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This girl has never been any of those things. But she lets them think it. She lets them think she’s that way. And I understand it all too well. I would tell her so, but she would not believe me.

I set down the tray with her sandwich and move to leave. But she catches me around the arm.

"Javi?"

I glance down at her fingers, burning me even through the material of my hoodie. I want to know what her fingers would feel like on my scars. On my body. A place that I have not allowed anyone else to touch.

When I look at her beautiful face, I know that I will never allow it to happen. She is tricking me with her looks and her soft words. When only hours ago, I took her virtue and fucked her in the dirt like the toy that she is. She should not be so agreeable with me now, and this is how I know she is a skilled liar.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

Her voice is sad. And I don't believe it.

"I shouldn't have gone into that room. I'm sorry."

I move to leave. She doesn't let me.

"And now it's your turn to apologize."

I remain still and quiet, and her face changes from soft to hard.

"You can't just do whatever you want to me," she says. "That isn't how life works, Javi. I know you've been up here alone for so long. I know you don't understand normal social conventions, but even you must know the difference between right and wrong."

"You are mine," I tell her again.

She has always been mine. Since the moment I first saw her. Since the moment my obsession began.

"I'm not yours," she says. "I'm my own person. And what you're doing here is wrong."

"According to who?” I ask. “Who exactly says what I’m doing is wrong?”

“I do,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

“Funny you did not say so when I was fucking you,” I answer.

She is quiet, lost in her thoughts, fingers still wrapped around my arm. Small and delicate.

"I can’t protect myself from you," she murmurs.

Her words anger me. And I can't stop myself. I lean down into her face, and she stops breathing. She stops moving. She trembles before me, and her fear makes me hard.

It makes me want to lose control.

"I did what you wanted," I tell her. "What you wrote."

Her mouth falls open, horrified. I squeeze her face in my palm and kiss her. Taste her. She squirms in my grasp and balls my sweatshirt in her fists.

She isn't pushing me away. Or pulling me closer. She is always so tormented about her feelings. The same holds true for me.

I pull away and stop myself.

"Eat your lunch," I demand. "And then write more."

She looks up at me, indignant.

"I'm not writing more. You never should have read that journal in the first place."

"You shouldn't have left it lying around then."

"You mean in the privacy of my own home?"

"Write more," I tell her again. "Or I'll write the story for you."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I ESTIMATE that I have been at Moldavia now for a little over three weeks. In that time, I have read more than I ever thought possible. Books upon books upon books.

Javi's library cannot be rivaled.

I don’t think I could come close to putting a dent in it even if he did keep me locked here forever.

On my bad days, I wonder if I will ever be free again, or if it’s true what he says. If I will remain forever in his garden of roses. If I will live and breathe and die here in this enchanting prison.

I write.

I write a lot.

And then I tear the pages out and hide them. Hide my darkest thoughts and fears and... wants... from the monster.

He must know. He must know that when he comes and reads the things in my notebook, they are not the only thing I have been writing. But he doesn't ask.

The story I'm writing now has captured his attention. He reads the new parts every day. Little by little. Chapter by chapter.

The story about the girl with the absent father. At first, the details of her life are mundane. But he reads them nonetheless. He reads how she goes to school and none of the other kids talk to her. So she sings, and she loses herself in the world of books. And then he reads the parts about her growing up. How her mother died when she was only a baby. She was lost without anyone to guide her, and her father was always too busy.

She decided it was a good idea to have several identity crises all before the age of eighteen. How her black clothing and nail polish prompted stares and whispers, but it also brought her peace.

She didn't want to fit in. She wanted more than anything to be different than them. To let them know that she wouldn't be stuck in that town forever. That she wouldn't be doing the things they all wanted to do. She wanted more.

She wanted time with her father. And she acted out to get it. But he never noticed. Even when she sabotaged her grades. He didn't notice. He was too busy.

With him.

The boy that he'd been spending so much time with. The boy that he seemed to care about more than his own daughter.

This is the part that Javi is reading today. He is enrapt as he scans over the journaled pages. His eyes are dark, barely discernible beneath the hood.

I wonder how it makes him feel when he reads about how she always hated the boy. How her jealousy got the best of her, and she resented him so much. But now she knows. She knows why her father spent so much time with him.

He felt sorry for him.

And now- against her better judgment- she does too.

He looks down at me. I want him to take off his hood. I want to see his face. I want to believe that the man who lurks beneath the shadows is still human. That there is still something to be salvaged inside of him.

Society has cast him out. Labeled him a murderer. Locked him away in a sanitarium as a child. I don't know if anyone has ever really helped him. I don't know if anyone besides my father has ever really tried to understand him. But I am trying now. By being honest with him about my feelings. By provoking something in him too. I need to understand him.

And I want to believe that if I help him... that if I do the thing that nobody else ever has... that maybe he will set me free one day. That maybe he can be more than just the monster society has created.

Maybe he can be a man, too.

"Javi?"

He is still silent. Lost in his own thoughts. I need something from him.

Anything.

But he doesn't give it to me. He hands me back the journal.

And walks away.

WHEN THE TIME for dinner passes, I start to worry. Maybe I pushed him too far. Maybe this was all a huge mistake.

I'm worried for nothing. Because tonight when Javi comes, something is different. He's quiet, like always. Locked up tight, like always. But something has shifted between us, and I can't quite understand what it is.

He sets my tray down on the table beside me. And the food is different too. I recognize the pasta from my favorite Italian restaurant in the city.

It occurs to me that he ordered this.

For me.

But I don't know why.

"How did you know?" I ask.

It's a stupid question, and I learned early on he doesn't answer stupid questions. Nothing has changed in that regard.

He's on the verge of leaving.

"Wait," I stop him.

He pauses. Lingers in place.

"Will you stay for a while?"

He thinks I'm tricking him again. I'm certain of it. It occurs to me that I might be. That I could and should be. But instead, my own mind is the one playing games. Tricking me into craving his company. His time and his attention.

He has not punished me since he took me that first time. He has not touched me again either. He has even given me clothes to wear. Like he doesn’t want to look at me anymore. Like he doesn’t want to see me.

I am lonely and afraid and confused, and I don

’t know what comes next. Something is brewing inside of him, and I’m afraid I won’t like whatever it is. So I have to take these moments- these small kindnesses from him- while I can.

"Please?" I ask. "I am tired of eating alone. Will you have dinner with me?"

The very real vulnerability in my voice does not faze him. Because he does leave. And I sigh.

I pull the tray closer and pick at my dinner when the door opens again. Javi stalks back into the room, and this time he is carrying another tray. With his own dinner.

I bounce my knee and try to keep my cool when he takes a seat opposite me and starts eating his food.

He eats like a caveman. It is too fast for him to possibly enjoy it, and he is done within minutes. Meanwhile, my plate is still almost full.

I don't want him to leave though. So I use the opportunity to ask him some questions in hopes that he will answer them.

"You have an accent,” I observe. “Where are you from, Javi?"

"Chile."

"Chile?"

I don't know why this surprises me so much. But his accent is not watered down, and he has been here for so long.

"I like it," I tell him. "I like the way you talk."

It is not a lie.

He does not answer.