The tray is full of the sweetest things. Berries and chunks of mango and fresh pineapple.
It’s all brightly colored and arranged beautifully. Like I said, a silver platter of temptation.
“How’s your hand?” Cross asks me and it’s only then that I even acknowledge him.
“Fine.” My short answer is rewarded with him pulling the tray closer into his lap. “I think it’s bruised,” I offer him in an attempt to give him what he wants.
“You were banging your fist on that door for over forty minutes.” My teeth grit at his response.
“Well, you heard me at least,” I say, although I can’t deny that it hurts. I’m so fucking alone. And tired and sore and aching with pains. But so alone more than anything else.
“I did,” is all he says.
There’s a routine that comes with Carter Cross. He likes things to be done a certain way, maybe so that it can appear that he’s predictable but I’d much sooner think it’s so he can force my own behavior to be predictable for him.
In these sessions, the ones where food is offered, he attempts the semblance of a conversation before offering food. And today, I know I’ll talk back. I know I’ll do what he wants. I’m that desperate.
“You’re dirty,” he tells me with what seems like sincere sympathy. “You don’t wash yourself like I’d hoped you would.”
I bite my tongue at the perverted comments, but I can’t hold it all in. “I’m not a dog to be bathed.” I can’t hide the anger. I should fake my tone like he does, but I choose not to. He’ll feed me regardless. I hope. He only smiles at me in response and it nearly makes me back away from him. Not because of the way he’s looking at me, but because of how my body reacts to the smile. How he seems to enjoy it when I don’t hold back. It’s dangerous. He’s dangerous.
“You’re tired.”
“It’s difficult to sleep on the floor.” Even as I answer him, I can feel how heavy the bags are under my eyes.
“There’s a mattress at least,” he quips, and those piercing eyes stare deeper into me like he can see through the wall of defense. Just the way he looks at me makes me question everything.
Time evades me as I stare back at him, feeling those same walls crumble deep inside of me. I try to suppress the hate I have for him in this moment, just so I can get this over with and eat.
“You look weak, songbird.”
“You keep calling me that,” I bite back.
“I’ve never called you weak,” he says, and his answer is just as stern as mine.
“I meant ‘songbird.’ You keep calling me songbird.” My voice cracks. I don’t want him to call me anything. Not my name, not a sweet nickname. It doesn’t reflect how he truly sees me. It’s meant to weaken me, make me soften. “Stop calling me that.”
“No,” he says in a hardened voice. “Now come here, songbird Come kneel in front of me and let me feed you.”
This is the second part of his routine and the one where I’ve told him to go fuck himself over and over again. But today, I slowly move my body and get on my hands and knees. I swallow my pride and it hurts. It physically hurts. I didn’t know pride was a spiked ball until I move one knee in front of the other. My body is hot with embarrassment and shame as I stop at his feet.
I can’t open my eyes until his rough hand brushes against my jaw. I wish I didn’t feel the need to lean into him. Loneliness consumes me every day. If I could pause this moment and pretend I’m somewhere else, with someone else, I’d lean into his strong touch. I’d allow myself to enjoy his warmth and comfort.
But as it is, I’m staring into the dark eyes of a man who’s held me like this before. And then so quickly shown how easily he could hurt me.
Swallowing thickly, I wait for the third part. Only seconds until he tells me to open my mouth.
As if reading my mind, Cross lets his thumb brush along the seam of my lips. It’s a gentle caress that ignites something primitive in me, heating my core and making my heart beat furiously inside my chest. My knees inch forward, obeying the command from my body to move closer to him.
Closer to the man who controls my freedom. Closer to the gentle touch.
“Open,” he commands me, and I feel my lips part of their own accord.
My eyes stay closed until his hand moves away, and his warmth is replaced with the chill of the air in the cell.
My heart flickers with fear until I watch him pick up a chunk of strawberry and lift it to my lips. I’d be ashamed at how greedily I eat the small piece of fruit if only consuming it didn’t make me feel as though I’m starved. The sweetness falls into a pit of hollow hunger pains. And again, my body moves closer to him.