A knock came at the door, then the sound of the handle turning. I didn't move. I closed my eyes.
Silas walked in, probably carrying food again. He'd been cooking and delivering every meal himself these past few days.
"Anthea." His voice came out careful, testing. "Time for breakfast."
I didn't respond.
"You haven't eaten in a long time." His voice gained an edge of frustration. "The doctor said if you keep this up, your body will—"
"I'm not eating." I cut him off.
If he gave a damn about my body, why wouldn't he just let me go?
"Anthea—" He stepped forward, his tone turning pleading.
"I said I'm not eating." I sat up sharply, my voice ice-cold.
He stood by the bed holding a tray of elegant food I didn't bother identifying. His face looked worse than a week ago, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. The wound in his abdomen made his movements slower than usual.
"Please." His voice dropped to almost nothing, his eyes showing a vulnerability I'd never seen before.
That look made me furious. What right did he have to look like that? He imprisoned me, watched me, violated me in my sleep, destroyed my life, and now he stood here playing the wounded man?
"You think this works?" I stared at him, my tone mocking. "You think bringing me a few meals makes up for everything? That I'll just stay in the manor and be your good little pet?"
His lips moved, but no words came out. The fire in my chest burned hotter, rage and despair incinerating my insides.
"Get out." My voice came out sharp and strange. "Take your shit and get out!"
He didn't move. Just looked at me, heartbroken.
I swept my hand across, knocking the tray over. The dishes shattered on the floor, food scattering everywhere.
Silas froze for a moment, then crouched down and started picking up the pieces.
"Don't get out of bed yet. You'll cut your feet." His voice was just tired.
He gathered the fragments quickly but carelessly. A shard sliced his finger, and blood welled up immediately. He frowned but didn't stop. He tossed that piece onto the tray and kept collecting the others.
I watched the cut on his finger, something unclear rising in my chest. Not concern, I told myself. Not that.
He kept his head down, cleaning. My eyes swept the floor. A sharp fragment lay in the shadow by the bed frame, right in his blind spot. My pulse hammered. Instinctively, I hooked it with my foot and kicked it under the bed.
He finished quickly, loading all the pieces onto the tray. Then he stood and moved toward me, like he wanted to check if I was hurt. His hand closed around my wrist, turning it over to examine it. Then his movements stopped.
"What's this?" His voice changed pitch as he stared at the scabs on my wrist.
Then he pushed up my sleeve, exposing the crisscrossing red marks—new and old—covering my forearm. His face went white.
"What happened?" His voice shook. "When did this start?"
I couldn't remember when I'd done it. Maybe some sleepless night. Maybe some endless afternoon. I only remembered that when my nails dragged across my skin, the stinging briefly filled the emptiness inside me.
"I'm getting the doctor." His words rushed out. "Wait here."
He turned and left with the tray, his steps faster than when he'd arrived. The door closed behind him, and the room fell silent again.
I looked down at the marks on my arm and suddenly felt ridiculous. How did I get to this point?
