And it isnotas easy as it sounds.
I stare at one of a hundred of the sociopath’s photos on my bedroom wall while the woman whimpers in her cage by my desk. She does that when she sleeps. I’ve asked what it is she dreams about, but she refuses to say. She refuses a lot of things.
She refuses physical touch. She refuses conversation. Half the time, she even refuses to eat. Despite all my effort to follow the formula, she doesn’t associate me with comfort—only pain.
Untacking one of the photos, I set it on my desk. Then another. And another. Until there’s a huge stack of uselessphotos, notes, information that thus far has gotten me nowhere. I was a fool to think I could replicate something so delicate without direct training.
The metal cage rattles as the woman flips over, restless. I grind my teeth and try to block out the noise.
When the wall is bare, I step back; swat hair from my face; run my gaze over the tiny dotted holes.
I forgot what this wall looked like. What thisroomlooked like, before it became a depraved museum.
Books I’ve studied for two months lay on the floor in a neat row, opened to the most relevant pages—yellow, orange, and pink highlighter accompanying margins filled with notes. Four are on the manipulation tactics of abusers, one is on the neuroscience of addiction and trauma bonding, three are case studies of famous con artists and serial manipulators, and one is a basement dweller’s account of what women want.
I’ve gotten desperate. I’ve even taken to watching internet videos on a platform called YouTube just to understand the mechanics of love-based dependency. Too much of it strikes me as sexist.
“Your Grace?” the woman squeaks, apparently awake now. “C-could I go to the bathroom?”
My eyes close at the tremble in her voice. I try not to groan or sigh or do anything to show my displeasure.
It’s not her fault that she’s weak. It’s mine.
She’s the fourth captive I’ve attempted to replicate Sawyer Hansley’s methods on. My fourth failure, though this is the first since I’d learned of the supposed effective ‘trauma bond.’
I started with love bombing a month ago, when Thorne first found her sleeping underneath a bridge in New York City. I gave her more food than we ration for our people, a hot shower every morning, and even tried to smile when she spoke, toreward good behavioras one Youtuber put it.
It didn’t take long to realize that was never going to work.
I moved onto phase two within the week, and while it’s done a fine job of forcing her complacency if you don’t mind a lot of crying, it’s apparent that it isn’t the way forward. She’s weak and scared and—sadly—pathetic.
I can’t in good conscience pass down her blood to the next generation or let her carry an infant in a state of duress. It’s not good for the baby. It isn’t acceptable to my people. It isn’t even acceptable to me, and as established, I’m desperate.
We need complacent women.
Women who willacclimate. Who don’t require cages or torture and are enthusiastic about being a part of something so much bigger than themselves.
I don’t know how to accomplish that.
I don’t have the right knowledge.
“Your Grace?” the woman calls again, sounding more like a girl this time.
On an exhale, I push energy through my fingertips, then walk to her cage and unlock it. She looks too stiff as she crawls out, and when she stands, she cringes as if in pain. I try to tell myself she could use a walk, but what she really needs is mercy.
She trudges to the door and lingers in front of it, picking at the lace on her white dress while she waits for me to lead her.
“You’ve been very good, Lila… You can go without an escort this time.”
She swallows. Her eyes widen without looking up from the floor. She nods too many times and stutters out a breath like she’s going to cry again. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
I frown while watching her leave. This has worked miserably.
How could I have tried so hard and come up so short?
Because I’m a woman? Because I’m ugly? Must it be romantic love the women feel in order to be happy?
Or do I simply not have the necessary tools?
