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.

Morning light filtered into the living room. Della woke up on the sofa. Her neck was stiff.

The apartment was silent. Darius hadn't come back.

Della looked down at her ruined robe. She couldn't wear this.

She stood up and walked to the master bedroom. She pushed the door open. The room smelled like him-sandalwood and cedar. It made her skin prickle.

She went to the closet. It was a walk-in, filled with rows of pristine suits. Navy, black, charcoal.

She grabbed a white dress shirt. She put it on. It hung to her mid-thighs, swallowing her small frame. She buttoned it up to the collar.

She looked in the mirror. She looked small. Vulnerable.

She thought about last night. Fighting him had almost gotten her assaulted. Screaming got her nowhere.

She needed to change tactics. If he wanted a pet, she would be a pet. A quiet, obedient pet who was waiting for the cage door to be left unlocked.

Henderson rolled a garment rack into the living room.

"Miss," he said, not batting an eye at her attire. "Sir ordered these for you."

Della touched the fabric of a silk dress. It was Gucci. There were rows of dresses, soft sweaters, designer jeans.

"Thank you," she whispered, lowering her head.

Henderson held out a black credit card. "For incidentals. Online only. No communication devices can be purchased."

Della took the card. "He... he bought these for me?"

"Sir expects you to be dressed for dinner."

Della nodded. "Okay."

When Henderson left, she searched the clothes. No receipts. No hidden notes. Just expensive fabric.

She chose a pale pink dress. It was modest, soft. It made her look innocent.

She went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge. It was fully stocked.

She took out vegetables. She found a cutting board. She pulled a chef's knife from the block.

It felt heavy in her hand.

She started chopping onions. The rhythmic sound of the blade hitting the wood was soothing. Chop. Chop. Chop.

The elevator chimed.

Della froze. Her grip on the knife tightened.

Footsteps approached. Heavy. tired.

She forced her hand to relax. She continued chopping. Tears from the onions blurred her vision.

"What are you doing?" Darius's voice.

Della turned. She kept the knife low, non-threatening. She forced a small, tremulous smile.

"I'm making dinner," she said.