“Back so soon?” August’s words come easy, but there’s a tripwire running under his words, waiting for Caleb to take one wrong step. “That’s a shame.”
“When the cat’s away, huh?” A smirk distorts the firm line of Caleb’s mouth for just a second, but soon it flattens back into a hard line. “Iris, let’s go.”
He doesn’t wait to see if I’ll follow when he walks away with my baby girl. He knows I will. She looks at me over his shoulder. Her cotton-candy pink mouth wobbles, and her little chubby arms reach back toward me. She must have just awakened from a nap. She always wants me right away.
I’ve almost caught them when I’m pulled up short by my arm.
“Iris.” August stares down at me, his frown fierce and puzzled. “Don’t go with him.”
I tug free of his gentle grip. It’s the last gentle thing I’ll have for a while, but I can’t linger. Caleb has my daughter, and I’ll be lucky if social services isn’t getting another anonymous tip after this debacle. I’ll be lucky if he hasn’t already laid more traps and snares for me. I need to be a step ahead of him, but I’ve fallen behind. Surrendering to my weak desires today, I’ve fallen behind again.
“I’m not going with him.” I beg with my eyes, with my hand spread on his chest, with my heart—I beg for him to understand. I beg him with everything but my words. “I’m going with her. Sarai is my priority, August. She has to be.”
“Of course, Sarai should be your priority,” August says. “But I . . . you said I wasn’t fooling myself. That I wasn’t imagining . . .” He grimaces and tunnels long fingers through his hair—hair I clawed at and disheveled moments ago during my orgasm. It’s been so long since I came. So long since Caleb took the time to please me, to cherish me. August made me feel wanted, but not in the way Caleb wants me. Not tainted with selfishness. Not twisted with cruelty or stained with obsession. August gave me something brief and glorious, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have it again. If I walk out that door, I may never have it again.
“You aren’t fooling yourself,” I say. “It’s not that we wouldn’t be good together. Our timing’s bad.”
I hold August’s hand between both of mine, wishing I could confess everything.
What would I say?
Caleb blackmailed me? Lied on me?
He beats me? Rapes me?
He holds me hostage in plain sight?
August wouldn’t understand. He’d tell me to run. He’d say leave, but getting away is not enough. As long as Caleb has any claim to Sarai, getting away is not being truly free.
I glance over my shoulder, but Caleb’s out of sight.
I tip up on my toes and kiss August’s cheek. He reaches for my waist, but I step back, already aching for a touch I never should have allowed myself. It only makes this harder.
“I have to go.” Tears burn my eyes. “Goodbye, August.”
I turn and run from the community center, praying Caleb didn’t leave. I spot Ramone immediately, standing on the sidewalk, the jailor to my prisoner, his eyes insolent. I walk past him with my head held high and climb into the back seat.
I don’t know what I expected—probably a slap across the face as soon as I sat beside Caleb—but I’m met with eerie silence. It persists, the minutes stretching out on a torture rack while we leave the city and head toward my palatial prison. Sarai drowses in her car seat until sleep takes her again.
“Caleb, I can explain,” I venture softly.
The look he levels on me is a guillotine, falling and slicing through any excuse I could offer, any lie. He knows the truth, and there’s no way I’ll avoid paying for it. Wanting August West is a high crime to Caleb. It’s treason.
Off with my head.
When we pull up in front of the house, I unsnap Sarai and walk her swiftly inside and up to the nursery. I lay her down in her crib and linger there. My mind races over possible escape routes, but as usual, there are none. None that actually solve my problem.
“Meet me in the bedroom, Iris,” he says from the door. “Stop dawdling. We need to talk.”
Talk.
I know better.
Once in the bedroom, my eyes rove the corners and surfaces for a possible weapon. I’ve resisted before. It usually makes it worse for me, but tonight I can’t imagine just taking it. That’s usually when he brings out the pistol, against which I have no defense.
“Strip.”
That one word is the slap I was anticipating. I hesitate, unsure how to play this. He sighs impatiently and pulls the pistol from his pocket, holding it up.
“Why does it always have to come to this, Iris?”
“Don’t ask me to pretend this is normal,” I say harshly. “You raping me at gunpoint is not normal, and I won’t pretend it is.”
“I bet West wouldn’t need a gun, would he?” His eyes narrow. “I said strip, you low-class swamp whore.”
He tries to demean me with his words, but I don’t feel it anymore. His words are a dog with no bite. They have no teeth with me.
But who needs teeth when you have fangs?
With unhurried movements, he unbuckles his belt.
Eyes trained on the pistol, I unsnap my overalls, dropping them to the floor and pulling the T-shirt over my head. I undo my bra and take off my panties.
“Bring those to me.”
I freeze, staring at him in disbelief.
“I said bring me the panties, Iris.” False calm is a needle threading his words.
I walk over to him and he snatches them from me, squeezing them in his fist.
“Wet,” he growls.
Oh my God.
“Your panties are soaked.” He carves a barbarous smile into his face. “Were you thinking of me?”
I shake my head, a denial springing to my lips. “I didn’t . . . it wasn’t—”
“Biiiiitch!” he roars, spittle ejaculating from his mouth. “Don’t lie to me.”
The walls seem to tremble, and so do I. The air goes subzero, freezing my blood. His fury emerges, fully formed and dangerous. Instead of shoving me onto the bed and taking me fast and rough like he usually would, he sits down on the edge, one hand clutching the panties, the other gripping the pistol.
“Come here,” he says more quietly, but with no less threat.
I stand in front of him, naked and determined not to show fear. A callus has formed over my dignity and my self-respect. I barely feel them anymore. They’re casualties of my survival and of my eventual escape.
“Make me believe you want me, Iris. Ride me.”
My eyes fly to his, stunned and stupefied. I can’t. I don’t even remember what it feels like to want Caleb.
“I . . . well, I—”
“Kiss me,” he says softly, almost persuasively. Like he cares, but I’ve played this game enough to know his gentleness is always a trick card.
I gulp down my disgust and lean tentatively to place my mouth over his. I nearly gag when his tongue sweeps against mine, rough and thorough like he’s scrubbing the taste of August from my mouth. It’s a nasty mimicry of the perfect passion I felt not even an hour ago. His hand snakes out to clamp around my throat, barely squeezing, but exerting enough pressure to remind me he could snap my windpipe if he pleased.