And now? Now, those same dark eyes hold nothing but hunger. A dangerous, terrifying one.
I know I deserve his hate, but why does it hurt so much to see it?
When he steps inside, I keep my head down, waiting for the destruction of whatever is left of me. But he doesn't speak. He just stands there, watching, seeing all the way inside my skull. Waiting.
After a long pause, he exhales a soft, almost amused sound, and then he does the worst thing possible.
He crouches in front of me, reaches out, and brushes his fingers over my cheek.
I flinch violently. His touch is warm, and some pathetic, broken part of me suddenly craves it. It's this fucking cold dungeon's fault.
His lips curl dangerously. "That's the first real reaction I've gotten out of you today."
I swallow, my throat dry, raw, on fire. "Go fuck yourself."
His thumb skims the edge of my jaw, barely there, just enough to remind me he can touch me whenever he wants to.
"Would you like a drink?"
I blink, my sluggish brain misfiring at the words. My gaze drops to the glass in his hand.
Water. Clear. Cool. Perfect. A single sip would feel like salvation.
He is baiting me, mocking me. I hate that it's working. I hesitate — just a fraction of a second. My pride says'no'but common sense kicks in.
"Yes, I'd like some water, Ghost," I croak. I can't let this go on forever.
"I'm sure you would," he says casually, standing back up, still holding the glass. "But you're not broken enough yet. I see the need to fight in you. You haven't learned your lesson. So you'll have to wait a while longer, until I decide it's enough."
I lift my chin, glaring. "You are fucking pathetic. What? Are you so weak that you can't kill me with a bullet? So you have to do this? Is it some kind of sick sexual fantasy? You're embarrassing yourself."
Maybe if I annoy him enough, if I bring his anger out, he would kill me already and stop this madness. This slow torture.
"It's not nearly as embarrassing as begging me for a single drop of water, adorable," he muses, swirling the glass in his hand, watching it shift.
I clench my fists. "If you don't fucking leave, I'll throw up just so you'll have to clean it."
His lips twitch like he's actually amused. "Hallucinations kicking in already? Even if you could, you think I'd clean up after you?"
I glare. "Would it be beneath you, oh mighty captor?"
His smirk widens, but there is something darker behind it now. Twisted.
"You want to know what's beneath me?" His voice is low, almost thoughtful, like he's considering some new idea.
Without warning, he pours the water onto the floor.
I freeze.
The glass tips. The water spills. Drop by drop, sinking into the cracks of the stone beneath me.
Gone.
I think I might actually be sick. He knows exactly what it did to me. I didn't even realize I was reaching for it.
He crouches again, leaning in so close his breath skims my cheek.
"I own you," he murmurs, so fucking sure of himself. "The sooner you stop fighting back, the better."
