The words make something twist in my chest. "Go away."
"I brought options." He sounds almost... uncertain. "I didn't know what you could keep down or what you might want, so I got everything. I got soup, crackers, fruit, ginger ale. There’s some takeout Chinese. Um… fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, I also got some pasta…” He pauses again, as if trying to remember everything.
Despite everything, I can’t help feeling momentarily touched. He's trying. In his own fucked-up, controlling way, heistrying to take care of me.
I hate that a part of me wants to give in to it.Trustit, even. That part of me, after being hurt and abused and controlled for so long, just wants to accept this kindness and lean into the possibility that someone might just want to care for me.
I hate that some part of me wants to open the door, let him in, and accept what he's offering.
"Svetlana." His voice is softer now. "Please. Just... eat something. Anything. And then we can talk. Or not talk. Whatever you want."
"What I want is to leave."
There’s a moment of silence. "I can't let you do that."
"I know." The words taste bitter. "Because I'm your prisoner now."
"The food is in the kitchen," he says finally. "Take what you want. Leave the rest. I'll be in my office if you need anything."
I hear his footsteps retreat.
I wait until I'm sure he's gone, then unlock the door and open it a crack, peeking out toward where I can see the bar counter of the kitchen from my room.
He wasn’t lying. There are containers of soup, cartons of fruit, styrofoam takeout boxes, a bottle of ginger ale, and smells that would normally make my mouth water mingling in the air. Right now, it makes me vaguely nauseous, but I can see the effort that he put in.
He really did bring everything.
I’m hungry. Starving, actually—I’m starting to feel lightheaded. But accepting his food feels like accepting everything else. His control. His decisions about my life. His claim on the thing growing inside me.
It's just food,I tell myself.It doesn't mean anything.
But it feels like it does. He's trying to manipulate me, I think. That's all this is. Bring me food, play the concerned protector, make me think he actually gives a shit about anything other than controlling me.
My jaw tightens.Well, I'm not falling for it.
I spin on my heel and stalk back into the guest bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to think about the food out there in the kitchen. Hot soup. Mashed potatoes. Noodles.
My stomach growls, loud and insistent. I ignore it.
I can outlast him. I can refuse his food and his care and his suffocating presence until he realizes I'm not going to be the compliant little captive he wants me to be.
But my mouth waters every time I think about the food sitting in the kitchen.
The time ticks past, and I force myself to get up and go take a shower, even though Kazimir hasn’t brought toiletries yet. I ignore the hunger for as long as I can, standing under the hot water, but eventually it becomes unbearable. My stomach cramps, and the nausea intensifies until I'm afraid I'm going to be sick.
I need to eat something. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off.
It doesn't mean I'm giving in. It doesn't mean anything except that I'm taking care of myself.
I get dressed again, unlock the door as quietly as I can, and ease it open.
I move as silently as possible, my bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. The food is still on the counter where he left it, and I start going through it with shaking hands.
There’s everything he said, plus more. Three different kinds of soup, mei fun with chicken, crackers, cheesy broccoli, ginger and peppermint tea, even prenatal vitamins, still in the pharmacy bag. There’s basically every type of food here, weeks’ worth, all because he didn’t know what I might want or be able to keep down.
It's manipulation,I remind myself fiercely.He's trying to make you dependent on him.
But my hands are already opening one of the soup containers, and the smell that hits me makes my mouth water so intensely I almost moan. It’s a chicken and dumpling soup with real vegetables in the broth, and I rummage around for a spoon while still holding the container in one hand, like someone might try to take it away. I finally find one and start to eat straight from the container while standing up, too hungry to bother with anything else. It’s incredibly good, almost homemade.
