“Good,” he says simply, the single word carrying more weight than anything else he’s said.
A scream tears from my throat, raw and desperate, and I spin on my heel, running the rest of the way to my room. My heart pounds in my chest, my tears blinding me as I slam the door
behind me.
I barely hear the sound of the lock sliding into place.
My knees give out, and I sink to the floor, clutching my hands to my chest as sobs wrack my body. I hate them. I hate my father. I hate Tobias. I hate Jaxon Steele.
But most of all, I hate myself for thinking, even for a second, that anyone might care enough to save me.
I must have fallen asleep, the weight of exhaustion dragging me under, because when I wake up, the room is cloaked in shadow and silence. My face feels sticky, my eyes raw from crying. and for a moment, I can’t remember where I am.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The phone call. Tobias’s smug smile. My father’s cold, cruel voice.
The sting in my chest returns, sharper now, and I press my palms into my eyes, trying to push it away. But as I shift, something near the door catches my attention. A pile of fabric, dark and rumpled, sitting just inside the room.
Frowning, I sit up, my movements slow and cautious. It takes a moment to drag myself out of bed, my muscles stiff and my dress clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I approach the pile with wary steps, my bare feet brushing against the cold floor.
Jogging pants. A t–shirt. A hoodie.
They’re huge, the fabric clearly meant for someone much larger than me. The pants are soft and well–worn, the hoodie thick and heavy, the kind of thing you’d wear on a cold night. They’re so ordinary, so different from the tight, suffocating dress they shoved me into earlier, that I blink in disbelief.
I kneel beside the clothes, my fingers brushing over the fabric. It’s not new, not freshly laundered. There’s a faint scent clinging to it, one I recognize immediately.
That smell.
I inhale without thinking, and it’s there–sharp, musky, undeniably him. It’s the same scent I noticed the first time Jaxon came near me, the one that lingered when he leaned close enough to clean the blood from my face. A scent I hate because it’s delicious, warm, and grounding, and I don’t want to associate anything comforting with him.
These are Jaxon’s clothes.
I drop the hoodie like it burned me, my pulse quickening as I glare at the offending pile. The realization makes my skin crawl, my mind racing. Why? Why would he-
But of course. I know why.
They don’t keep clothes like this for women. Here, the only options are the tight, revealing dresses they use to turn us into objects, into distractions. Anything else belongs to the men.
My stomach churns with resentment, my fingers curling into the fabric of my dress. I want nothing less than to wear Jaxon Steele’s clothes. The very idea makes me sick. But as I shift, the dress pulls tight against my gibs, digging into my skin. It’s so short, so constricting, I can barely move, let alone breathe.
I glance at the camera in the corner of the room, its small red light blinking steadily.
My jaw tightens, my shoulders stiffening as I grab the pants and t–shirt and head to the farthest corner of the room. I position myself so that my body is shielded as much as possible from the camera’s view and work quickly, peeling off the dress and yanking on the too–big clothes.
The joggers slide low on my hips, the waistband gaping, but the fabric is soft, pooling around my ankles. The t–shirt swallows me, the sleeves brushing against my elbows, but it’s loose, comfortable, and it smells like him–like leather, smoke, and something faintly clean, like soap.
I hate it.
But as I crawl back into bed, the tension in my chest eases slightly. The tightness of the dress is gone, and for the first time in hours, I can take a full breath.
