Tears of frustration prick my eyes. I hate him. I hate him with a violence that scares me. "Turn around," I beg. "Please. Just turn around."
He studies me for a long moment. It’s a negotiation. He is weighing the concession. "Fine," he says. He turns his back to me, facing the mirror. "But if I hear anything suspicious, I turn back around. And I won't turn away again."
My hands shaking, I stand up and fumble with the hem of the shirt. It is the most humiliating moment of my life. The sound of my own relief is deafening in the marble acoustic. I catch his eyes in the mirror. He is looking at his own reflection, fixing a cuff, but I know—Iknow—he is listening to every drop.
When I’m done, I flush and wash my hands, scrubbing them with the bar of sandalwood soap until the skin is red. I want to scrub his scent off me, but the soap smells like him too. Everything here is him.
"Done?" he asks to the reflection.
"Yes."
He turns around and hands me a toothbrush. It’s new, still in the wrapper. "Brush. Then we eat."
The domesticity is jarring. He watches me brush my teeth. He hands me a towel to wipe my face. It is intimate in a way that feels more violating than sex. He is invading the small, private rituals of my morning.
He carries me back to the bedroom, ignoring my protests that I am stronger now. He deposits me in the wingback chair by the window. Outside, the sky is a bruised purple. The grounds ofHallowed Hallsstretch out below us—manicured lawns, high stone walls, and the dense, dark forest beyond. It looks like a fortress.
Alaric pulls a chair up opposite me, knee to knee. He places the tray on the small table between us. He lifts the silver cloche. Scrambled eggs, creamy and yellow. Smoked salmon. Toast with artisanal jam. Fruit. It looks delicious. My stomach growls loudly.
Alaric smirks. "Hunger is the most honest emotion, isn't it? It doesn't lie." He picks up a fork, spears a piece of melon, and holds it out to me. "Open."
I clamp my mouth shut. I turn my head to the side, looking out the window. "I'm not hungry."
"Lie," he replies calmly. "Your stomach is arguing with you." He brings the fork closer to my lips. "Eat, Elodie."
"I am not your pet," I say through gritted teeth. "I can feed myself."
"You can," he agrees. "But you tried to escape. Privileges are earned. Using cutlery is a privilege. Right now, I don't trust you with a fork. So, I feed you."
"Then I starve."
Alaric lowers the fork. His expression doesn't change, but the air in the room drops ten degrees. "Starvation strikes," he muses. "Classic. Cliché, really. Do you know what happens when a patient refuses to eat in my facility?"
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don't plead. I don't beg. I insert a nasogastric tube. It goes up your nose and down into your stomach. It is uncomfortable. It causes gagging. And it stays in for weeks. Is that what you want? Do you want a tube taped to your pretty face?"
I look at him. He is perfectly serious. "You're a monster," I whisper.
"We’ve established that," he says dryly. He holds the fork up again. "Melon. Open."
I look at the fruit. I look at the window. I look at the heavy door. There is no way out. Not yet. I need strength. If I am going to runagain, if I am going to kill him, I need calories.Survive,a voice in my head whispers.Eat the food. Play the game.
Slowly, hating every second, I part my lips. Alaric slides the fork into my mouth. The melon is sweet, cold, and juicy. He watches me chew. His gaze is focused on my mouth, dark and intense. It feels sexual, though he hasn't touched me inappropriately. It’s the dominance. The act of forcing something into my body and making me accept it.
"Good girl," he murmurs again.
He feeds me the eggs. The salmon. The toast. I eat it all. I am ravenous. He wipes my mouth with a linen napkin between bites. "See?" he says softly. "That wasn't so hard. Submission is just a matter of relaxing into the inevitable."
"I haven't submitted," I say, swallowing a piece of toast. "I'm just refueling."
"Semantics."
He pours me coffee. He lets me hold the cup myself, his eyes tracking my hands to ensure I don't throw the hot liquid in his face. "Now," he says, leaning back. "We need to discuss your treatment plan."
"I don't need treatment. I need a lawyer."
Alaric reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. Not his phone.Myphone.
My heart leaps. "Give that to me!"
