Gratitude. For scraps. For the most basic necessities presented as gifts.
"Gratitude is a useful emotion," he says calmly. "It means you're learning to appreciate what you have instead of mourning what you've lost."
"I hate you." The words come out broken, desperate.
"So you keep saying." He cuts a piece of meat with deliberate precision, every movement controlled and graceful. "But you're wearing the dress I gave you. Using the soap I provided. Even the ribbon—you put it in your hair the moment you found it."
The truth of it makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
"Because I don't have a choice!"
"You always have choices, princess. You chose to wear men's clothing instead of asking for help. You chose to accept my gifts instead of throwing them back in my face. You chose to make yourself beautiful for me tonight."
"I didn't?—"
"You did." His eyes lock on mine, and I see something possessive and satisfied lurking in their frozen depths. "You could have left the ribbon in the box. Could have refused the soap. Could have gone naked rather than wear the dress. But you didn't."
I want to argue. Want to explain that I had no real choice, that he engineered this whole situation to force my compliance. But the words die on my lips because somewhere, deep down, I know he's right.
I could have refused. Could have stayed in the oversized men's clothes, clinging to my defiance even if it made me miserable. Could have rejected his gifts and maintained my rebellion.
Instead, I chose the ribbon. Chose the soap. Chose the dress.
Chose him, in a thousand small ways I'm only now beginning to understand.
"I hate that you're right," I whisper.
"I know." His voice is surprisingly gentle. "But hating me won't change what's happening to you. Won't stop you from becoming what you were always meant to be."
"And what's that?"
"Mine."
The word hangs between us like a promise and a threat. I feel it settle into my bones, warm and terrifying and somehow right in ways I don't want to examine too closely.
The palace responds to our exchange with approval—frost-flowers blooming across the windows, ice chimes singing somewhere in the distance. Even the magic recognizes the shift that's happening between us.
That night, I wear the dress to bed instead of changing into a nightgown. I tell myself it's because it's more comfortable than the men's clothes. But when I catch my reflection in the darkened window, I know the truth.
I look like I belong here. In this dress, in this palace, in this winter world that's becoming more familiar than the life I left behind.
And for the first time since he took me, that doesn't terrify me quite as much as it should.
The conditioning is working. I can feel it in the way I touched the ribbon with reverent fingers. In the genuine pleasure I felt using soap that smelled like home. In the relief of wearing clothing that fits properly.
He's teaching me to be grateful for basic necessities. To see luxury as a reward rather than a right. To understand that my comfort depends entirely on his approval.
And the most terrifying part?
I'm learning.
CHAPTER 8
ARATUS
DAYS 21-23
She's beengood for three days straight.
