What kind of choice is that?
My heart pounds frantically. He can’t be serious.
His silence suggests otherwise.
Another absolutely horrifying scream echoes from the depths.
Nope.
I spin around and race back up those endless stairs, taking them two at a time when I can manage it. The slippery stone steps are treacherous under my bare feet, but I don’t care. Each step carries me away from whatever horror lurks in those depths, back toward the promise of light and warmth above.
The exhilaration of escaping whatever nightmare waits below mingles with the pure joy of feeling my hair streaming behind me as I run at full speed.Me.With my own strong legsand no mechanical assistance, no crutches or braces or careful calculations about energy expenditure.
The rough stone walls flash past as I climb, my hands brushing against the increasingly smooth masonry as I ascend toward the civilized levels of the castle. The air gradually grows less oppressive, less thick with ancient dread, and eventually I can see the first threads of blessed daylight filtering down from far above.
It’s wild and intoxicating—this sensation of pure, unrestrained movement.
Until the sharp stitch in my side reminds me I’m still discovering this body’s limits, and sprinting up what feels like ten flights of medieval stairs might be pushing the boundaries of even my magically enhanced endurance.
By the time I burst back into the magnificent great hall, gasping for air beside his imposing throne-like chair at the table’s head, dropping to my knees on that velvet cushion doesn’t feel much like surrender.
I’m completely exhausted, after all, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath in the comparatively warm air of the hall. The morning sunlight streaming through those tall Gothic windows feels like a benediction after the absolute darkness below.
But by the time I’m back upstairs and he’s feeding me from his leather-padded fingers, each piece of surprisingly good meat skewered by those sharp, sharp claws, I’m ready to blame him again.
It feels like taking bites off the tip of a knife.
I glare up at him after chewing through an especially juicy bite. My chin’s a mess. I need a napkin—except, newsflash, there aren’t exactly napkins in the Monster Manor. I try to swipe with my forearm, but before I can, he lets out a low, disapproving growl.
Then he leans down and licks my chin clean himself.
I freeze. Too stunned to even breathe.
Then, as if nothing happened, he spears the next bite on his claw tip and holds it out.
And me? I… eat.
Ibrieflyconsider going on a hunger strike. Very rebellious. Very heroine-in-captivity chic.
But what would that get me? Another march down to the basement, where those screams came from?
Hard pass.
Besides, being on my knees might feel a little humiliating, but hey, at least I’m not wearing that heavy collar and leash anymore. That counts as progress, right?
Not that I’m actually naïve enough to think I can trust him. Please. I’ve experienced enough to know better. Nobody is truly kind. Not really. Not when it matters. Every time I’ve given someone the benefit of the doubt—believed the best of them—I’ve been let down.
So no, I don’t believe a word of his promises. But I can play along. I’ve always been good at that—playing the sweet people pleaser.
The trick is balance. Push back just enough to keep him interested, but not enough to actually piss him off. Because this beast…? He seems tolikeit when his prey squirms.
And he’s clearly keeping something that is screaming in that basement. That’s not mercy. That’s not kindness.
Maybe he only has enough “kindness” to want his so-called consort wet and willing.
After letting me drink water from the heavy glass he holds to my lips, he spears another dripping piece of meat. “Eat and suck the juices off my fingers.”
He holds it suspended above my mouth, high enough that I have to rise up to reach. When I do, he pulls it back, teasing.
