He snorts and turns on the light.
Good. That means he wants to play.
“Got a mouth on you,” he says.
I lift my head slowly and blink at him, my eyes sensitive to the dim light. “You all keep telling me that.”
He shifts his weight. Keys jingle softly at his hip.
There you are.
My pulse picks up, but only once. I let my gaze drift toward the water bottle in his hand.
Cold plastic. Half full.
I hate how badly I want it.
He notices. Of course.
His mouth curls slightly. “Thirsty?”
I stare at the bottle, then at him. “What gave it away?”
He walks closer to the cage, stopping just outside arm’s reach. “You want some?”
I almost smile.
Got him.
The trade he wants to feel in control of. The power. Thechoice.
I drag myself to my feet slower than necessary and make my way to the bars. Not too close. Just enough. The dim light catches the dried blood in my hair and the shadows under my eyes. I know what I look like.
Worse, I know what men think when they look at women like me in moments like this.
Soft enough to handle. Pretty enough to keep looking at.
Desperate enough to bargain.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
His eyes drag over my face, then lower, lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl.
“Please,” I add, hating the word but letting it sit there anyway.
He takes another step. Close enough now that I can see the smug satisfaction settling over his face.
“Beg for it.”
My jaw tightens reflexively before I force it to relax again.
Of course.Of coursethat’s what he wants.
Men like him always want the same thing—proof that they matter. Proof that they can make someone smaller than they are bend.
I lower my gaze like I’m considering it. Like the humiliation of it costs me something real.
It does.
