His eyes hold mine. “To come back home.” The words are spoken with horrifying gentleness. “And for whoever thinks they have a chance with you, don’t confuse temporary possession with permanence.” He buttons his coat. “I’ll be seeing you soon.” Then he walks away.
It’s like the conversation had gone exactly the way he expected, and I had dreamed it all up.
Only when he disappears beyond the stone archway do my knees threaten to give out. My hands shake so violently I nearly drop my notebook. For the first time since leaving him, I understand something terrifying. Roman never believed I’d escaped. He believed I was only borrowing my freedom. He let me think I escaped.
It was only a matter of time before he decided to come and get me. A cruel joke to let me think I had freedom.
Amy
Saint has been gone for four days. I thought about showing up at his house. I try to tell myself it’s to make sure he’s okay, but people don’t go missing at Kenyan. They vanish into explanations no one gives, and if Saint wanted to talk, he would answer my calls.
By Wednesday morning, I stop looking at the back of the lecture hall. His seat stays empty. No pressure in the air that makes every nerve in my body wake up before my mind understands why.
Nothing.
Just an empty chair every time I look. I tell myself I shouldn’t care. Saint is not my boyfriend nor my protector, but the room feels wrong without him in it.
Roman’s envelope stays hidden beneath my mattress. I don’t know why I keep it. I should tear it up and forget that it exists. It isn’t real because I never signed anything, but Roman has the power to make it look like I did.
If I take it to the police, he will make it go away. If I take it to Azriel, why should he care? My past has found me, and there is no way out.
Instead, I keep pulling it out when I can’t sleep. The paper is thick, embossed with the state seal with my name already typed where it shouldn’t be, and a signature I didn’t sign.
Amelia Torres.
His name beside mine.
Roman Mancini.
His signature is there like a warning.
But the empty space where mine belongs feels worse than if he’d forged it. Because Roman didn’t send it as proof, he sent it as a promise that all it takes is a stroke of a pen.
It’s a reminder of the cage waiting for me to step back inside.
I fold it carefully and put it away again. Then I sit on the floor beside my bed and try to breathe. The room feels smaller than it did yesterday.
On Thursday, Azriel finds me in the library. I’m sitting at my usual table with three open books in front of me and no memory of what any of them say.
He doesn’t announce himself. He simply pulls out the chair across from me and sits. “You’re not reading.”
I turn a page. “Yes, I am.”
“Your book is upside down.” I look down.
It isn’t.
When I look back at him, he’s smiling faintly. “That was mean.”
“That was a test.”
“I passed.”
“You absolutely did not.”
For a second, I almost smile. Almost. Azriel notices the failure of it. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”