The underground garage was cleaner than any hospital Della had ever seen. The floor was polished gray epoxy. Rows of luxury cars sat dormant-Ferraris, Bentleys, a vintage Aston Martin.

The car stopped. The door opened.

Darius stepped out. He didn't grab her arm this time. He walked toward a steel elevator bank with the confidence of a man who owned the air he breathed. He knew she wouldn't run. There was nowhere to go.

Della followed, her bare feet cold on the concrete.

He stopped in front of the elevator. A red laser scanned his eyes. The doors slid open silently.

They stepped inside. There were no buttons. The elevator shot upward. The pressure built in Della's ears. They were going high. Penthouse high.

The doors opened directly into a living space that spanned the entire floor. The walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. The city lay spread out below them, a grid of gold and white lights. It was breathtaking. It was terrifying.

An older man in a pristine suit stood waiting. "Welcome home, Sir. And... Miss?"

Darius peeled off his blood-crusted shirt, revealing a sculpted torso wrapped in bandages. He tossed the shirt to the older man.

"She stays," Darius said. "Guest room. Lock the balcony."

Della's head snapped toward him. Lock the balcony. He wasn't worried about her jumping; he was ensuring the cage was sealed.

"I have calls," Darius said. He walked toward a set of double doors, not looking back. "Clean her up, Henderson."

He disappeared into his office.

Della was left standing with the butler. Henderson looked at her with a polite, detached expression. He didn't seem fazed by her pajamas or the dirt on her face.

"This way, Miss," Henderson said. "Do you require a change of clothes?"

"I require a lawyer," Della muttered.

Henderson offered a small, tight smile. "I'm afraid I only have towels. Follow me."

He led her down a long hallway lined with abstract art. He opened a door to a bedroom that was larger than her entire trailer. The bed was massive, covered in white linens.

"The bathroom is to your right. Towels are heated," Henderson said. He pointed to the door. "Don't try the elevator. It's coded. And the stairwell is alarmed."

He closed the door.

Della waited for the click of the lock. It came a second later. A heavy, electronic thud.

She ran to the bathroom. She turned the lock on the inside, knowing it was futile but needing the illusion of a barrier.

She stripped off her clothes. Her body was a map of bruises. She stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as she could stand. She scrubbed her skin until it was red, trying to wash away the feeling of Darius's hands, the smell of his blood, the memory of the trailer.

She sank to the floor of the shower, pulling her knees to her chest. The sobs came then, racking her body. She cried silently, the sound masked by the rushing water. She couldn't let him hear her weakness.

After twenty minutes, the water ran cold. Della turned it off. She dried herself with a towel that was thicker than her winter coat.

She found a bathrobe hanging on the hook. It was white and plush. She wrapped it around herself, tying the belt tight.

She walked back into the bedroom. On the nightstand, there was a glass of water and two white pills.

Della stared at them. Painkillers? Sedatives? Poison?

Her head throbbed, a rhythmic pounding behind her eyes. But she wouldn't take them. She needed her mind sharp. She picked up the pills and walked to the bathroom, flushing them down the toilet. She drank the water.

She went to the floor-to-ceiling window. She pressed her hand against the glass. We were so high up the cars looked like ants.

She turned back to the room. She needed to know her environment. She scanned the ceiling.

There. Inside the smoke detector. A tiny, unblinking red light.

He was watching.

Della felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. She walked to the bed and crawled under the covers, but her mind was racing. She forced herself to analyze, not panic. It wasn't a simple security camera. The lens had a slight curvature she recognized from high-end surveillance systems, designed for wide angles. This meant there likely weren't any simple 'blind spots.' However, the angle of its placement relative to the far corner of the room, where a large decorative vase stood, might create a narrow cone of optical distortion. A place where a shadow could be deeper than it should be. It wasn't a true blind spot, but it was a weakness. A calculated risk.

In the darkness of the blanket, she clenched her fists. "Sleep," she whispered to herself. "Survive. Escape."

Hunger woke her.

Sunlight sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains, blindingly bright. Della blinked, disoriented. For a second, she thought she was back in the trailer. Then she saw the high ceilings and the expensive art. Reality crashed down on her.

The door clicked.

"Lunch is served, Miss," Henderson's voice came from the hallway.

Della sat up. She was still wearing the bathrobe. She tightened the belt and walked to the door. It was unlocked.

She followed the smell of food to the dining room.

Darius was there.

He sat at the head of a long, mahogany table. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt. He looked domestic, almost normal, if you ignored the predator stillness in his posture.

He was reading something on a tablet. A cup of black coffee sat near his hand.

Della stopped in the doorway.

"Sit," he said without looking up. "Eat."

Della walked to the chair set for her. A plate of steak and roasted vegetables waited. It smelled heavenly, which made her angry.

"Why am I here?" she asked, remaining standing. "What do you want?"

Darius swiped a finger across the tablet. He finally looked at her. "You saw my face. You're insurance."

"I told you I won't tell anyone!" Della gripped the back of the chair. "I'll go to the FBI if you keep me here!"

Darius laughed. It was a short, dry sound. "The FBI? Half of them are on my payroll. The other half are too scared to look in my direction."

Della's stomach dropped. He wasn't bragging. He was stating a fact.

"How much?" she tried. "I don't have money, but..."

"I have more money than God," Darius interrupted. "You have nothing I need. Except your silence. And your presence ensures that."

"Then let me go!"

Darius stood up. He moved with that terrifying grace. He walked around the table until he was standing directly behind her.

He placed his hands on the back of her chair, boxing her in. He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear.

"You are a temporary amusement," he whispered. The vibration of his voice traveled down her spine. "When I'm bored, you leave. Not before."

Della stood frozen. She could smell soap and tobacco on him. He was close enough to touch, close enough to hurt.

"Eat," he commanded, pulling back. "If you faint, Vance will put you on an IV. And I don't think you want him touching you again."

Della sat down. She picked up her knife and fork. Her hands were steady now. Rage had replaced the fear.

She cut a piece of steak and put it in her mouth. She chewed mechanically.

Darius watched her eat. His gaze was heavy, intense.

Henderson entered the room. "Sir, Mr. Wiggins is here."

Darius nodded. He picked up his tablet. "Don't leave the apartment. Sensors will trigger."

He walked out.

Della dropped her fork. She listened to his footsteps fade.

She looked at the steak knife in her hand. It was sharp. Serrated. A weapon.

She looked at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. She looked at the two large men standing by the elevator.

She put the knife down. Not today. Brute force wouldn't work against a man who owned the FBI.

She needed to use the one thing he didn't know she had. Her brain.

The news was playing on the massive television in the living room. Stocks were plummeting for a tech company. Della paced the room, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps.

It was evening. The city lights were on again.

Darius came out of his office. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked relaxed.

Della stopped pacing. She had a plan. It was a desperate, ugly plan, but she had to try something to make him send her away. She had to make herself a liability, something so distasteful he'd discard it. The goal wasn't to be believed; it was to be repulsive.

She stepped in front of him.

"You should let me go," she said. "My husband will be looking for me."

Darius stopped. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing. "Husband? The file says you're single."

Della's heart skipped. He had a file. Of course he did.

"We... we eloped last week," she lied, pushing forward with the gambit. "It's not in the records yet. And I'm pregnant."

She placed a hand on her flat stomach.

Darius's expression darkened. The relaxed demeanor vanished instantly. He set the glass down on a marble side table with a sharp clack.

"Pregnant?" he repeated. The word sounded like an insult. "With whose bastard?"

Della backed up until her shoulders hit the wall. "My husband's! He loves me!"

Darius crossed the distance between them in two strides. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

"You are lying," he hissed. "You are a terrible liar."

"I'm not-"

He cut her off with his mouth.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an assault. His lips crashed against hers, hard and punishing. It was possessive, angry, demanding.

Della froze. Her mind went blank. Then, revulsion surged through her.

She pushed against his chest, but he was like a granite wall. He deepened the kiss, his tongue invading her mouth.

Panic flared. Della opened her mouth and clamped her teeth down on his lower lip. Hard.

She tasted copper.

Darius grunted and jerked back.

He touched his lip. His fingers came away red.

He looked at the blood, then at her. His eyes were wild, dilated with rage.

"You bit me," he said, his voice dangerously quiet.

He grabbed the lapels of her robe. With a violent rip, he tore the fabric open.

Della screamed, crossing her arms over her chest, sliding down the wall to crouch on the floor. "No! Please!"

Darius stood over her, his chest heaving. He looked at her cowering form, at the terror in her eyes.

Something shifted in his face. The rage broke, replaced by something that looked like self-loathing.

He stepped back. He ran a hand through his hair, turning away from her.

"Cover yourself," he spat. "You disgust me."

He grabbed his whiskey glass and hurled it into the fireplace. It shattered.

He stormed out of the apartment, the front door slamming with a force that shook the walls.

Della stayed on the floor, clutching the torn robe. She touched her lips. They were swollen.

He had stopped. He was a monster, but he wasn't a rapist.

That was a line. And lines could be manipulated.