Oh.
Spicy pumpkin soup.
Sweet. Warm. Heat blooming outward with herbs and garlic riding beneath it. Each swallow pushed warmth into places that had felt hollow and frozen.
By the last few spoonfuls, the fog in my head had thinned. The lethargy eased enough for the room to feel real again.
He wiped my mouth, then tipped a glass to my lips for water.
Before I could speak, he pulled the covers off me again.
Strong hands gripped my waist, tugging me flat against the mattress. I was still drawing breath when the covers were dragged back over me, sealed tight.
“No,” I said.
“Sorry?” He looked genuinely puzzled.“No, what?”
“Give me something to wear,” I said, clutching the blanket with what little strength I had.
“That won’t work with this,” he replied, nodding to the side of the bed.
I followed his gaze.
A tall metal stand. A clear bag hanging from a hook. A thin tube trailing down.
I lifted my arm and saw the needle taped into place.
“Rest,” he said, checking his watch.“I’ll take your temperature shortly. Thirty minutes.”
He picked up the bowl and glass and left.
Just like that.
The door closed.
And I lay there—naked beneath the covers—staring at the ceiling, my skin crawling with the weight of his control.
???
It didn’t feel like thirty minutes when the door opened again. More like ten at best.
As he walked toward me, I noticed he wore black gloves that blended into his black sweater. Something white poked out of his closed hand.
He held a thin glass thermometer—the kind I used when I cooked up my products.
He sat on the edge of the bed and moved the covers aside. I opened my mouth automatically, expecting him to take my temperature like a normal person.
Instead, he pulled the rest of the covers away.
He rolled me onto my belly and parted my legs.
“What are you doing?” I yelled.
“Taking your temperature.”
Cold air rushed over my back and legs, making me shiver. He pulled the covers over my upper body again, leaving my legs bare.
When he parted my cheeks, realisation slammed into me.
