Cellar Door

She uses her boot to fling the flannel blanket off her legs. The chain connected to her ankle rattles against the concrete with her effort.

Hmph. “Nothing to say now?” I stalk closer, keeping every part of her in view. “You get three questions.”

“Turn on a light,” she demands.

The cool tone of her voice surprises me. “That’s not a question.”

“I want the light.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Prisoners don’t make demands.”

She braces a hand against the wall and eases herself onto her feet. She winces and touches her forehead. She’s going to be in some pain. She fought like a banshee, and the chokehold makes for an nasty headache.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asks.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I answer honestly.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Are you sure you want that to be your second question?”

“Stop being so freaking literal and…calm. I saw you. I saw you.”

I cock my head. The fear in her face is momentarily masked by her loathing. She saw me kill a man with my bare hands. She witnessed the full-fledged monster. This is what she means.

“You did see me, and that’s why you’re here. Want to keep stressing that fact?”

“You’re deranged.”

I shrug. “Probably a little.”

She puts forth a measure of bravado and steps forward. The chain snaps taught and locks her in place. She’s all of five feet. How can such a tiny thing wield so much fury? “Where am I?” she asks.

I want to pace, to work the rest of the tension from my system, but I keep still. Being still seems to settle her. “In my cellar.”

I can make out the narrowing of her eyes. “You can’t be more specific than that.”

“That’s a question, but I’ll give it to you. You’re in the cellar of a house that’s located at One West Planters Avenue.”

Her dark eyebrows hike, surprise lighting her features, before reality sinks in. She’s smart. Maybe too smart. If I’m giving her the address, that means I have no intention of releasing her.

I knew that truth the moment I took her.

“There’s nothing you can do with that information,” I inform her. “Last question. Make it a good one.”

Like making a wish to a genie in a bottle, she considers her last question carefully.

She bites down on her lower lip. That action captures my attention, and I’m momentarily fixated on her mouth before she speaks and breaks the spell.

“What’s your name?”

I’m a little shocked, and curious, that she wants to know. My name—just like her location—won’t help her.

“Easton.” I give her my surname.

“You were born with only one name?” she challenges.

“It’s the only name you need to know. I’m not Rumpelstiltskin. My name holds no power down here for you.” I barge toward h