Just not in the way he thinks.
“Please,”I say again, softer this time. “I need water.”
He tips his head, eyes glittering in the weak light. “Not good enough.”
My fingers curl around the bars.
“Please,” I whisper. “I’m begging you.”
That does it.
His mouth curves into something uglier than a smile. He unscrews the cap slowly, deliberately, letting me watch. Then he steps right up to the cage.
“Open your mouth.”
I hesitate just long enough to sell it. Press myself against the bars of the cage and open my mouth.
He lifts the bottle and tips it forward. Water splashes against my tongue—cold, sharp, perfect—and I force myself not to gulp it down like an animal. Just enough to wet my mouth. Just enough to make him think I’m grateful.
He pulls the bottle back before I get more than a few drops.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
My stomach turns.
But I keep my eyes on his. Steady. Waiting.
He leans in closer, one hand bracing against the bar near my face. “Want more?”
“Yes.”
He tips the bottle again. This time I let my hand drift upward along the bar, slow and subtle, like I’m just trying to steady myself.
His eyes track the movement but don’t stop it. Another few drops hit my tongue.
My fingers brush the edge of his belt.
He notices that. His grin widens. “Careful.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
But my hand doesn’t move away.
It drifts lower instead, fingertips grazing the keys at his hip.
He doesn’t pull back. Too busy watching my mouth. Too busy enjoying this.
Idiot.
My fingers close around something metal. Not the keys.
Something else.
Ahandle.
Knife.
My pulse steadies.
