She smiles. “You will.”
Chapter 2
Brooke
Ifeel like I’m in a nightmare I can’t wake up from. Every instinct in my body wants to move, to fight, but none of that will help me right now. Panic burns energy too fast, and I can’t afford to waste any. I focus on breathing, on keeping my expression calm, on remembering that John watches everything. He always has. He likes patterns. He likes compliance. He likes thinking he is ahead.
If I want out of this, I need him to believe I am already where he wants me.
The door opens again. John steps back into the room with his phone still in his hand. He glances at Mary first, then at me.
“So what’s it going to be, Brooke?”
Mary straightens immediately, her spine stiffening like she’s been called to attention. I tighten my grip on the armrest, angling my wrist to keep the loosened screw out of view.
John sets his phone down on the dresser and folds his arms.
My gaze drops to the tray in front of me. The smell of eggs makes me nauseous. I look at the toast that is untouched. Then to the glass of water Mary brought.
“Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll eat.”
Mary lets out a breath of relief. John gives a single nod, already satisfied.
I lean forward slightly. The movement shifts the chair.
Mary reaches for the fork like she is about to feed me herself.
“I’m not an infant,” I snap. “I can feed myself.”
She recoils, then nods quickly and places the fork in my hand. My cuffed hand. The metal presses into my skin.
I lift the fork, scoop a bite of eggs, and bring it halfway to my mouth.
The smell hits me. My stomach lurches violently. Heat rushes up my throat and I gag, twisting my head away just in time as bile burns my tongue. I bend forward, dry heaving, eyes watering, breath tearing out of me.
Mary is at my side instantly. “Brooke,” she says softly. Watching me too closely now. “Are you nauseous?”
I swallow hard, fighting it down. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Her gaze flicks to the plate, then to my face. Something clicks behind her eyes. She picks up the tray and steps out of the room.
John watches from across the room.
Mary comes back with a warm biscuit and a little jar of honey. She breaks the biscuit in half with her fingers and drizzles honey over it.
“Here,” she says gently. “Eat this. It’ll settle your stomach.”
I stare at it for half a second too long.
Refusing will draw attention. Eating will buy me time.
I take it.
The biscuit is soft and sweet, the honey sticky against my fingers. I chew slowly, keeping my breathing calm, forcing my body to cooperate.
Mary smiles, relieved. “That’s better,” she murmurs.
I nod, swallowing the last bite. I wipe my fingers on the napkin, lower my gaze, and let my shoulders slump.
