“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was worried—”
“I don’t give a fuck.” He bends over and seizes my upper arm, hurrying me to my feet. “Up to your room,” he says as he marches me to the staircase. “You’ve bought yourself a week in there, and you can forget about camera privileges.”
I glance at the sizeable, purple lump on his shoulder.
“Listen to me,” he intones. “Stay out of my business. It’s for your own good.”
“What is?” I cry. “You won’t tell me anything, and I’m scared, Calvin. What does the Cartel have to do with this, and why did you kill people?”
He shakes me hard, forcing the pools in my eyes to drip onto my cheeks. “That’s enough. Another word, and I’ll lock you up in the basement without your precious books or thousand-count sheets.”
“I don’t care,” I scream. I fall to my knees though he keeps his grip on my arm. “You’re going to do what you want anyway. Take me down there. Let me rot!”
With large strides across the room, he drags me kicking behind him. I yelp as my nightgown rides up and cold marble shocks my skin. He kicks open another locked door with a heavy foot. “Up,” he demands.
“I-I’m not going down there.”
“I thought you didn’t care? Thought you wanted to rot down there?”
I wiggle in his grasp, trying to free my arm. When he releases me, I start to get to my feet but his hands are swiftly under my armpits. He hoists me off the ground and carries me down the stairs as I kick and scream. An overpowering, musty smell chokes me as we descend into the basement. He drops me on my knees in a small cell and pulls the gate closed behind him.
“No, Calvin, please,” I sob, crawling forward and pulling on the bars. “Please, I promise I won’t sneak around anymore.”
His lids grow suddenly heavy as his hand grasps the front of his pants. “You’re making me so hard, Sparrow. Keep begging like that, and I’ll gladly find a way to shut you up.”
My stomach flips with charged nerves, and I can’t keep the shock from my face.
He laughs. “That’s right. And I’m not joking. I’m thinking a good fuck might finally do the trick.”
“I’d never let you,” I say.
He cocks his head. “If I wanted you, you’d know it, and you’d be right where you are, begging for it. Lucky for you, I don’t.”
I recoil, oddly hurt by the dig that’s delivered with a look of disgust. “Calvin, please,” I say as he turns away.
He sighs and pivots back, striding to me. “If you insist.” He grips the insides of two steel bars, and I swear they budge when he pulls.
“No,” I say, retreating further into the cell. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.” My leg knocks into something that clatters loudly against the concrete floor.
He pauses and releases the bars, his eyes glued to me. “Your toilet,” he says, pointing to a white, plastic bucket on its side. “Your bed,” he adds, nodding at a thin, dirty-looking mattress and pillow in the corner. With that, he jogs up the stairs, leaving me openmouthed and staring after him.
16
As a teenager, under my parents’ guidance and with unrivaled determination, I learned how to manipulate my temper to my benefit. In my line of work, it’s an asset, but one I continually work to control. Cataline aggravates it, and apparently it’s grown worse in its dormancy. My rising urges to punish her, fuck her, and make her submit are at odds with my duty to protect her.
I shut and lock the door to the study before returning to my chair. Norman hasn’t moved, still frozen with a towel in his hand.
“Master Parish—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I snap.
“You’re scaring the girl.”
“She needs to learn. That behavior is unacceptable.”
“She’s not like the women you know,” he says with emphasis on the last word. “You must be more careful. She’s fragile.”
I steeple my fingers in front of my face and inhale deeply before looking up at him. “You think you know her?”
“I’ve spent the last two months with her. She’s strong-willed, but she’s a good girl. And she deserves the truth. I assure you she’ll understand—”
“You know I can’t.”
“You can trust her.”
I bolt up from the chair to pace the room. My hands are in my hair, pulling as if it will give me answers. “I’d rather she were terrified of me than know the truth, Norman. If the Cartel gets ahold of her, it will be far worse than her treatment here.” I pause at a wall and outstretch my arms against it. Sometimes at night I can still feel the burn of smoke in my lungs. Melting flesh is something nobody should ever have to smell. Because of me, she experienced those things too. My fist slams into the wall. “How am I supposed to tell her that her life is shit because of me? That I’m to blame for her parents’ death? And that I’m the reason the Cartel wants her in the first place?”
“None of that is your fault.” It’s Norman’s mantra, but it always falls on deaf ears.
“It is,” I say. “I should’ve been there. I could’ve saved them, but I was selfish.”
“You were so young. You learned more from it than you could have with years of preparation for this role.”
I drop my hands to my sides and look at Norman as though I’m seeing him for the first time. “It’s no excuse,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I was strong enough, even at seventeen. As long as the Cartel wants Hero, they’ll want her. I owe her parents her safety.”
“You owe it to them,” Norman says, raising his chin, “or yourself?”
“Meaning?”
“Atonement binds you to Cataline. Forgiveness can cut those ties, but only you can be the one to do it. The guilt you harbor is unhealthy.”
“Forgiveness?” My mouth warps with the word’s venom. “You think I deserve to be forgiven? You think I want it?”
“I know you deserve it. And I don’t think you want it, but I think you need it. Telling Cataline the truth will be a step toward moving on.”
“This discussion is over.”
“Forgive me for saying, Calvin, but if you keep this up, you’ll only do damage. To her and to yourself.”
“You’ve taken enough liberties tonight, Norman,” I warn. “With me and her. You’re too friendly. You’re not to let her out of the cell until I say so. And don’t forget that your conversations are purpose-driven only. Make sure she has what she needs. As long as she’s cooperative, she can have what she wants. But do not forget, information is a privilege.” I cross my arms. “And I want her window locked going forward.”
“In her room?” he asks. “Why in the world?”
“I don’t like that she sits there all day, nurturing whatever ridiculous fantasies she entertains. I’m not entirely sure she won’t try to escape and hurt herself in the process.”
“If I may—”
“You,” I cut him off, pausing for emphasis, “may not.”
He purses his lips, the wrinkles around his mouth exaggerating with disapproval. “Very well. Shall we see about that shoulder?”
I sit back in the chair. My hands curl around the arms as Norman’s scalpel tears into my skin.
“You heal too quickly,” Norman says. “A disadvantage only when there’s something under your skin that shouldn’t be. Does it hurt?”
“More than the shots themselves, but not much.”
He’s spent enough time as my personal doctor to see through my casual response. He knows, as my muscles lock up, that it hurts like a bitch.
Norman is the only person to visit Cataline for the next two days, and it’s just to bring her food or replace her bucket. I review security footage to ensure he isn’t indulging her attempts at conversation and am pleased with his restraint. On the third day, I determine her sentence served. After a late evening in the city, I loosen my tie as I cross the foyer toward the basement.
I smell the blood the moment I hit the doorway. In seconds I’m down the stairs and at the gate, fumbling with the lock, as Cataline lies unmoving. “Cataline,” I say, dropping the keys. “Get up.”