#held prisoner

art tag:

Standing in the lounge with knuckles braced on his desk, Jeff glowered at the image of his ‘captors’, but there was one part of his mind that found it funny, in a weird, black-humour sort of way. 

The three people on the primary holoscreen had completely restrained him without laying a single finger on him.

The secondary holoscreen was the one that provided the restraint: Scott, strapped to a table, his uniform opened and a weighted silver spike dangling over his heart. Alan, chained to a wall, a collar lined with obsidian flakes around his neck. Gordon, forced into mer form and lying on a stone floor with no water in sight but surrounded by a bank of deactivated heat lamps.

The implications were very, very obvious.

“Okay,” Jeff growled. “You’ve made your point. What do you want?” Out of their sight, he signalled to Kyrano and he knew that John and EOS were already on the case. 

You wake up warm and cozy, feeling more well-rested than you have in weeks. The bed is soft under you and a gentle weight is draped over your side. Your back is flush against what feels like a personal heater. A sprinkling of hair and a hot body, holding you protectively.

Your eyes fly open as you jolt to consciousness, the events of the previous day flooding your memory.

John.

It wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare and you were living it.

You try to wiggle out of his arms but his grip only tightens, drawing you back against him.

“Good morning.” John says gruffly, his voice still heavy from sleep.

For a brief instant, you consider telling him to go fuck himself. However, given the precarious nature of your undress and his previous reactions to misbehavior , you decide against it.

You've tried to act against him. It landed you with a dozen blows to your ass and three fingers stretching you open as he tormented you with his tongue. Until you begged him to let you come.

Perhaps a different avenue was needed.

The fact remains, you couldn't get out of this room without John. You needed to cooperate enough that he would take you out of the bedroom. Maybe there was a way out that wasn’t locked somewhere else in the house…

Maybe you could get to John’s phone, call the police…

This could all be over if you just pretended to cooperate.

What else could he do to you?

He’d already locked you away, violated you, humiliated you...

“Morning,” You softly say back.

"How did you sleep?"

"Good."

You hate that your answer isn't a lie.

John places a hand along your jaw, turning your face back as he leans over you. His lips gently press against yours in a soft kiss before kissing your forehead.

He pushes to a sitting position. "What would you like for breakfast, love?"

You start to sit up and remember your state of undress. You tug the blanket up to your chest as John stands. He had stripped down for bed and was wearing only a pair of boxers.

It was the first time you had seen him so bared.

It was no surprise that he could manhandle you the way he did. His body was lean, yet muscular. At the beach or the gym, you probably would have caught yourself ogling.

His back was covered in tattoos and a few lined his arms as well.

Large, bold letters bragged fortis fortuna adjust. Latin.

Fortune favors the strong.

Of course.

"What do you have?" You ask, absently as you study him.

He slips into the closet, listing, "eggs, pancakes, cereal, toast."

"Eggs, please."

The please slips out naturally and he rewards you with a flash of a smile as he steps back into the room, shrugging on a white shirt. He's also tossed on a pair of sweatpants.

No one should have the right to look that good scrubbed out.

Yet he really does.

Bastard.

"Bacon? Toast?"

You nod and he comes over, leaning down to kiss your head again.

"I'll be up soon."

The moment the deadbolt slides into place, you clamber out of bed and search for your clothes from last night. They're no longer on the floor which means John probably took them whenever he got up to change.

Unsure where they are, you proceed to the closet.

You suppose it was a good thing. John would probably prefer you in the clothes he had provided. Maybe it might help tempt him to bring you downstairs.

You quickly pick out a grey sweater and a pair of jeans, as well as mismatched lingerie. It was subtle but the last thing you wanted was John taking anything as a sexual pass.

You hurry to the bathroom, turning the water on for a quick shower. Just to scrub yourself clean after last night.

You waste no time, using the soap and hygiene products provided. You're trying to establish some sort of rapport with John, which means following his rules. For now. Which meant showering with the bathroom door open. For now.

It’s a shame, too. He has a large, spacious shower with an overhead spout that feels like heavy rainfall pouring down on you. In an ideal situation, you might have spent hours under it.

Instead, you rush to dry off and dress.

You hear the door open and yank the sweater over your head and pull your wet hair out. You walk back to the main room and, just like yesterday, John has breakfast. Two plates on a tray along with two mugs and a glass with something pink. A smoothie? He sets them down on the ottoman between the arm chairs.

John glances up as you come out, his eyes darkening at the sight of you in the clothes he picked out. You flush, involuntarily, as he gives you an approving nod.

“You look gorgeous.”

The clothes fit perfectly, the jeans hanging to your every curve. The sweater is as soft as it looked. You probably would have picked it out yourself if you were the kind of person who had superfluous funds to spend on little luxuries like nice clothes.

"Thank you."

You take the seat across from him, folding your legs beneath you.

He hands you the coffee which you accept. The mug has a daisy, your favorite flower. A coincidence? At this point, you doubt it..

You sip at it, testing the temperature and blink in surprise.

"Is this a vanilla latte?"

"Yes."

"You have an espresso machine?"

"I do now."

The implication is clear. He knows your coffee order and he’s taken steps to provide it for you.

The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, “How long have you been stalking me?”

John leans back in his chair, just watching you with a raised eyebrow. What you wouldn’t give to know what was going on his head. Is he annoyed? Amused? Pissed?

“Are we not supposed to talk about it?” You ask and there’s just a little bit of a condescending tone that nearly makes you wince as it hits your ears.

Hadn’t you decided to try to get out of this damn room by behaving?

But John’s face softens, “Would you feel better if we talked about it?”

Probably not but you shrug, “It might.”

John nods, almost thoughtfully, “I won’t promise to answer every question.”

You’re surprised that he gives that much. Eagerly, you sit up and nod, “Okay.”

“I understand that this is new.” He continues, “That this must be a difficult adjustment. And I’ll admit, I wasn’t fully prepared to bring you home.”

That was new information.

You open your mouth to ask what, exactly, his plan had been but John holds up a finger.

“I’ll answer your questions. After you eat.”

Fine by you.

You grab the toast and start eating, as quickly as you can without making yourself sick. You mentally prepare a list of questions that you want answered. John eats with you, for the first time, though you eat in silence. John seems content to eat and watch you.

You try to ignore the self-conscious tugs that you feel under his scrutiny.

Between the smoothie and the toast, you’re already full before you even try the eggs. When you can’t eat any more, you look up at John expectantly. He’s still eating but he nods to you, pausing to say, “Go ahead.”

“How long did you watch me?”

He swallows a bite of toast, “A week.”

“And that was long enough to make a decision to take me?”

John looks almost amused at that, “I knew you were mine the first day.”

Oooookay, you think.

"How?"

He doesn't say anything. Not wanting to push your luck, you move on. So you ask another question that's been burning in your mind.

"What exactly do you do, John?"

You take a sip of your latte and John gives the closest thing to a smile that you have seen. It's staggering and you're grateful, suddenly, that you are sitting because damn.

"I don't think you're ready for that conversation."

And what the fuck does that mean?

"Do you know how a conversation works, John?"

His lips twitch.

"I say something, then you respond."

"I did respond. You just didn't like my answer."

"That wasn't an answer." You argue, "at best, it was an evasion. Do you really think your answer is going to be worse than waking up in a strange place, tied to a bed?"

"Yes."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"I'm pretty sure nothing you do could surprise me at this point. Unless you say kindergarten teacher. That would genuinely shock me."

He considers it, for a moment, that small smile lingering on his face.

"I'm an assassin."

Huh.

You wonder, for a moment, if he's joking. An elaborate scheme where you're getting punked. Because, nope, you definitely hadn't been kidnapped by an assassin.

But here you are, locked in an elaborate prison.

"You're serious?" You ask, just to be sure, and John nods. Oh. .

Idly, you wonder if you’ll have your own lifetime movie.

It doesn’t scare you the way you think it should. You already knew he was capable of some terrifying feats and you were pretty sure that he didn’t go through all this just to kill you. He could have done that a thousand different ways by now if that was his intent.

“How does one become an assassin?”

“It’s what I was trained for.”

You lean forward with a slight sigh, “You’re really good at answering questions without actually saying a damn thing.”

Again, John’s lips twitch. "I apologize. I’m not used to… open-ended discussions.”

“What does that mean?”

“Typically, when I speak, it’s to make a point. To gain information. I’m not used to small talk.”

Small talk?

He had kidnapped you and was holding you captive and he thought this was small talk?  

“I’ll--” He hesitates, “Try to do better.”

“Thank you.” You say. It’s a small step but if you’re able to get him to talk, develop that rapport… maybe it would get you out of this room. This house. Get you the opening for escape.

“I was raised in a Romani orphanage until I was about eight.”

What. The. Fuck.

You hadn’t known what to expect but what the actual fuck.

“The orphanages were overcrowded and some of us were sent to the United States, where many of our tribe had emigrated and were running a special sort of school for assassins.”

You realize your mouth is open and you close it. Is he serious? He doesn’t seem like the kind who lies but holy fuck. Nearly every word out of his mouth has you shaken to your core and confused, yet again.

And this is supposed to be helping you to get out of here.

Instead, your heartstrings are being tugged by the mental image of a lonely, little John being forced to hold a gun.

“You started training to be an assassin when you were eight?”

John nods, “Around there. Didn’t really have a way to keep track of when I was born or how much time had passed.”

You’re not sure which is worse: the fact he literally didn’t know his age or the fact that, regardless of how old he had been, he had practically been a baby. Just a little kid.

You notice the rise in empathy spilling through you. No. No. A shitty childhood isn't an excuse for kidnapping and taking advantage of you the way he had.

But it wasn't as if he really knew better. Raised in an orphanage until he was sent to a school for assassins?

He must have been so scared.

Stop it . This is your captor.

You sip at your latte as the silent stretches out.

It wasn't the same, you think, but maybe if you can compare what you're going through now to what he went through...

"That must have been scary." You say softly.

John only shrugs, "I preferred it. I got a cot when I moved to New York. And we had heat in the winter."

Oh.

“Still, you were so young.”

John shrugs his shoulders, “Didn’t know anything else. I spent the first eight years of my life fighting for food. I spent the next few years fighting for survival.”

“And then?”

“I ran away.” He stops talking then, as if reconsidering, continues, “I was somewhere in my early teens and I got tired of the training and the competition and I left.”

“Where did you go?”

“I snuck on a train to California. Then hitchhiked to Mexico. I lived there for a couple of years. No child labor laws so I was able to work.”

“Doing what?”

“Farming, but only for a couple of years. The, uh, village I lived in was razed to the ground.”

Again, you’re staring in disbelief at him and yet… you can’t help but believe him. Which is ridiculous because the man who kidnapped you really isn’t someone you feel like you can trust, but his tone, the way that he’s saying all this… it’s so matter of fact.

At the very least, John believes whatever he’s saying.

“After that, I kind of went back to wandering.” He looks down, almost bashfully and that’s just too much to handle.

He’s the bad guy.

This would be so much easier if he laughed maniacally or yelled and screamed at you.

Softly, you ask “Where did you go?”

He shrugs before looking up. He opens his mouth and then closes it. “Mexico had been… dangerous. And without the safety of my village, I couldn’t really stay anymore. Everyone… so many people died that day.”

His voice is heavy with emotion and you have to dig your hand into the arm of the chair to stop you from reaching out.

God, this is so fucked up.

“I went north. By then, I could pass for eighteen. I ran weapons in LA for a few months, until I saved enough to get fake papers and IDs. And then I joined the Marines.”

Just when you think he’s going to zig, he zags.

“I didn’t mind it. Gave me food, housing. And their training regime was almost laughable compared to what I was doing as a kid. You didn’t get beat if you fucked up.”

You need to change the subject. And fast. Because right now, all you want to do is fly across and hug him the way someone should have when he was a kid. The worst part was he wasn't even trying to get sympathy points; he didn’t seem socially adept enough to do that.

You need to remember where you are.

“Is that how you ended back as an assassin?”

An assassin. Your kidnapper is an assassin . You need to remember that. To focus on the bigger picture and not the heartbreaking backstory.

You don’t care , you tell yourself.

“No. I mean, it helped me become a more efficient killer…”

You have to resist the urge to punch the air because yes . This is what you need to focus on.

“... but I became an assassin after I was discharged. By then, I was older and stronger than when I watched my village burn down. I went after the people who did it. I killed them all.” He seems to be looking at you, gauging for some sort of reaction. You don’t give him one and he continues, “It so happened that the same men who killed everyone twelve years earlier were holding someone for questioning. Another assassin. He brought me back into the fold.”

“The fold?” You say, “So there are others?”

“If you’re referring to assassins, yes. Thousands in New York, alone.”

You blink, “That can’t be right. How is there that much work?”

“Believe me,” John says, and his face has taken on that serious demeanor, “There’s an entire world that you don’t know about that lurks just beneath the surface.”

“A world of assassins?” You ask doubtfully, “It sounds like something out of a dystopian story.”

He shakes his head, “You have no idea how terrible and awful it actually is out there.’

I have some idea , you think. But bringing that up might not be your best move.

John reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He quickly enters a password and shifts through screens until he turns it towards you. He sets it on the ottoman between you and scrolls down.

A list of names come up, followed by denominations. Some have a little star next to them but you can’t make much out as John quickly scrolls through the options.

“What is this?” You ask.

“Open contracts. Just in the city. I can narrow it by borough or expand it to the tristate area.” He goes back a page and pulls up filters.

You swallow as you note that he can sort it by proximity, payout, or preferred method of killing.

“Those are the contracts that are currently open. Tomorrow, many of these will be done and more will have been added.”

He goes back another page and chooses his own profile.

Another list of names and denominations come up and he scrolls down to highlight just how many there are. It’s nowhere near as expansive of the first list but there must be more than a dozen.

“These are all contracts that I have been, personally, asked to take.”

Fuck.

“I’ll admit, I probably have been asked to take more than the average assassin but you need to understand. This is real. We may have existed in the same city, but we come from very different worlds.”

You set down the, now empty, latte mug on the ottoman, leaning forward as you do. “Then why take me?”

John pulls back his phone and sets it in his pocket. You wonder if, given enough time, you could figure out his passcode. Break in. Call for help.

“It was too dangerous for you.”

“For me?” You question, “Out of the two of us, I lived in the safer world.”

“Safety is relative.” He waves a hand as if that’s obvious, “And it doesn’t account for chaos.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That anything can happen. All it takes is one misplaced bullet. An instant of being caught in crossfire.”

Okay, sure. Chaos and randomness were part of life. Not all that unusual in the grand scheme of things. But his argument was that the world was too dangerous for you so he pulled you away from it?

“I could also choke to death in this room. Or a nuclear bomb could hit New York and wipe us out. I could get sick. Things happen, John.”

He shakes his head, “I watched you, Helen.” You resist the urge to shiver at the name. “I watched you reading on the subway, not paying attention to anyone around you. You lived in a building where the front door didn’t even lock . You were practically asking for trouble. Anyone could have found you!”

Anyone did .

“There’s no reason anyone would go after me!”

“But that’s where you’re wrong. And, believe me, I’m grateful that you don’t see the world the same way I do, but there will always be people who seek to destroy beautiful things.”

You try to ignore his assessment and the way his words make your heart stutters in your chest.

There should be a rule that kidnappers couldn't be charming.

You swallow and shift uncomfortably, “So this is the solution? Just locking me away from the rest of the world?”

He looks almost exasperated and you wonder if you should just quit now, while you’re ahead. You’ve already learned more than you ever expected to.

"The locking away is not forever." John says, “Just until you’ve adjusted to your new life.”

“There was nothing wrong with my old life!” spills out before you can think better of it.

His nostrils flare, “Your cupboards were bare. Coffee was your breakfast and you barely ate lunch. Basically no survival instincts, living in a building that couldn’t have been easier to break into. Still over a hundred grand in debt from college--”

“How the fuck do you know that?” You ask. You knew he had been in your home but the way he says it, the things he knows...

John tilts his head to the side, “Your banking is on your phone. It’s not exactly secure.”

You look down, pushing your hair back, “Jesus.”

“It’s paid off.”

That causes you to look up, blinking in surprise.  “What?”

“Your debt. It’s paid off.”

“What, you just had a hundred grand laying around?”

He shoots you a look because, of course he did. Probably didn’t even blink an eye at the sum that was keeping you living in said unsecure apartment and skipping meals a few times a week.

Why? You wonder. Because kidnappers shouldn’t give a damn about debt. Big picture, it was inconsequential, but he had gone through the trouble of figuring out your account and wiring money. Why?

John Wick is an enigma.

You’re never quite sure which way he’s going to go and then he goes and pulls things like this.

There’s a look of concentration on his face, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say. Ironic, you think, because there isn’t anything right he can say short of, “Here’s the key.”

Instead, he exhales, “I know this isn’t easy. I wish I could have prepared more but even then… you’re stubborn as hell.”

You think back to earlier, when he had offered a similar sentiment, “You said you hadn’t planned on taking me yet.”

“No.” He agrees, “I hadn’t. Although I’m not upset that I did. Even with the lock that you replaced, it was making me very anxious thinking of you alone in that building for any amount of time. I’ll admit you impressed me, there. I know you hadn’t seen me.”

"I felt you." You admit, "watching me. Always just out of sight. I felt like I was losing my mind."

"For that, I am sorry."

And now he was apologizing? Albeit not for kidnapping you, but for the manner in which he haunted you. It was more than you were expecting, although considering your position, the bar was undeniably low.

"Thank you." You say softly.

He smiles at you approvingly.

Rules and consequences, you muse. You've done something right, in John's eyes.

Of course, his version of a reward involved him teasing you with his fingers and tongue for an hour until you begged him to let you come.

The fact you've never come harder in your life was a thought you were saving to discuss with a therapist, if you ever make it out of here.

You wondered how much sex played into all this. Was it a motivator for him? Or just a bonus?

Again, you're forced to confront yet another twisted reality: were their others? This elaborate prison couldn't have been built, in a matter of only days, for you? Was that why he lamented having taken you so soon?

Its a dangerous question but you have to know. You need to know.

"Are there others that you've taken?"

His expression quickly shifts and you know, you know, you've said the wrong thing. You've pissed him off.

John leans forward, dark eyes on you the entire time, "No. And because, apparently, I have not made myself clear, there aren't any others, there have never been any others, there will never be any others. You are mine."

You shiver at his words. It seems unreal, almost. Because, honestly, you weren't that interesting.

You worked and you went home. Your hobbies were almost all homebody activities. The few friends you did have made fun of you for acting like a grandma.

It's all too overwhelming.

"I'm nobody," you whisper.

A beat passes and John closes the distance between you, stopping just in front of your chair. His hand reaches out and gently caresses your face. You resist the urge to shiver at the contact.

"You're wrong." He says it with conviction and you almost wonder if he knows something you don't. Of course, he doesn’t. He can’t.

But before you can say as much, he angles your face towards his and leans forward.

He wastes no time in capturing your mouth in a kiss as his hands tangle themselves in your hair. You dig your fingers into the chair as he devours you as you do your best to ignore the part of you that wants to wrap your arms around him in turn.

His hands rolls down your body before sinking into your ass. He rips you from your seat, almost effortlessly and you scramble to hold onto him as he drives you both back to the bed.

You're lowered until your back hits the mattress. Before you can blink, John is on top of you, kissing you again.

It hardly feels like a kiss so much as being consumed. He drinks from you like a fine wine, groaning suddenly, and you realize one of your legs has wound itself around his thighs, holding his body to yours. Immediately, you go to move it but John's hand shoots out to hold it in place as he rocks into you.

Fuck, you think, barely able to breathe as he kisses you harder.

You manage to turn your head to the side as he parts for breath, but it doesn't seem to even phase him.

His mouth lowers to your neck and suddenly he is fused to you. He sucks then nips and, god, this is somehow worse than him kissing you because it feels so good.

Your neck has always been sensitive and between John's lips, tongue, and that sinful beard, you feel as if you're losing your mind.

You can still taste him in your mouth and, god help you, he tastes so good.

He feels good, in ways he really shouldn't. His mouth on your neck has you aching in your core, wishing you could appease the discomfort.

John's beard scratches up your neck and over your cheek. The drag burns but it doesn't hurt so much as make you hyper aware of his presence. As if you could ever be anything else.

You’re not sure how much time passes as you lie there, underneath John. Locked in an embrace. He just holds you, his head tucking down. He breathes in deeply as he rests his face in the crook of your neck.

After a few minutes, he lets your leg fall back to the bed and he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“I know that this is different from what you’re used to. I know you must be feeling all sorts of things you aren't used to," you shiver as he looks up and meets your eyes, "But things will make sense. And they will get better. Okay?"

He seems almost tender in the moment and you're a little afraid of pushing him back towards aggressive. Still, your fear pushes you to say, "I don't want to be locked up forever."

"You won't be." He promises, a hand caressing your face and pushing your hair back. "I don't want you to have to be locked up at all. Right now, this is for your own protection."

From the outside world. An invisible enemy that likely doesn't exist outside John's head. From a million threats that came with just being alive.

"Down the line, when I feel you can be safe, I’ll take you out. Maybe we can get away for the weekend and go somewhere nice. But we’ll start slow. The house, the property. Trust needs to be earned.”

Trust needs to be earned. You can work with that. Bide your time, if need be.

“So,” you clarify, “If I’m good, I can go outside?”

“You can go on the balcony, with me, for now. But you cannot leave the property."

"Can… can I see the house?” You ask, surprising yourself with the desperation of it. The little spark of joy that comes at the idea of leaving this room.

John seems to consider your query, looking at you with an intense concentration.

You lick your lips, “I’ll be good.” You try, wondering if that might egg him in the right direction.

You doubt you’ll be able to escape. He probably has the entire house locked down like this room, but even if you can figure out exits, find out if there’s a phone…

Bide your time.

You can start to plan.

“Please?”

And at once, he seems to break in his resolve.

“Alright.” He says and John pushes to a seated position, “But if you misbehave, I swear to you, you will not leave this room for at least a week.”

“I’ll behave.” You find yourself nodding and John offers you a hand. You take it and he easily tugs you up.

"Why don't you grab your slippers?" John prompts and you ignore the sting of being infantilized.

You hurry to oblige. You had been so caught up in getting away from John, it hadn't occurred to you just how desperate you were to get out of this white room.

John undoes the locks while you get ready. You hear the faint beeping and then the click of the lock as you come out. The door is open and you feel a wave of relief flow through you. Stupid, you think. You’re not getting out of here anytime soon. But at least you can stretch your legs. Get a glimpse of the rest of your prison.

He offers you a hand. Again, unwilling to risk losing this opportunity, you take it.

John's hand is warm, if a little calloused. He leads you down a long hallway with closed doors. “Spare bedrooms.” He offers in terms of explanation. The last door, which is also shut, John hesitates on. It is at the very end of the long hallway.

“This room… is not done. I’ll show it to you later in the week.”

A twinge of anxiety hits your stomach. That he wouldn’t show you the room had many implications, all involving you. Your mind immediately went to torture chamber, but you pushed that thought out. For all his talk of punishments, he really seemed to prefer you willing and compliant.

You nod, however, and John turns you to look around at the balcony. Jesus fucking Christ.

His living room is massive. Bigger-than-your-apartment kind of big. It consists of a primary level that is largely empty of stuff save a few plants and side tables and a sunken center. The sunken center has two couches, several chairs, and a coffee table. All are centered around a tv that takes up a good portion of the wall.

John tugs your hand towards the stairs, which spiral down to the first level, and you descend.

"You're welcome to explore." He says as you reach the first level, "The basement is off limits for now. But the rest of the house is open to you."

He releases her hand and she steps forward, looking around. The house is stark white, with no paints or wallpapers to add a bit of color. There are, however, large windows that stretch entire walls.

There's a courtyard with trees and a bench, encased between walls and glass.

Unreal.

You walk across and under an entry way and into a large kitchen. There's a breakfast nook under a window, a granite countertop bar, and more space than you ever imagined in your dream kitchen.

Life really was unfair.

There's also a glass door. You imagine its made of the same unbreakable material as upstairs. It seems to be set up with the same kind of triple-lock system as your room. Thumb print, retinal scan, and a code.

Off the kitchen is a dining room, clearly unused, but clean.

It was a huge house but it almost looked like a house in a magazine or a model used for a walkthrough.

There was very little evidence that anyone lived there.

You look at John, who has followed you room to room, with curiosity.

He raises a brow.

"How long have you lived here?"

“Fourteen years.”

You blink, “Are you kidding?”

He shakes his head, “Why?”

“You’d never know.” You say, idly walking though and ending up back in the large living room. “There don’t seem to be any personal touches.”

“I don’t need much.”

Ironic, you think, considering the fact he lives in a fucking mansion.

Suddenly, a hand is placed on your chest as an arm reaches around you. John steps into the space behind you and holds you to him, resting his chin on your head as you both look out over the large space.

“You can decorate it however you like.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as he adds, “It’s your home, too, Helen.”

What a thought that is.

But he’s right, at least to an extent.

Until you can find a way out, this house is yours.

Your home.