Twenty more minutes. My body wanted to collapse, but I stayed standing through pure spite. He moved away from Bear's pen, finally, and I rushed to the puppy who tried to lick my face through the soft mesh.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to him. "I'm sorry I couldn't get to you."
"He's fine," Dmitry said. "Fed him while you were sulking."
Sulking. Like I was a child who hadn't gotten her way instead of a prisoner refusing to cooperate with her captor. But arguing took energy I didn't have, so I just held Bear's paw through the mesh and tried not to think about how badly I wanted the food that was coming.
We didn’t have long to wait. The food arrived, carried by a delivery guy who didn't even glance at me when Dmitry answered the door. Of course not—Dmitry probably ordered from them regularly, probably tipped well enough that they'd learned not to see anything unusual.
The smell hit was insane! Lo mein, orange chicken, beef and broccoli, spring rolls—enough food for four people, spread across the kitchen island like a feast from a dream I'd had when sleeping on concrete. My mouth flooded again, worse than with the breakfast because now my body knew food was actuallypossible, actually coming, if I could just get through whatever game he wanted to play.
He set out two plates. Two sets of chopsticks and forks, like I had a choice in how I humiliated myself. Two glasses of water with actual ice, the cubes cracking as they settled. Everything arranged precisely, place settings that belonged in a home instead of a prison.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to one of the bar stools at the island.
I sat. Not because he told me to but because my legs were shaking too hard to keep standing. The food was right there, close enough that steam dampened my face. My stomach made sounds I'd only heard from dying animals, desperate and past shame.
"One rule," he said, taking his own seat across from me. "Say please when you want something. Say thank you when you receive it. Basic manners a child would know."
"Are you fucking serious?"
"Completely." He picked up the container of lo mein, serving spoon poised. "Would you like some?"
"Yes."
He waited, spoon hovering. The noodles dripped sauce that splattered on the pristine counter, each drop a small torture.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I want food. I'm starving. You know I'm starving."
"Then say please."
The word lodged in my throat like glass. Please meant asking, meant needing, meant acknowledging he had something I wanted. Please meant playing his game, accepting his rules, being the child he'd implied I was.
"This is insane," I said. "You kidnapped me. You drugged me. You made me clean up like a servant. And now you want me to say please?"
"Yes." No elaboration, no justification. Just that single word, immovable as mountains.
The lo mein sat between us, noodles I could smell, could almost taste. My hands shook as I reached for the container, but he pulled it back.
"Please," he said, demonstrating. "May I have some lo mein? It's not complicated."
"Fuck you."
"That's not please."
My vision actually blurred—from hunger, from rage, from the sheer impossibility of my situation. Here I was, twenty-two years old, survivor of things that would have killed softer people, and I was being taught manners by a man who'd tied me to a chair twelve hours ago.
"Please," I gritted out, the word scraping my throat raw.
He served me a small portion, maybe a third of what I wanted, setting the plate in front of me. I reached for it, fingers actually trembling with need, but he pulled it back.
"What now?" I nearly screamed.
"Thank you," he prompted, patient as a kindergarten teacher. "When someone gives you something, you say thank you."
"I said please!"
