The Other Key

Claire's fingers curl around the cold key on the table, her eyes not leaving Warren's face as she repeats, 'Does he have the other one?' Warren's throat works, the belt pressing against his ribs under his shirt, and he nods once—a small, terrible confession. Claire's jaw tightens, and she slides the key into her pocket, a claim that mirrors David's. 'Then we're going to need to talk about what he thinks he owns,' she says, and the weight of her words lands harder than the cage between Warren's thighs.