I should kill her now. I stop dead in my tracks, seriously considering it. I can't let her live anyway, so what's the point of all this torture? A hollow laugh rips out of my throat, because I know I won't do it until I absolutely have to. So I'll continue to fucking torture myself.

My eyes land on the keys, and I make a snap decision. I grab them and stride with purpose out of the library. I consider stopping at the guest room to get my gun, just in case I decide I should do it, but dismiss that idea after only a few seconds. I climb up to the third floor and unlock her door.

She's asleep on the bed, the sheets twisted around her legs. And she's only wearing her underwear. Of course.

I look at her, and really take in her every curve, her smooth skin, her parted lips. My fingers itch to run through her hair, and I clench my fists. Asleep like this, she almost looks innocent. Almost.

I watch her sleeping, allowing myself another moment of weakness. At least this time she's not awake to witness it. I match my breathing to hers, following the rise and fall of her breasts, calming myself down. I walk over to my chair and sit down.

And wait.

LEIGHTON

A ray of sunshine streams into my eyes, causing me to flip over onto my stomach. I grunt with the effort, before stretching my arms over my head, moaning softly.

Another day of doing nothing. Great.

Some people might enjoy having nothing to do all day, but not me. I’d rather be useful than laze around doing nothing productive. I’m one of those people who is usually never home because I’m always out doing something.

I push up onto my knees and then turn my head, squealing in surprise when I see Devon sitting in a chair across from my bed, eyes trained on me. I pull the sheet up, being caught off guard, suddenly feeling vulnerable in my panties and cami.

“'Bout time you woke up,” he says, his lips pursing.

“How long have you been sitting there?” I ask him. He shrugs. “It’s a little creepy.”

“You snore,” he says, an amused grin tracing his lips.

“I do not,” I say adamantly. I so don’t.

“Yeah you do, like an old man,” he says, imitating a sound similar to what I imagine a cat sounds like when it’s being strangled.

“What do you want, Devon?” I demand through narrowed eyes. I regret my question instantly, because his playful demeanor slips, his expression losing any warmth it possessed.

“I wanted to talk, thought you deserved to know what’s going to happen to you,” he says in a controlled voice.

“Please, enlighten me.” I try for strong, unwavering, but my voice falters.

“Now I don't know if I want to tell you,” he says, suddenly staring out the window.

“What? So, you've come here to what exactly? To play with my head? 'Cause you can cut the crap. Either say it or don't. Your mind games don't work on me,” I lie, narrowing my eyes. He turns his head to me in a swift movement, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“You’re lucky to be alive, princess. If it wasn’t for me you'd already be dead,” he says, his eyes searching my face.

“What do you want? A thank you for bringing me here, keeping me locked up? At least George would have gotten it over with already.” I tie up my hair in a messy ponytail. He watches my every movement intently. His eyes linger on the sheet around me for just a second too long.

I let it drop, liking the power I know I’m gaining.

“You think that’s going to work?” he asks in an even tone.

I shrug. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that? A little girl who thinks everything,” he says through clenched teeth, waving his hands around the room, “is a game.”

“Is my family safe?” I ask him, moving to the end of the bed. I ignore his little girl jab. He’s only two years older than me. And I know it’s not a game. At this point, I’ve given up on my theory that they want something in return for me. I’m pretty sure this goes way beyond extortion or blackmail.

“For now,” he confirms my suspicions, avoiding my gaze.

I get off the bed and walk over to him, adding more sway to my hips. His gaze locks onto them, and he swallows hard. “Don’t hurt them, Devon,” I say softly, hoping it will work. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to my family. There's nothing I wouldn’t do to protect them.

Devon narrows his eyes at me. “You aren’t in a position to ask for anything, Leighton. And if you think that—” he points his finger to my hips, “—will get you anywhere, you're even worse than I thought.”

I flinch, as if slapped. “Fuck you.”

“Well, you'd like that, wouldn’t you?” he snaps, standing up and twining his fingers behind his head. He pulls on his hair in frustration.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” I say, the vehemence in my voice surprising even me. “My dad—”

His head snaps in my direction. “Your dad, what? Where is he, Leighton? You've been here for a week, and I haven't heard a word about anyone looking for you. I could just kill you, and no one would ever know what happened to you,” he says, sounding smug.

“If you’re going to kill me then just do it. Stop with all the fucking games!” I yell.

Devon punches the wall and I wince. That must have hurt. The enormity of the situation hits me, and I can’t help the sob that escapes my throat. Devon spins, taking in the look on my face. He squeezes his eyes shut, and exhales heavily.

“Don’t fucking cry, Leighton,” he says, trying to sound gentler, but I still hear the anger beneath it.

“I’m not,” I whisper, as the first tear drops down my cheek. Embarrassed at my show of weakness, I hide my face in my hands, my body shaking with silent sobs. When a hand rubs my back soothingly, I lean toward it, welcoming the comfort. I put my face into his chest and fist his shirt, sobbing loudly. Why is he comforting me? This whole thing is so messed up.

We are so messed up.

“This is so fucked up,” he mutters under his breath. I raise my head and our eyes connect, his gaze softening. I feel like it’s the first time he really looked at me since I’ve been here.

“Is your hand okay?” I ask, rubbing my thumb over his now red knuckles.

“I’m fine,” he says, obviously not wanting me to fuss over him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Devon?” I whisper. He lifts my chin up with his finger, and I search his face for a clue to my fate.

“I don’t know, Leighton. I don’t fucking know anymore,” he says, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on my forehead.

His lips burn my skin.

“You’re going to have to stay here,” he says, his eyebrows furrowing.

“I know. I know you won’t hurt me,” I tell him, letting my eyes show him that I truly believe that. He instantly freezes, stiffening, and taking a step back.

“How do you know that? Why the fuck would you think you know what I would or wouldn't do?” he snaps, running his hand through his hair.

“Devon, I . . .”

“You don't know me,” he spits.

The realization hits me so suddenly I want to throw up. He's right. I know nothing about him.

“I’m not a good man, Leighton,” he continues, his voice pure acid. “I’m not a hero. I brought you here. Me.” He points an accusing finger to his chest. “You shouldn’t forget that,” he finishes in a harsh tone, walking to the door. He slams and locks it behind him.

I sit back down on the bed and stare at the spot on the wall he punched.

DEVON

The cigar and weed smoke in the room only worsen my pounding headache. The annoying repetitive music doesn’t help, either. Or maybe I’m just irritable. I didn’t sleep a minute last night, and the day seems to just drag on and on.

I sat in that chair for five hours, just watching Leighton sleep. Every now and then she would let out a moan, and I don't even want to admit what that did to me. I smile, remembering what a restless sleeper she was, constantly tossing and turning. An image of her top riding up, showing off her flat stomach, flashes in my mind. I kill the useless smile.