The black spots in Arla's vision were merging into a curtain.

A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, it rolled down her cheek and landed on the back of Culver's hand.

The sensation seemed to shock him, he flinched, as if the tear were acid.

His grip loosened.

Arla dropped to the floor, her throat made a terrible, wheezing sound.

Culver stood over her, swaying slightly. The drug was still pulsing through him, warping his reality, but the physical contact had grounded him momentarily.

"Speak," he commanded. "Which paper are you with? Did my father send you?"

Arla looked up, her eyes were red-rimmed, filled with terror. She opened her mouth, tried to form the words I don't know, but her vocal cords just vibrated uselessly.

Culver frowned. He crouched down, grabbing her chin roughly, tilted her head back into the moonlight.

"Open," he ordered.

She didn't resist. Even in the dim light, he saw the faint, pale lines deep in her throat-not the jagged scarring of a weapon, but the tell-tale signs of chronic inflammation, as if from a chemical agent.

"Mute," he murmured.

She wasn't an assassin.

The heat in his blood surged again. He needed release.

He grabbed her arm and hauled her up, threw her toward the bed.

Arla landed on the mattress, bouncing once. She scrambled backward, trying to get to the other side, but Culver caught her ankle. He dragged her back down the expanse of the bed.

The silk robe had come loose. It slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her waist.

Culver paused. His gaze traced the landscape of her back. The moonlight highlighted every ridge, every old wound.

"You're a mess," he said. His voice was thick. He ran a finger down a long, pale scar on her spine.

He climbed over her.

Arla flipped onto her back, pushing at his chest. She scratched him, drawing lines of blood across his shoulders.

The pain seemed to focus him, he didn't pull away. He lowered his head and bit down on the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder.

It wasn't a kiss, it was a claim.

Arla stopped fighting. She went limp, staring up at the ceiling, dissociating from the body that was being used.

Culver watched her eyes the whole time. He was looking for something-fear, judgment, recognition. He found none of it, just a vast, empty silence.

When it was over, Arla curled into a ball on the far edge of the bed, pulling the torn robe around herself.

Culver reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. The flame of the lighter flared, illuminating his sharp profile. He took a drag, exhaling a cloud of grey smoke.

He picked up the internal phone.

"Julian," he said. "Come in."

Arla squeezed her eyes shut. This was it. The disposal.

The door opened, Julian stepped in, his gaze sweeping over the room. He noted the blood on the sheets, the smell of sex and sweat. His expression didn't change.

Culver was standing by the window now, wrapped in a black robe, looking out at the dark grounds.

"Clean this up," Culver said without turning around. "Take her to the Guest Cottage."

Julian paused. "Sir? The protocol is to return the asset to the facility."

"She's a mute," Culver said. "And she's... durable. Keep her."

Julian signaled to the guards in the hallway.

They entered and wrapped Arla in a wool blanket and carried her out.

They shoved her into the back of a golf cart, took her to a small stone house covered in ivy.

Julian followed, tossing a bundle of fabric onto the sofa.

"Maid's uniform," he said. "There are no personal items here, food will be delivered."

He stood by the door, his hand on the knob.

"Rule one: You do not leave this building. Rule two: You do not attempt to contact the outside world. Rule three: You are available when he calls."

Julian stepped out. The heavy oak door slammed.

Arla waited. She counted to sixty, then, she moved.

She dropped the blanket and stood up, the trembling in her legs was gone. She walked to the center of the living room and looked up.

Corner of the ceiling: a small red light. Camera.

Bedroom: another red light. Camera.

She walked into the bathroom, checked the corners. Nothing, the only blind spot.

She turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run. She splashed her face, scrubbing away the sweat and the smell of him.

A memory flashed-a man's voice, low and rough. Always leave yourself a back door, Arla.

Arla. That was her name, she held onto it.

She began to explore the kitchenette.

The drawers were empty of sharp objects, no knives, only round-tipped butter spreaders.

She opened the junk drawer.

There.

A single paperclip, wedged in the corner.

She palmed it instantly, she brought her hand to her mouth, pretending to cough, and slipped the metal clip under her tongue.

In the main house study, Culver sat in front of a bank of monitors.

"Dr. White says she was admitted a year ago," Julian said, reading from a tablet. "Car accident, traumatic brain injury."

Culver zoomed in on the camera feed from the cottage. Arla was curled up on the sofa, looking small and harmless.

"A car accident doesn't leave whip marks," Culver said. "Dig deeper, I want to know where she came from."

On the screen, Arla shifted. Underneath the cushion, unseen by the camera, her fingernail was scratching a map into the fabric of the sofa base-the layout of the estate she had memorized from the cart ride.

Culver pressed the intercom button.

"Sleep well, little mute," his voice echoed in the cottage.

Arla looked up at the camera, she gave a weak, trembling smile. Under her tongue, the paperclip pressed sharp against the soft tissue.

Morning light filtered through the iron bars disguised as decorative lattice on the windows.

At 8:00 AM, the lock turned. A maid entered, placed a tray of toast and coffee on the table, and left without a word.

Arla ate half the toast, she wrapped the other half in a napkin and hid it behind the cooling coils of the refrigerator, reserves.

She waited until the sun hit the window glass, creating a glare that might obscure the camera's view. She pulled the paperclip from her mouth, she had bent it into a pick during the night.

She worked the window latch.

Click.

The latch gave. Victory surged in her chest, she pushed the window up.

No alarm sounded.

She leaned out, but as she reached her hand past the frame, a faint red beam intersected her wrist.

Immediately, a silent alert must have triggered.

Thirty seconds later, two guards rounded the corner of the cottage, a Doberman straining on a leash between them.

Arla slammed the window shut and threw herself onto the bed, feigning sleep.

The guards shone a flashlight through the glass. "Damn squirrels," one muttered. "Sensors are too sensitive."

They left.

Arla lay still, her heart pounding. Physical escape was impossible, the perimeter was electronic.

At 2:00 PM, the door opened again. It wasn't food.

Julian walked in, followed by a man in a white coat.

The doctor opened a case and prepared a syringe. Arla recognized the vial, Depo-Provera, Birth control.

The doctor grabbed her arm, the needle pierced her skin. Arla forcing the muscle to contract violently, expelling the majority of the viscous liquid back out the moment the needle withdrew. She quickly wiped away as the doctor turned his back.

"It's for your own good," Julian said, looking away. "You don't want a Lancaster bastard."

Julian tossed a document onto the bed.

"Sign it."

It was a Non-Disclosure Agreement. It stated that she was a voluntary domestic employee and that she would never speak of her time here.

Arla looked at the paper, the document was legally worthless-signed under duress by a woman officially declared mentally incompetent, with no next of kin. But for an audience of one-Culver-her compliance was the only performance that mattered right now. She picked up the pen and signed on the paper.

"Good girl," Julian said.

Night fell, Culver didn't come.

From her window, Arla could see the main house. It was lit up like a Christmas tree, luxury cars lined the driveway, it's a gala.

She saw figures on the terrace, a woman in a shimmering backless gown was holding onto Culver's arm. Eleonore Joyce.

Arla squinted, a headache spiked behind her eyes, she knew that woman.

She watched the service entrance, the maids were bringing food in and out.

At six o'clock in the evening, the maid will open the door of her cottage to deliver dinner. The door will open for about 15 seconds.

Fifteen seconds, not enough to run.

She needed a distraction, chaos.

Her eyes landed on the gas stove in the kitchenette.