Touch (Touched by the Fae 3)

Maybe if it was his true name and I could use it to compel him, but I’ve got no doubt in my mind that it isn’t. Why would he give me any power over him? He wouldn’t, and by dictating what I call him, he’s just proving that he’s the one holding all the cards.

I decide, then and there, that he’ll be Gillespie to me from now until the day I die just because he told me otherwise. ‘Cause he’s right—he’s not my doctor. He’s just some insane man who went to the trouble of trapping me and thinks a plate of fruit is an acceptable peace offering.

Then again, I’m not about to cut off my nose to spite my face. Just in case he made a huge, honking mistake, I mutter under my breath, “Let me go, Aidan.”

Like I expected, using that name does jackshit. His bushy, red eyebrows go up. “What was that? You say something, Riley?”

Gritting my teeth together, I shake my head.

A flash of disappointment is quickly replaced with steely determination. He starts to back away again, his hand on the edge of the door.

“In that case, good night. Get some rest. Perhaps you’ll be in a more cooperative mood tomorrow.”

Good night? So it’s still the same day. That’s good. But Gillespie telling me ‘good night’ and ‘get some rest’? Oh, no. That’s not good.

I scramble to my feet. I don’t know why, except it bothers me the way that the red-haired creep is staring down his nose at me while I stay frozen on the floor.

“You can’t leave me in here,” I tell him.

“Why not? I made sure you have facilities. There’s water in the tap, food waiting for you to eat it. You have everything you need for as long as I need to keep you here.”

I goggle over at him. “And how long is that?”

“As long as it takes.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Before I can ask, he closes the door in my face.

I sputter and I stare at the back of the door as, once again, I find myself all alone.

Knock, knock.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep. With the bright light, the pristine white wall, and my nerves ratcheted up past eleven, I thought I’d be up all night. Exhaustion and anxiety must have caught up with me sometime early this morning, though, because, at that sudden, sharp knock, I’m jolted out of a dreamless, restless sleep.

I’m slumped in the corner, my head nestled in my palm, my elbow propped up against my belly. I jerk awake, wincing as the searing light—and the truth of my predicament—hits me.

The knob turns. The door opens.

Gillespie stands there, peering at me from behind his glasses.

He frowns wh

en he sees that the plate is on the other side of the room, still untouched. I’m hungry, but I’m not that hungry. Give me another day or so and I might start second-guessing the look of that fruit.

Not yet.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” I lie.

His lips quiver, the frown quirking up to a noticeable smirk. “I’m glad.”

I was lying. He’s not.

Ugh.

I’m in way over my head right now. It gets even worse when the doctor disappears from the doorway. I hear a soft grunt, followed by the scraping of something heavy being dragged across the floor. A few seconds later, he reappears, tugging one of his chairs behind him.