“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” I say quietly.
“No.”
He uncovers his own plate but doesn’t eat. Just watches me.
“You needed something warm,” he says. “Something that won’t upset your stomach. You haven’t eaten properly in days. Choice would have complicated that.”
I meet his eyes. There’s no challenge in my expression—just a steady, contained anger that has nowhere to go.
“You like deciding for people.”
“I like control,” he says calmly. “People are incidental.”
The words settle into me like a verdict.
I can see now why he might have struggled with Trey.
I inhale slowly and pick up my fork. The first bite feels wrong in my mouth, my body sluggish after days of surviving on ration packs, crackers, and canned meat. My stomach protests, unfamiliar with real food again, but I force myself to chew and swallow.
I’ve lived most of my life on simpler fare. Boiled meat. Potatoes. Meals meant to fill, not comfort. This bland dish is nothing extravagant. Whatever Johnathon thinks of me, I am not fragile.
Refusing would be noticed.
Refusing would be weakness.
And weakness is something men like him catalogue.
After a moment, he speaks again.
“Trey is alive.”
The words strike with brutal precision.
My hand stills midair.
I don’t cry.I don’t gasp.
But my breath catches hard enough to hurt, a sharp, involuntary sound tearing from my chest.
He gives me nothing else.
No explanation.No proof.No comfort.
I swallow and force myself to keep eating, my heart slamming so violently it feels like it might shatter my ribs.
“Why tell me now?” I ask.
“Because you’re clean,” he replies evenly. “Fed. Sitting where I want you.”
He leans back slightly, fingers folding together with deliberate calm.
“Because hope makes people compliant.”
How do I know he is telling the truth? That this is not just another leash around my throat?
My grip tightens around the fork.
“I want proof.”
