He places the tray on a small table near the fireplace. He doesn’t look at me; his focus is on arranging the plate and cutlery.
“Eat,” he says. It’s not a request. It’s a command, quieter than before, but no less absolute.
The spark of defiance I thought he had extinguished flickers back to life. “I’m not hungry.”
He finally looks at me, his icy blue eyes pinning me in place from across the room. “You’re weak. Malnourished, according to Doc. You will eat, and you will regain your strength.”
“So I can be a better prize for you?” I retort, the words sharp and bitter.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re no use to me broken, Wynter. And you can’t hope to escape if you starve yourself to death. So, eat.”
His logic is twisted, cruel, and infuriatingly correct. He’s right. If I have any hope of ever getting out of here, I need to be strong. Wasting away in this bed is not an act of defiance; it’s a surrender.
My shoulders slump in defeat. I walk to the table, my eyes never leaving his. He watches me, his gaze intense and unwavering, as I sit down. He remains standing, a silent, intimidating guard.
I pick up the fork. The food is simple: scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, and toast with fresh butter. It’s also the most delicious meal I’ve had in years. Evilin always said a girl’s beauty was in her slender frame, and my meals were measured and monitored, a constant, gnawing hunger my companion.
Here, in my captor’s den, I am being fed. The irony is a bitter pill to swallow. I eat quickly, mechanically, trying not to show how much I’m enjoying it. But he sees. I can feel his knowing gaze on me, tracking every bite. He is watching me like a hawk, and it makes my skin prickle. It’s not the dismissive, critical gaze of Evilin. It’s focused. Possessive. As if the simple act of me eating is something that belongs to him.
When I’m finished, I push the plate away. I feel stronger already, the food a welcome warmth in my belly. But I also feel more trapped than ever. I have accepted his food, his medicine. My body, in its weakness, has betrayed me, accepting the care of my captor.
“Good girl,” he says again, the words a low rumble of approval that makes my stomach clench. He picks up the tray. “There’s a bathroom through that door,” he says, nodding his head. “You’ll find everything you need. I’ll have clothes brought for you.”
He turns and leaves, the lock on the door clicking shut behind him, the sound a final, definitive statement.
I am his. And he is going to feed me, clothe me, and care for me until I am strong enough for…for what?
The question hangs in the silent, opulent room, and I am terrified of the answer.
Nine
Kaden
Istandontheotherside of the door, my back pressed against the cool wood, listening. I hear nothing. No crying, no attempts to break things, no frantic scrabbling at the windows.Just silence. It’s a silence that unnerves me more than any screaming would.
I left the tray on a console table in the hall, the clatter of the plate and cutlery sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet wing of the house. My house. My wing. A place where, until today, the only sounds were my own footsteps and the low crackle of the fire.
She ate. I watched her, and for a few bizarre moments, I wasn't the head of the Alaskan Mafia. I was just a man, watching a woman eat a meal I had provided, and the simple, domestic act felt more profound than closing a multimillion-dollar deal or eliminating a rival. It was a primal satisfaction. The act of providing. The act of owning.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Alrik. I ignore it. Nothing is more important than what is happening within this mansion.
I walk down the hall to my office, a room adjacent to the bedroom suite. From a security monitor, I can see a thermal view of the bedroom. She’s moving. She walked to the windows, and now she’s heading for the bathroom. Good.
On another screen, I pull up the security feed for the main gate. A black SUV is arriving. I zoom in on the license plate. It’s the vehicle I assigned to this task.
I press the intercom on my desk. “Alrik.”
“Sir,” his voice comes through instantly, crisp and professional. “I was just about to call again.”
“The package has arrived. Bring it to my suite. Use the service entrance. No one sees it.”
“Understood.”
“And Alrik,” I add, my voice dropping. “Find out who her personal maid was at the Blanc estate. The one she was speaking to at the party. Emily, I think her name was. Find out everything about her. Where she lives, her family, her routine. I want a complete file by noon.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Sir… is she a threat?”
“No,” I say, my eyes fixed on the thermal image of Wynter in the bathroom. “She’s a friend. And I want to know everything about my girl’s friends.”
