I forced myself to eat despite having no appetite. The body needed fuel, especially if today was going to be anything like yesterday. The pills went down easier than the food, which seemed backwards but made sense in this backwards place.
"Wonderful job, little one. Dr. Mire will arrive for your morning session in ten minutes."
Ten minutes. My hands started shaking again.
I tried to prepare myself—mentally, emotionally, physically. But how did you prepare for someone who could take you apart with scientific precision? Who treated your defiance like data points and your surrender like progress?
The door opened at exactly the ten-minute mark. No knock. No warning beyond what the speaker had provided. Just Dr. Gabriel Mire walking into my space like he owned it.
Which, legally speaking, he might.
Today he wore charcoal grey slacks and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. More casual than yesterday's suit but no less controlled. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered recently, and I hated that I noticed. Hated more that he probably knew I'd noticed.
"Good morning, Lilah." He carried a tablet and what looked like a leather folder. "You followed the morning routine perfectly. I'm impressed."
"Fuck you" sat on the tip of my tongue, begging to be released. But I remembered yesterday. Remembered twelve. Remembered consequences.
So I said nothing.
"Silent treatment?" He set his items on the vanity, movements unhurried. "That's certainly one approach. Though I'd prefer verbal communication when possible."
Still nothing. I stared at my hands, folded in my lap like a good girl's should be.
"You said please this morning." He moved closer, and I caught that cologne again—cedar and something darker. "That's progress. Real, measurable progress. Do you know how many subjects take a week to manage that first please?"
Subjects. There was that word again, reducing me to data.
"I'd like to reward that progress." He sat beside me on the bed, close enough that I could feel his body heat but not quite touching. "Would you like that? A reward for being good?"
The word 'no' burned in my throat. But saying it felt like admitting I'd rather be punished, and that way lay madness.
"I don't know," I whispered finally.
"Honesty. Even better." His approval shouldn't have mattered. Shouldn't have made something warm unfurl in my chest. "Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"Because I asked nicely." A hint of amusement colored his voice. "And because good girls who say please and follow morning routines get rewards."
I could refuse. Could fight. Could spit in his face again and see where that led.
Instead, I closed my eyes.
"Hands in your lap. Back straight. There you go." His voice dropped to something softer, almost intimate. "You're doing so well, Lilah. So much better than yesterday."
A hand touched my hair, gentle as butterfly wings. Just fingertips at first, tracing from my temple down to where damp curls brushed my collar. I tensed, waiting for it to turn cruel, but the touch remained feather-light.
"Your file mentioned you respond strongly to praise when it's genuine." He gathered my hair back, fingers working through tangles with surprising patience. "Is that true?"
"I don't—" The words scattered as he began actually braiding my hair, each motion careful and practiced. "What are you doing?"
"Rewarding good behavior. Creating positive associations. Building trust." His fingers never faltered in their rhythm. "Also, your hair was a mess. This seemed efficient."
Trust. He said it so easily, like trust was something that could be built between captor and captive with gentle touches and French braids.
"There." He secured the braid with something—a hair tie that hadn't been there before. "Much better. You can open your eyes now."
I did, catching my reflection in the vanity mirror. The braid was perfect, the kind of intricate style I could never manage on myself. It made me look younger. Softer. More like the kind of girl who said please and meant it.
