I glance to where he tossed the cat supplies yesterday and find the litter box already set up on a rug next to the elevator. Turning to the kitchen, I discover two bowls on the floor at the end of the counter.
He’s already taken care of everything Pixie needs.
As if on cue, she races up to the box and climbs in, sniffing to ensure cleanliness. Then she squats and stares into the distance as she does her business.
My eyes slide to the broken window, where a plastic sheet ripples in the climate-controlled air. I did that. Tore that hole in his perfect fortress with my bare hands. A small yet fierce sensation flutters in my chest, a reminder that I fought back and escaped, even if only for a while. That I’m not as helpless as I feel.
Alexei’s gaze traces mine, his eyes narrowing. “That was an expensive window.”
“Good.” The word pops out, sharp and quick. The surprise flickering across his face mirrors my own.
Yesterday, I might have apologized. Cowered. Today, I don’t give a shit about his expensive window.
I turn away from him, my attention caught by what’s on the kitchen counter. He wasn’t kidding about food. I find platters of sliced fruit arranged in colorful patterns, stacks of pancakes with steam still rising from the golden circles, bacon curled in crispy perfection, mounds of fluffy scrambled eggs, and a basket of pastries that would drive even a French baker to jealousy.
The spread is an absurd, extravagant display of…what? Wealth? Control? Apology?
Despite the hollow ache in my stomach, I approach cautiously. When was the last time I ate? Breakfast yesterday? I don’t even remember.
Is this his style? Punish me, then feed me, then punish me some more? At least he’s granting me a small reprieve from whatever this day has in store.
Okay, then. I’ll make the best of this fucked up, terrifying situation.
A strange, reckless energy blossoms inside me, effervescent and unstable. Though plenty of fear remains, an essential part of myself I thought I lost returns.
I almost feel…normal.
Which is ridiculous, given that nothing about this situation is normal. Maybe I’m just adjusting to my new reality as an abductee. How many stages of kidnapping grief are there?
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression…all eventually leading to the acceptance of absurd normalcy?
I have no clue, but if I have to be a prisoner, I’ll be the most annoying, talkative, pain-in-the-ass prisoner Alexei’s ever had.
With an exaggerated stretch, I meander into the kitchen. My bare feet are silent on the concrete floor, but I know he’s tracking my movement. Though he doesn’t turn, I can feel his attention shift.
Ignoring the mouthwatering feast on the counter, I open his fridge and peer inside with theatrical interest. A loaf of bread, a lime, and rows of bottled water. Just like yesterday. The most depressing fridge I’ve ever seen.
In the door, there’s a packet of butter, like the kind a cozy little diner would have mixed in with a bowl full of jellies.
After pulling out the bread, I find a toaster and pop in two slices. The domestic sounds—the click of the toaster lever, the hum as it heats—chime like acts of rebellion in the sterile silence of the loft. I hunt through drawers and cabinets until I locate a knife and a plate. The metal and ceramic clink together as I set them down with more force than necessary.
“So, did you sleep well?” I peer at Alexei’s unmoving back. “I slept like a rock. You know, for a kidnapping victim. Clearly the key is total emotional exhaustion.”
He doesn’t respond. His fingers keep flying across his keyboard, typing letters I can’t see from this distance.
“That’s quite a spread.” I gesture with my knife toward the table, though he still doesn’t bother to glance at me. “Almost as good as the buffet at Pancake Lodge. But,” I pat my stomach, “none for me. I’m all full on heartburn and panic.”
The toaster pops. I butter the bread with deliberate slowness, raking the knife across the surface with vicious scrapes I hope grate on his every last nerve. The sudden tension in his shoulders elates me.
I’ve finally cracked that armor of indifference.
I bring my plate over, not to the counter with its lavish display, but to the edge of his command center. He’s still staringat the screens, maps, lines of code, and grainy security footage. Never at the city outside the window. Never at me.
I take a loud, crunchy bite of toast and don’t bother with closing my mouth. “So,” crumbs spray from my mouth, “what’s with all the screens? You a day trader? Or is it crypto? I hear you need to be careful with that.”
He cranes his neck like a predator sensing movement in the underbrush. His blue eyes are dark and exhausted, the shadows beneath them more pronounced than yesterday. He probably stayed up all night working on whatever this is. Hunting. Planning.
Cold awareness slithers down my spine.
