"And now you say thank you."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Thank you for the food," he said, demonstrating again. "Thank you for serving me. Thank you for not letting me starve. Pick whichever version you prefer."
I wanted to flip the island, send everything crashing to the floor in a repeat of breakfast. But Bear made a soft sound from his pen, reminding me that my tantrums had consequences for more than just me. And the food was right there, so close I could feel its warmth.
"Thank you," I whispered, hating myself, hating him, hating the way my body sagged with relief when he finally let me have the plate.
I grabbed for it with both hands, ready to shovel noodles into my mouth as fast as possible before he could add more rules. But his hand covered mine, firm but not painful.
"No," he said. "If you can't eat civilized, I'll feed you myself."
The threat of that—of him controlling even how food entered my mouth—made me freeze. The intimacy of it, the complete surrender it would represent, was worse than any violence he could have threatened.
"I can eat normally," I said.
"Then do it."
He released my hands, but his eyes stayed on me, watching as I picked up the fork with forced deliberation. My fingers shook as I twirled noodles, lifted them to my mouth, chewed and swallowed like a human being instead of the feral thing I'd become. Every movement felt performed, fake, like I was pretending to be someone who belonged at a kitchen island instead of eating from dumpsters.
"Better," he said, then served himself, eating with casual efficiency while I forced myself to maintain the charade.
The food was unreal. Hot, fresh, seasoned exactly right. My body screamed for more with every bite, but I kept the pace steady, human, civilized. I even used the napkin he'd set out, wiping my mouth between bites like I'd been taught before everything fell apart.
"Would you like orange chicken?" he asked when I'd finished the lo mein.
The word formed before I could stop it: "Please."
He served me without comment, and this time I didn't need prompting. "Thank you."
"You're learning," he said, and something in his tone made me look up. Not mockery, not condescension, but something almost like approval. Like I'd passed some test I didn't know I was taking.
We ate in silence after that, him serving me small portions each time I asked properly, me responding with the required gratitude. Each exchange felt like a small surrender, a tiny piece of my autonomy traded for food. But my body didn't care about autonomy. It cared about protein and carbohydrates andflavor.
By the time we finished, I'd said please and thank you more times than I had in the past year. Each repetition had gotten easier, the words losing their weight through repetition. That scared me more than the initial resistance. How quickly I'd adapted, how easily he'd trained me with nothing more than patience and food I desperately needed.
"See?" he said, clearing the plates with the same efficiency he'd set them out. "That wasn't so hard."
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing.
"Bear needs his medication," I said, needing to focus on something else.
"Yes," he agreed. "Would you like to give it to him?"
The question hung between us, and I knew what he was waiting for. Knew the price of getting to care for the puppy I'd saved.
"Please," I said. "May I give Bear his medication?"
"Of course," he said, and pulled out the medical supplies. "Let me show you how."
Thefoodhadgivenme strength, cleared my head, reminded me I was a person who could think and plan instead of just react. Dmitry was washing dishes like somekind of domestic psychopath, his back to me, hands in soapy water. Normal. Acting like this was his regular Sunday afternoon instead of day two of holding me prisoner.
Dmitry hadn’t told me what was going on—if he was going to keep me here forever, or if he’d decided to hand me over to the Morozovs. I didn’t intend to wait to find out.
Bear was sleeping off his medication, tiny body twitching with puppy dreams. He was safe for now, warm and healing, which meant I could focus on the thing that mattered most: getting us both out of here.
The door called to me. Three deadbolts—I could see them from here, heavy-duty but not impossible. I'd picked harder locks with bobby pins and desperation. These would need actual tools, but maybe if I could just get close enough to study the mechanisms, figure out what I was working with.
