Chapter 8: The Boathouse

"I said yes so she'd keep talking," I said.

The wind off the lake pulled at my hair.

"You said it very well."

"I had to. She's holding something I need, and I can't say what, because a man ordered my own mouth shut."

Rook's eyes narrowed.

"The command," he said. "Hiram's."

"I'd cut off my hand before I sold you."

I made myself hold his gaze.

"I'm twenty-four years old, and I've been a dog on a chain since I was fourteen.

"I don't sell people. I know what that feels like."

He was silent for a long moment.

Then his shoulders dropped.

"I know about your mother," he said quietly.

"I heard it in the cave, and I heard it through the glass tonight. I won't make you say it."

My throat closed.

"Rook."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was a bastard just now."

"I've been listening to that woman lie for a year. For ten minutes I thought you were one of them."

"I'm not."

"I know."

"Then stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want to throw me off this balcony or throw me on a bed."

He let out a ragged laugh.

"The second one," he said. "It's always the second one."

My heart kicked.

"There's a place with no cameras," he said. "The old boathouse on the north shore. I mapped them all the first week."

"Show me."

We went down the iron stairs and through the wet grass without a word.

The boathouse smelled of cedar and lake water.

Moonlight came through the gaps in the planks in thin silver bars.

A battered couch sat in one corner under a canvas tarp, and a lantern hung from a nail.

Rook pulled the door shut and leaned his back against it, breathing hard.

"Say what you want, Juniper."

My pulse thundered.

"I want you to put your hands on me," I said.

"I want your mouth, and your cock, and I want you to stop being careful about it."

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