I take a deep breath and let it out.

“I don’t know what that means, Sydney. The rabbit thing. It was a trigger for you? You saw the rabbit on the TV and it triggered something?”

“Yeah,” I say softly, wishing I could just curl up and die. But what’s the point of fighting him anymore? What is the point? Who do I want to protect here? I run the list of names in my head and only come up with one.

But it’s not fair. It’s so not fair that I will be fucked when this is all over. So I opt for answers before I give in. Maybe I can die peacefully if I at least get some answers. “Did you turn that show on to trigger me?”

“No,” he says. No hesitation. “I do not know Garrett’s triggers, Sydney. If I did, this would be a whole lot easier. I could help you. If I did. I could try to set this shit right. Do you know the triggers?”

“Bobcat.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” Case lets me go, pulling his arms away, and stands up. “I don’t think that’s it. If bobcat or wildcat were triggers and releases, we’d be making progress. Climbing out of that dark hole. But we’re not climbing out. You’re still falling in, cowgirl.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble into the pillow. “How much farther can I possibly fall?”

He sits down on the edge of the half-moon bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and then his face in his hands. I guess he has no clue. And neither do I. “More drugs,” I say. “Just give me more. Give me so much I never wake up.”

He doesn’t even answer me. Just walks away. I listen to each step as it creaks on his way downstairs. And then I listen to noises that have no meaning to me. Finally, after about twenty minutes of this, the door slams.

He walked out.

Isn’t that what he does? He says he’ll save me, but then he walks out.

I close my eyes and go back to sleep. This room is too bright. I need the dark.

When I wake, it’s twilight, which isn’t quite as good as dark, but I can’t make myself go back to sleep. So I sit up and look outside. It’s snowing again. But there’s a trail from a snow machine still a little bit visible.

I kick the covers off and then make my way to the edge of the bed and swing my feet over. I’m not dizzy. Whatever he gave me, it was a small dose. Just enough to calm me down, like he said.

I am hungry and thirsty. So I make my way down to the second floor and stop off at the first bathroom I see, relieve myself, and then gulp water from the faucet.

I pull back, wiping my mouth, and look at myself in the mirror. My hair is long and dark and it hangs down my front in tousled waves. It’s messy, but cute. That makes me smile for a second. That I can be here, looking at my hair at a time like this. My face is marred with scratches, a bruise that is one of the remnants of the many head punches Case delivered. And my eyes are tired, but bright.

I wouldn’t say I feel bright. But I do feel better than I have in days. Weeks, I guess. Since he took me weeks ago now.

I touch the bruise and wince. But the hatred I feel for Garrett each time he made one of these appear doesn’t manifest for Case like it should.

I should hate him. But I don’t.

I should want to plot revenge. But I don’t.

And it’s not some sick Stockholm syndrome thing, either. I tried to love Garrett. I tried out that Stockholm shit on him. Thought it might make it easier if the man who was beating me was sexy and liked to fuck me.

But it never worked with Garrett. So I think I’m immune to Stockholm syndrome.

Besides, I have loved Case for years in my head. Long before this. He was my savior. So fuck it. I’m allowed to love him now too. He has no idea what’s happening. He’s just doing his best to figure it out. And if I wanted to make him stop hurting me, I could just tell him.

But I’m not some magnanimous do-gooder. Like it or not, I’m just as ruthless as him. And I want what I want.

I want him to like me. I want him to say, I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I fucked up. I want him to want me the way I want him. I want him to love me. I want to be loved so badly.

I flick the light out and see a large bedroom through a pair of open double doors. I step forward into the room. I know he’s gone. And I’ll hear the snow machine if he comes back.

Oh, God. What if he doesn’t come back? What if I go downstairs and there’s a pile of clothes and a note telling me to get lost? He’s moved on and so should I?

Instead of dwelling on that, I start looking around the room. He’s got a connecting bathroom in here. All his shaving stuff is out on the counter. A cup to hold soap. I pick up the cup and smell it—sandalwood. And a nice brush to lather up his face. I swipe my fingers along the soft bristles and picture what it would be like to watch him do that.

Nope. No Stockholm syndrome for me.

I flip the lights off and go back to the bedroom, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. There are nightstands on either side made out of a highly polished wood that is so dark it almost looks black. His house is not decorated like you might expect a huge luxury log cabin to be. Most of the elements are contemporary and new.

I open the drawer in the nightstand and find guns.

Of course you do, Syd. He’s an assassin. I pick each one up and handle it, checking the weight, the chambers—they are all loaded—and then put them back and close the drawer.

I never want to use a gun again. Ever.

The second nightstand on the other side of the bed has a closed black case and a first aid kit with a selection of drugs. None of them are the cocktail he’s giving me, because they are all antibiotics, heart-rate things, antagonists, and epinephrine. A crash kit. To save a life.

Nice to know the man whom I am lusting over, not for Stockholm-related reasons, is prepared to save me from too much anesthetic, should I ever require it.

I pick up the black case, spy a lock, and therefore expect it to be locked when I trigger the mechanism.

But it isn’t. He must not get many visitors up here.

That makes me let out an involuntary cackle. I think I might be losing my mind for real. Like, irretrievably for real.

The two guns inside are… magnificent. Black matte FN Five-SeveNs with custom grips and an aftermarket laser. There’s writing on the grips, so I pick one up and turn it sideways to read it.

The only gun you’ll ever need. Happy birthday, Merc. ~ XXOO

- Smurf

I have no idea who Smurf is, so I just put it back inside the case and look at the three cartridges, which are also lined up, like this was made for a display. They have writing on them too, so I take one out to get a better look. With love, Sasha, it says three times over.

I guess she is the Smurf. Figures. That kid has had his heart since the night he left me out at that cabin. It makes me so furious to think that she got a cute nickname and her fairytale ending and I got…

I don’t want to think about what I got. It brings up bad things. Things better left buried.

I put the cartridge back and close the case and then the drawer. I don’t want to shoot Case. So I’m not even remotely interested in nabbing one of his guns.

The sound of a snow machine draws me out of my introspection, and I get up and make my way downstairs so I can meet him at the door.

God, I’m so pathetic.

“Eventually… you have to trust someone.”

– Sydney

I settle for the couch instead of greeting him at the door so I don’t look like I’ve been waiting for him. Or like I’m happy he came back.