TWISTED

CRULE

CHAPTER TWO

He leaves the library door open, a deliberate invitation, and I can’t help but peek out after him, just in time to catch the straightness of his shoulders, the rigid set of his neck as he disappears down the corridor. My lungs expand in increments. I want to spit out the tight, acrid ball that’s formed under my tongue, but instead, I swallow, and it burns on its way down.

This wing is empty, save for the twin clocks ticking in discord at each end of the hallway. I count my own footsteps as I approach the threshold. His rules echo after me, a carousel of directives. No breaking, no stealing, no lying, but the space in between those boundaries is as dangerous as the edges. He wants to test me, or maybe he wants to teach me. Or maybe, it’s just how he keeps from drowning—by ensuring the people around him are always flailing a little bit more.

from where he’s left me. I take a deep breath, planting my palm on the wood and pushing into the shallow hush of my exile. The room—V’s version of a guest suite—smells of clean cotton and expensive something. I take a second to scan for cameras but don’t see the telltale black pinpricks set into the corners. I’m not convinced; I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the nightstand, daring it to blink red.

Several breakdowns, indeed. My memory is a highlight reel of V’s timeout corners: vestibules, glass-fronted offices, the plush backseat of a car that felt like a padded cell. Even now, my skin prickles with the memory of being forced to self-soothe under surveillance, knowing he’s watching.

I take a deep breath, planting my palm on the wood and pushing into the shallow hush of my exile. The room—V’s version of a guest suite—smells of clean cotton and expensive something. I take a second to scan for cameras but don’t see the telltale black pinpricks set into the corners. I’m not convinced; I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the nightstand, daring it to blink red.

Several breakdowns, indeed. My memory is a highlight reel of V’s timeout corners: vestibules, glass-fronted offices, the plush backseat of a car that felt like a padded cell. Even now, my skin prickles with the memory of being forced to self-soothe under surveillance, knowing he’s watching.

I let myself fall back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Once, he told me that only people fighting their own mind truly knew freedom. I thought he was full

of s**t, another one of those pseudo-intellectual platitudes he collects out of boredom or irony or both. I used to roll my eyes at his philosophies, at the way every cruel gesture was followed by a monologue—always the teacher, always the warden. But that particular line stuck to me like a burr: only people fighting their own mind truly know freedom. It sounded like a dare, and I’ve never been able to refuse one.

Now, in the hush that follows the demolition of his attention, I get what he meant. The worse it is up here—in my head, in this sanitized cage of a room—the more visceral everything becomes. Every thought is sharper, each breath a dare.

There’s nothing to do but pace the length of the suite and listen to the silence. I count the steps between the door and the window, then the steps around the bed. My bare feet leave no sound on the hardwood, but in my head it’s thunderous.

For all his obsession with rules and rituals,My old therapist used to say my impulse control was “catastrophically impaired,” which is just a polite way of calling me a lost cause.I scan the room again, searching for cameras. None in the corners, no obvious wires. I lay back on the bed, arms folded under my head. The AC is cranked up so high I can feel goosebumps crawling up my thighs, but I don’t bother to pull the comforter up. I want to feel everything, even the cold. Especially the cold. It’s a better anchor than the bourbon, and it keeps me from thinking too hard about what happens next.

I find myself craving the sound of his boots in the hallway, the metallic scrape of his ring against the doorknob. He didn’t lock the door. He never does. It’s not about keeping me in, it’s about watching if I’ll break the rule. Or, worse, if I’ll obey. Sometimes I think he’s disappointed when I don’t try to run.

My stomach churns, not from hunger but from the anticipation of contact. I’ve spent so many nights in hotel rooms just like this one, playing at independence, only to end up back on his leash. It’s a cycle we both know how to ride. I think of all the places he’s exiled me, the “time out” corners dressed up as hospitality suites: a glass-walled office overlooking a city I’ll never see, the back of a limousine with blackout windows, a cabin in the mountains with no cell service and no escape. Each one a different flavor of containment, each one a way of reminding me that no matter where I go, he’ll always be the one to unlock the door.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, a tiny eruption in the otherwise perfect silence. I ignore it at first, assuming it’s another automated message or a check-in from one of his people. But the vibration grows insistent, the screen pulsing with light. It’s obnoxious, the way it demands my attention, and for a moment I want to throw it out the window just to enjoy a few more minutes of unbroken quiet.

But I don’t. I pick it up, thumb trembling on the unlock button. The caller ID is blocked. Of course it is.

I answer without speaking.

There’s a pause, just long enough to make me wonder if it’s a mistake.

Then: “You’re not sleeping.” His voice, lower than before, almost gentle. “Are you cold?”

I stare up at the painted birds, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

“I can see you, you know,” he says, and for half a second I believe him. “You look beautiful when you’re suffering.”

I swallow, hard. “You’re sick.”

“That’s why you love me,” he says, and I realize he’s right.

He doesn’t hang up. He just waits, breathing with me, letting the silence spool out between us until it becomes something physical, a cord stretched taut from his end to mine.

“Do you want me to come back?” he asks, finally.

I should say no. I should throw the phone, slam the door, do anything except what I’m about to do.

“Please,” I whisper, and hate the way my voice cracks on the word.

He hangs up, and I know he’s already on his way, boots echoing through the corridor.

Instead, I get the shriek of my phone. I don’t even bother.

Because i know how the night is going to end eitherways.