Page 8 of Beautiful Savage
"No."
The word lands hard. The registration is immediate: mentioning Papa didn't help. It might have made things worse. My hands are shaking now, a fine tremor I can't control.
"Please." The vulnerability protocol, the one that's worked with every other dangerous man I've encountered. My shoulders curve inward, making myself smaller. "Just tell me what you want."
Still nothing. The protocols are failing in sequence, each one swallowed whole, like pebbles dropped into a void. The blood on his knuckles has darkened further in the failing light from the window. Something in my chest tightens at the place where tears should form, but can't. My body can't access them, like they're behind glass I can't break.
He moves. Two steps, not directly toward me but at an angle that puts him between me and the door. The door that was behind me is now behind him. Three feet away now. Close enough that I can smell him: cedar soap and something clean, no cologne, just the scent of a man who chooses not to announce himself. My vision tunnels briefly. I haven't breathed in four seconds. When the breath comes back, it's audible, ragged.
I'm trapped. The door is behind him now. The back door is through the kitchen, through the garden, past Papa's studio. My body knows both routes are closed.
My weight shifts back on my heels. "There must be some misunderstanding." The de-escalation protocol, offering him a face-saving exit.
He doesn't take it. Another protocol down. They're all failing.
I drop the protocols entirely. "What do you want with me?"
"You're coming with me." His voice is low, controlled, matter-of-fact. "Your father stays in his studio. You make a sound that brings him in, it gets worse for both of you."
The words land with finality that shuts down every social tool I've been running. This is a kidnapping. He's telling me I'm being taken. My performance clicks off like a switch. My shoulders drop. For the first time in my adult life, I don't know if I'm going to survive the night.
"Five minutes." His voice hasn't changed, same low control. "Pack a bag. One bag. Don't go near the back of the house."
The calculation happens in fragments. Papa is in his studio with his music on. He gets lost when he paints, won't hear normal voices. He'll hear shouting. If I shout, he comes. If he comes, this stranger has already told me what happens.
I go to my bedroom. He follows, stops in the doorway, fills it completely. I'd have to touch him to get past. There's no point in closing the door.
My hands shake so badly the duffel zipper takes three attempts. The metal teeth catch, release, catch again. From the closet: a small black canvas bag I used to take to the conservatory. From the dresser: underwear, two t-shirts, jeans, leggings, socks, a sports bra. Each movement feels like I'm moving through water, the trembling adding resistance to every gesture.
I cross to the bathroom. He steps aside to let me pass but stays where he can see. Toothbrush. I almost hand it to him directly to hold while I zip the toiletry bag, then remember to set it on the dresser instead. Back to the bedroom. Phone charger from the nightstand. My current book, the worn copy ofPersuasionI read over and over, the one about the woman who's been waiting for someone to come back.
I don't pack my ballet shoes. This isn't a trip where I'll dance.
I don't pack my wrap skirt. It stays in the laundry basket, the costume of a performance I might never give again, only I can't bring myself to care.
On my bedside table, my mother watches from her silver frame, frozen in permanent joy I can't remember her having. I look at the photo for three seconds. Don't pick it up. Don't say anything to it. I leave her there. The mother who taught me to be small can't help me now.
I think about Jarrod for half a heartbeat. The thought dissolves before it fully forms. There's no version of this where Jarrod saves anyone.
I zip the bag.
In the hallway, he holds out his palm. I understand without being told. I place my phone on his open hand, careful not to let our fingers touch. He pockets it without looking at the screen.
We walk through the living room. Past all six paintings of me at different ages, watching from the walls. I don't look at them. I'm looking at the door.
Outside, the evening air hits my skin, cooler than the cottage's trapped warmth. His truck waits half a block away. Black F-150, older model, anonymous. He puts my bag in the back. I get in the passenger side without being told. The cab is warmer than outside, holding the day's heat.
The truck pulls away. In the side mirror, the cottage shrinks. Papa is still in his studio, still painting, still unaware that everything just changed.
We drive south on I-95 as evening falls. He keeps both hands on the wheel, maintains exact speed limits, uses his turn signals precisely. His eyes never leave the road. He doesn't glance at me. Doesn't turn on the radio.
The cab smells like him: that cedar soap, clean cotton, maybe gun oil underneath. The blood on his knuckles has dried dark. The armored figure on his forearm catches the dashboard's glow. That sword, those wings, that righteous face I can't quite place.
"Where are we going?"
"Miami."
"Why are you taking me?"
