Case came back into consciousness, goopy peanut-butter brain drowsy with confusion. No light at the end of a tunnel. No dreams or hallucinations. No recap of the last eighteen years flashing before his eyes. A migraine constricted around his skull. If he was in pain, that meant one thing:

I'm still alive.

He groaned, stirring. Why was he still alive? He tried to access his memory—What had happened when he passed out? What happened before, his fight with Sir, why had he eaten the Reese's pieces?—but it was all a shadowy and fuzzy.

Fuzzy . . . fluffy . . .

A blanket, soft and warm, hugged his body. A pillow cradled his achy head and stiff neck. A mattress contoured itself around him, like sponge trying to absorb him into the realm of sleep. Case slackened, tempted to drift back into the peace of unconsciousness. Fabric brushed against his bare skin. Bare arms. Bare torso. Bare ass. Where were his clothes? Wait, had he been wearing clothes? Shit, he couldn't remember.

Temples pounding, he peeled open his eyes and squinted through bleary vision.

Case wasn't in the basement anymore.

Light—cool and bluish, like the dawn before it'd been warmed by the morning sun—diffused through the room. A dark-wood bedside table had a light coat of dust on its surface, save for a clear circle that could've recently been the resting place of a lamp or coaster. A mid-century loveseat was pushed against the wall, disheveled by a crumpled blanket draped over the seat, and squashed cushions-for-pillows stacked into the corner of the armrest. Sheer fabric had caught and bunched against the top of the loveseat as someone had opened the curtains overhead.

Dawn lit the window. The outside world was white. Blank. Nothing. But oh, so bright.

Emotion flooded Case, and he made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Forgetting his drowsy-sluggishness, he moved, wanting to get closer to the window.

Metal rattled against something solid.

Suddenly, he became aware of the tingly-achy-numbness in his wrist. He flexed his fingers, realizing the circulation in his hand had been cut-off. A silver bracelet circled his wrist. No, not a bracelet. A handcuff.

No. Case yanked at the cuff, following the link chain locked to the bedpost. Shit.

Panic started to rise, but he took a breath. Told himself to be calm. Of course, Sir wouldn't have made it that easy for him. So, he had to be smart, keep cool. Assess his new surroundings.

Only one of his wrists was locked to the bed. He rolled onto his back, his brain bobbing like a buoy caught in the waves. Above him, wooden beams ran across a vaulted ceiling. The severed head of a taxidermy deer watched over him. He pushed himself up by his heels, wanting a better scope of the room—no, bedroom—but realized that beneath the heavy duvet he was bound at the ankles.

Okay, he thought, blowing out a long breath. He needed to focus. Needed to think.

Obviously, Sir had put him here. Why?

The voice started to wonder, why would Sir save him?

Don't worry about that, he told himself. That wasn't important now. Now, he had to figure out his chances for escape. He could literally see the outside world, but if he was chained to a bed then he was no closer to freedom than if he was still locked in the basement. God, think.

Case tried to use his free hand to undo the cuffs. There was no safety latch, and no way he was going to squeeze his hand through the wristlet.

He followed the link-chain to the bedpost. Realized the other end was secure to the rail, and definitely coming free there, either.

He stretched, reaching below the blanket. First, he felt along his side, confirming he was naked. With certainty, he remembered wearing pants before he'd passed out. Which meant Sir had definitely undressed him.

Never mind that.

Blind, he figured out he was bound at the ankles, a second chain locked at one of the bedposts at the footrest. He reached for his ankles, but there wasn't enough give in the chains.

"Dammit," Case huffed, flopping back into the mattress. He groaned, defeated. For now.

There wasn't a clock in the room, but Case could tell the passing time as sunrise streamed through the window. The blue-haze cleared, the morning turning clear and the room warming early with summer.

Dehydration was getting to him now. Case licked his cry, cracked lips, needing a drink of water. He tried to wet his parched throat with saliva as he distracted himself with his surroundings.

Framed pictures decorated the gunmetal-gray walls. Photographs—not the personal kind, like snapshots from vacation or family portraits. The arty kind. The bold kind, hung on the wall as a statement: a scorpion perched on a woman's face; a tarantula at rest on a hairless pubis; a woman in black-and-white, gluey fluid dripping from her face and down her clamped nipples. An image popped into Case's head, of Sir bringing young women he wanted to defile into this room, making them stare at the artwork, testing them. Testing their threshold between disturbance and arousal.

Then, unwillingly, Case pictured Sir fucking them. Imagined him on top of some wide-eyed girl, too scared to say she was having second-thoughts, that yes he'd made her uncomfortable and no she didn't want to have sex with him. But she wouldn't say that.

Because Case never said that. Because it'd always been easier to go along with it, to either shut up and wait out the climax, or convince himself he was enjoying it.

You did say no, said the voice of clarity. You said no. You said stop. With your words and your body. They just didn't listen. They just didn't care, and that wasn't okay, Case.

It wasn't okay.

A door creaked open. Case craned his neck at the sound, the movement.

Sir's large form dominated the doorway, blocking the light coming from the rest of the house. His blank face was marked with dead-sea eyes. He approached the bed with rigid posture, carrying a water bottle and straw. Single-handedly, he dragged one end of the loveseat toward the bed, its legs scraping against the polished floorboards. Sir held out the bottle, angling the straw to Case's mouth.

Case tightened his lips. He made eye contact, unflinching against the storm, and gave a small but defiant shake of his head. No.

Sighing, Sir brought the straw to his own thin lips and took a sip. Swallowed, opened wide with a pointedly refreshed ahhh.

The straw was offered to him again, and this time Case accepted. He took a tentative sip, the cold water washing down his sandpaper throat and unleashing a deeply hidden thirst. He sucked gulpfuls of water through the straw, watching the bottle slowly empty, until Sir pulled decided he'd had enough and took the bottle away. Case rolled back, gasping for air, his belly full and sloshing.

A beat passed, silent except for Case catching his breath. "So," he started, pausing to steady himself. To test the resistance of the handcuff chains. "Is this the part where you rape me?"

"You think I'm such a monster."

"It's that or you kill me, isn't it?" Case pressed. But even now, he knew Sir wasn't planning on having sex with him. Case may have been naked, but his ankles were locked together, closing his legs. And, as he'd learned over the last however many months, Sir didn't get off on physically restraining his victims; Sir liked his victims' helplessness and submission to be psychological.

And Case wasn't that kind of prisoner. Not anymore.

"I'm not going to kill you, Casey. At least, not after I fought so hard to save you. That'd be such a waste," he said, reaching over to tenderly brush the overgrown hair from Case's forehead.

Case's instinct was to recoil at the touch. But he stayed in place, his jaw clenched, molars chewing the skin inside his cheek.

"Don't get me wrong," Sir continued. "If I wanted you dead, it'd be by my hand. Not yours."

Wind picked up outside. A tree branch tapped against the window.

"But I meant what I said. If I lost you, I think it'd actually break me. You complete me so well, Casey. You're everything I've tried to find."

"And what is that? You keep saying it, but why do you think I'm so special?"

Sir paused, staring into him for a moment. A chance for the familiar, overwhelming sense of opia to grip Case—but he steeled himself against the invasive connection.

"There's a sadness in you. A pain that was already there when I found you. I can always see it, even when you're smiling. You're damaged in a way that'll never really heal, not even to leave a scar. That's a kind of broken that deeply changes a person, Casey. Makes them crave affection in all the wrong, dark spaces."

"And you're the dark space."

"I am." Sir nodded, as if he embraced that label but also acknowledged its solemnity. "There's something wrong with me, Casey. I know that. And it's so hard for me to find someone that can sustain the damage I need to inflict. It takes a special kind of person to thrive in this kind of darkness, Casey. If I lost you, I don't think I'd ever replace you. And I can't bear that kind of loss."

Case inhaled deeply, absorbing this. He stared over Sir's shoulder, to the window that was still over-exposed with daylight, a lone twig with delicate green leaves tapping at the pane. Well, this was it: he'd secured his survival. Sir wasn't going to kill him. Not now. Probably never. There probably wasn't going to be another shot at suicide for Case, either.

Case would go back to the basement, to be raped and abused by Sir until one or both or their bodies were too old or broken to continue. He'd never talk to his family again. He'd never apologize to Miles' parents for getting their son killed. Never see Jay again. Never graduate high school, or go to college or travel or get a job, or kiss a girl, or start a family of his own. Never find love.

This. Was. It.

It's okay, said the voice. It's not all bad with Sir. Look at all the good there's been, too. He can be kind, he can be soft. You can be happy with him, if you let yourself. You can love him, if you let yourself. Stay. Stay . . .

No, Case and the voice of clarity said together. No, this isn't love. This isn't healthy. This isn't okay.

"Well," Sir said, tapping his knee. "Since you're looking stable, I'll move you back downstairs soon. You can enjoy the sun a bit longer while I get everything sorted."

Sir stood, dragging the loveseat back to the wall on his way out. He left the bedroom, but the sound of his movement throughout the house carried back to Case. Footsteps, the clatter of rummaging through cupboards and draws, the familiar screech of metal hinges.

Embrace it, Casey, said the voice. You'll be happy with Sir, if you just surrender.

"No," Case said, banishing the voice back into the dark chasm of his psyche, like Gandalf throwing the Balrog back into the shadowy depths. "No, I'm not doing this. Not anymore."

This was probably his last chance. So, how was he getting out of here?

He could scream. Maybe. Maybe the neighbors would hear?

They won't get here on time, Case reasoned with himself. Sir would be on him, smothering him the moment he shouted HELP! There was no relying on someone else to come save him. Case had to save himself.

Case yanked at the handcuffs. Grabbed the bedpost with his free hand, tried to snap it from the solid wood frame. But his muscles were weak, and there was no budge.

Footsteps approached from the hallway.

"Shit," he hissed, letting go. He sighed into the pillow, the masculine stench of cologne and smoke filling his head. "No," he moaned. There was a fire in him now. A spark he wasn't going to let snuff out—even if escape seemed hopeless. "No, no, no . . ."

Sir re-entered the bedroom. Carrying a silver key, along with a ball-gag and black blindfold.

No. This was it. Back to the basement.

Sir knelt on the mattress behind Case, pinning his free arm to his back. Case locked his focus onto the window as Sir cuffed both his hands against his spine. A ball-gag forced itself into his mouth. Before the blindfold came on, Case burned the image of the window into his mind:

The ultra-white brightness of the sun and the sky. The little green leaf waving to him from the other side.

Case may have goneinto the basement already broken the first time. But he was stronger now. Casewas bamboo, and bamboo grows toward sunlight.