6. Quiet

SIX

QUIET

GENEVIEVE

O ur third day in the cell, Cross is once again up already by the time I accept I just can’t stay asleep any longer myself.

It’s my stupid empty stomach that forces me awake. After close to two days of nothing but water, I’ve never been so hungry—and considering my job, that’s saying something. As a professional ballerina, I spent most of my life eating less calories than I should so that I could stay as small as possible. It’s a downside to the career I chose, and I’ve seen too many of my colleagues go down the road of EDs and injuries because they didn’t have enough nutrients to prevent an injury.

I was lucky enough to be born with a slimmer frame. Hours of training gave me the muscle I needed to perform, but if my bones were any heavier, I’d have aged out of ballet years ago. This past year’s recurring ankle injury is just another sign that I’ve probably pushed my body to its limits, but when it came to my diet, I never overdid like so many other dancers. I skipped meals whenever Madame Durand pinched my side and told me I was getting too chubby for my leotard, but I drew the line at starving myself.

Skipping dinner and cutting my portions in half is one thing; it wasn’t healthy, and I stopped doing that after I left Madame’s studio, auditioning as part of a local company for theaters in Springfield, Riverside, and other nearby cities. But neither of us have had anything to eat since breakfast two days ago, and the gnawing hunger is really getting to me.

It hurts, but when I force myself up, resting on my elbows, searching for Cross, I see that he climbed out of the cot. He’s sitting on the floor, back up against the cinderblock wall, head bowed. The longish front strands of his hair are falling into his face, hiding it from me, though when he hears the cot squeak and glances up, I can’t miss his wince.

He’s hurting just as much as I am.

Keeping my voice low so that I don’t make it worse, I murmur, “Still bad?”

“It’s getting better.”

He’s lying to me. Another way for him to protect me, I guess, but if I hadn’t caught him rubbing his temples last night, I don’t think he would’ve even let me know how much his head is killing him right now.

That’s the caffeine withdrawal. It was one thing, teasing him when all I ever saw him down were energy drinks. It only took until yesterday morning for the caffeine withdrawal to kick in. Pair that with no food and Cross did his best to hide how miserable he was until he slipped up and I finally caught on.

There was nothing we could do about it, and if there really is someone watching us on the other side of that camera, they have a front-row seat to see how their actions are affecting us. I mean, we’re prisoners. That much is a given.

I just wish I knew why .

It doesn’t matter that I can guess. Damien might have done his best to keep me shielded from the criminal side of his Family, but a nosy younger sister can’t truly be kept ignorant when she’s as curious and insatiable as I was.

Now look at me. All I wanted was for Damien to realize that I wasn’t a little girl, that I grew up, that I finally found a man who I thought could make me happy… and now we’re both stuck behind a cell, hungry and hurting and pretending like everything is going to be.

That’s why I left Cross have his lie.

His head doesn’t hurt? Okay. I don’t see him wince when the overly bright light flashes a certain way? Sure. That wasn’t his stomach rumbling? Well, maybe he’s right. It could’ve been mine.

“Did you at least get some sleep?”

I’m prepared for him to lie about that, too. It wouldn’t be such a surprise. I knew before we woke up together in this cage that Cross suffered from insomnia. With the bright lights on around the clock, making it impossible to tell how much time is passing, or for either of to fall asleep without pulling the blanket up and over our heads and hoping for the best, I knew he’d struggle a lot more than me when it came to getting a couple of hours down.

But something happened that first night. When going to sleep seemed a much better option than spending another minute longer thinking about hungry I was—especially since the hunger’s only gotten so much worse since then—I curled up on the cot and regretted every fucking decision I ever made that led me to being trapped in a cage of cinderblock walls with a glass door.

It’s my fault. No one’s had to tell me otherwise. Being Genevieve Libellula… that’s why I’m here. And Cross… I wouldn’t be surprised if his slight indifference turned to hate that my family name is the reason he got captured with me.

But that night… he didn’t just sit on the floor, his back against the wall, keeping his distance like he’d done since I woke up. Instead, he climbed onto the cot next to me, wrapping me up in his arms, and holding me tight as he promised again that he’d keep me safe.

That he’d do anything to make sure I got out of here.

Was it his fervent promises that lulled me enough that I actually succumbed to sleep? Or was it his possessive hold, squeezing me to him, making me feel like he actually gave a shit?

I needed him to care then. I needed to know I had someone on my side.

So I slept curled up in the arms of the man who insisted we could only ever be friends, and when I woke up later and found him sleeping peacefully, still clinging to me, I thought that I might have found something to cling to.

Cross da Silva.

We slept the same way last night; if we could even call that last night when neither of us have any idea what time is. Between Cross’s headache and the hunger pangs growing so much worse on our second day, I escaped this nightmare into a fitful sleep that I only managed because he was there with me.

He was gone again this morning. I don’t realize how much I’ve come to rely on the warmth of his body up against mine until I woke up just now and he was already standing up, pacing the lengths of the cell, unable to stay still.

He’s lost some of the color he had yesterday. I frown. “Okay. But did you sleep well?”

A tiny spark finds its way to his dull dark eyes. “Yeah. Because I got to hold you.”

That… that’s not a lie.

I offer him a weak smile. “You telling me that we finally figured out a cure for your insomnia? Toss your ass in a cell and you’ll finally sleep.”

He pauses in his pacing. After giving me a scrutinizing look, he heads over to the cot, dropping down into a low crouch in front of me. “I’d go a fucking hundred years without another hour of sleep if it meant I could break you out of here.”

A lump lodges in my throat. “I know,” I whisper.

“And it’s not this hellhole. I promise you that. It’s you, butterfly. Holding you in my arms… keeping you close? It’s such a goddamn dream, I can’t help but fall asleep because I know that it won’t last. You and me…” Cross shudders out a breath. “If I had the chance, I would’ve done everything differently. In case this ends badly… I want you to know that.”

I reach out, cupping his cheek. Last night, he was so warm. Today? There’s a chill to his skin that wasn’t there before. “We’re going to get out of here, Cross.”

We have to. For God’s sake, I’m a Libellula. My brother will come for me. He has the entire East End to command. They’ll find me, and they’ll save me.

We just have to survive long enough for that to happen.

He leans into my hand. “That’s one thing I love about you, Genevieve. You don’t know how to quit. Even when you should.”

I give him a half-smile. “You should talk to my old ballet teacher. Madame Durand would tell you in great detail how I quit on her to pursue my own career in dance.”

“This Madame Durand live in Springfield?” Cross asks, a dark look flashing across his features.

“Last I checked, her studio is still on the East End. Why?”

“Now I have even more motivation to get us both out of here. So you can show her how much of a fucking amazing dancer you are, and she can kiss your ass.”

I laugh. It’s more of a huffing sound than anything, hot air that escapes me because we’re still careful to keep our voices low in case someone is listening in on us, but I laugh for the first time since I realized

Cross’s expression softens. He turns his head, just quick enough for his lips to brush against the palm of my hand, before he’s pulling back, out of my reach.

He rests on his heels, gaze roving over my face. “Know what? You’re right, butterfly. No glass jar is gonna hold you. We’ll get out of here.”

I hope he’s right.

Considering I know I was full of complete shit when I told him the same thing, I doubt it—but it’s only day three. I haven’t lost my hope yet.

At least, not all of it.

We’re not alone. I know that much. As if the cameras seemingly tracking our every move aren’t enough to figure that out, I hear footsteps over our head sometimes. They travel down the hall, purposely avoiding our cell.

I know there are more down here, too. If you jam your face up against the glass, angling your head just right, you can kinda see the dip in the cinderblock next to us, plus the reflection on the thick glass door.

There’s a keypad out there, too. It explains why the glass door keeping us trapped in here doesn’t have any visible locks on it. Our first ‘night’ in the cell, before I broke down and sobbed, Cross holding me tight and telling me we just had to make it through until the next morning, we searched every inch of the room.

My first impression was of the toilet and the sink. Cross was the one who pointed out the cameras. On closer inspection, there’s a small vent near the ceiling—providing us fresh air so we don’t eventually suffocate—and the glass door is on some sliding mechanism. I broke the nails on each of my pointer finger, trying to see if the mechanism had some give to it until I had to admit that we were well and truly trapped in here.

But that leads us to have even more questions:

Who trapped us? Why?

And how many other people are down here?

Three days in, and we still don’t have an answer to the ones that matter.

We tried screaming to see if that caught anyone’s attention. The footsteps make me think that, despite the thick glass and the dense cinderblock, the room isn’t soundproofed; I can confirm that the whole damn square seems to echo when I finally gave in to Mother Nature and squatted over the toilet. Cross turned his back; as gentlemanly Sinner, he gave me privacy after I confessed I had to pee but I didn’t want to do it with an audience. Poor guy. He thought I meant him, not the cameras, and when I quickly corrected him, he stood with his back to me, trying his best to block both cameras.

But no matter how loud we screamed or as often as we got up and kicked the glass just to make us feel better, the response was the same: silence .

No one has come for us. If there are other prisoners in this unfamiliar place, they’re keeping quiet. If they’re as hungry and uncomfortable as we are, I get it.

Leaning up against Cross after he joins me on the cot again, resting my head on his shoulder, for the first time in my life, Genevieve Libellula has absolutely nothing to say.