.”

Make no mistake—a healthy dose of fear still ran through my veins like ice, but the heat of self-preservation was fast on its heels.

“I hope you do.

It will be like our first time, all over again.

Do you remember Sirena? The night I took your virginity? The first cut I ever made on your beautiful skin?”

Subconsciously, I run my fingers over the small raised scar on my left collarbone, barely visible beneath the Treble Clef tattoo there.

His eyes track the movement, and a small smile plays at the corners of his lips.

Dropping my hand back to my lap, I say, “A girl always remembers her first.

Though, the many men that came after you have made that memory a bit hazy.”

I know I’m courting disaster.

In addition to his penchant for pain, he was always jealous and possessive.

Even at the beginning of our relationship, before I knew what kind of monster I’d gotten into bed with, he would become enraged if he ever caught another man’s eyes on me.

Confirming that I’ve slept with other men since I got away from him will only make him angry.

I know this, yet I can’t stop myself from needling him.

If I learned nothing else from our relationship, it’s that people tended to make mistakes when their emotions came into play.

Anger was an emotion Dante was on a first name basis with.

As I watch, his eyes darken, and his jaw tightens.

Hands balling into fists, he does exactly as predicted, charging towards me.

Pretending to cower away, I skitter to the opposite side of the bed.

As he makes a move to grab me, I fist the strip of torn bed sheet I’ve been holding in both hands, circling it around his neck.

Heavy hands grip my biceps in a punishing hold even as I pull both ends of the sheet, tightening it as hard as I can.

We grapple for several long seconds before he manages to drag me down to the floor.

I land with a thud, my head knocking against the hardwood.

Spots swim in my vision, and for a brief moment, I lose sight of his face.

My grip on the sheet falters, and then his hands are around my throat.

“You’ve got more fire in you now, Sirena, but I’ll still break you, just like before,”

he says, though I can hear the exertion in his voice and know the fight has winded him.

As his grip tightens, the spots in front of my eyes begin to bleed together, forming a haze that I know will soon lead to unconsciousness, and yet, I still have enough breath to get out two final words .

“Fuck you.”