"Your breakdown, sweetheart. After what that criminal did to you."
The fire crackles as logs shift. I'm suddenly aware of framed photographs on the walls. My face. Over and over. Childhood shots. Riding competitions. One of us at a charity gala. All perfectly arranged.
Like a shrine.
"I didn't have a breakdown," I say carefully. "And Legion didn't do anything to me I didn't want."
Marcus's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers behind his eyes. "You're confused. That's understandable after trauma."
"I'm not confused, Marcus. I want you to untie me. Right now."
He ignores this, moving to retrieve a tray from the small kitchenette. "You should eat something. I made your favorite."
The tray holds a plate of food. Mashed potatoes. Roast chicken. Green beans. A meal I've never once told him I liked.
"Marcus, please." I soften my voice. Sunday manners. The ones Mama taught me for dealing with difficult men. "I'd feel much better if I could sit up properly."
"Soon." He sits on the edge of the bed. Too close. "First, let me take care of you."
He scoops up mashed potatoes with a silver spoon. Holds it to my lips.
"I can feed myself if you untie me."
"Open wide," he says, like I'm a child.
I press my lips together. His eyes harden.
"Savannah." The single word is a warning. "Don't be difficult."
My survival instinct kicks in.Play along, Savannah. For now.
I open my mouth. The potatoes are still hot. Not terrible. Butter and garlic. But my stomach turns as he watches me chew with naked satisfaction.
"Good girl," he murmurs, wiping a bit from the corner of my mouth with a cloth napkin. "See? I take good care of what's mine."
Mine.
I swallow hard. "Marcus, what happened to Legion?"
He feeds me another spoonful before answering. "That's not important."
"It is to me."
"He got what was coming to him." His voice remains pleasant. Conversational. "Men like that always do."
Fear claws up my throat. "Is he?—"
"Let's not talk about him." Marcus cuts a piece of chicken. "Let's talk about us. Our future."
"There is no us." The words slip out before I can stop them.
His hand freezes midair. "Don't say that, darling. Not after everything I've done for you."
"What have you done, Marcus?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Distant. "Tied me to a bed? Drugged me?"
"Protected you." He sets the fork down, leans closer. "Saved you from yourself." His breath smells like mint and whiskey. His cologne—expensive, sandalwood—fills my nostrils.
"I don't need saving."
