There is no way I’m going to stay hungry when I’m not locked in.
I look around and find the wing empty. I step into the small kitchen and open the fridge. It’s packed with ingredients I don’t know how to use. I close it, open another fridge, and find fruits inside. I can eat those. I take out a box of berries.
“Who allowed you to be here?”
I jump at the cold voice, and the box nearly falls from my hand. I turn sharply, hiding it behind me, and find him standing there. My kidnapper.
He stands on the other side of the kitchen counter, watching me from head to toe with narrowed eyes.
“I’m hungry,” I manage to say.
He points a gloved finger at the counter.
“Put whatever you stole here.”
I bring the box from behind me, take reluctant steps forward, and place it on the counter.
“Get on your knees,” he orders.
I stare at him in horror. I’ve read enough books to know what that means.
I step back, shaking my head.
His face hardens. “Get. On. Your. Knees.”
I shake my head, firm. “I won’t do that, even if you kill me.”
I won’t let him sexually assault me.
He nods. “Then die of hunger. You won’t get a single drop of water until you beg for it.”
“You want me on my knees begging for food?” I rasp—and instantly regret it.
When will my tongue stop slipping?
He raises a brow. The question in his eyes is clear: What were you thinking?
“And if I refuse to beg?” I ask, changing the subject.
“You’ll only get food when you beg. But don’t worry, you won’t die. I’ll keep you alive with drugs.”
Begging is much sweeter than drugs. It will do temporary damage to my pride, but drugs will do permanent damage to my body.
I look away and lower myself to my knees.
“I beg you for food.” I force the words out, my tone flat, unaffected.
When he doesn’t respond, I look up to find him watching me with that never-changing hatred.
“I didn’t expect Alexander Bennett’s daughter to be so weak.”
I don’t respond. He can think whatever he wants. It’s not like his image of me will affect my life. I have no intention of getting the approval of a man who is torturing an innocent woman for something her father did. It makes no sense. Every law in the world says punishing children for their parents’ crimes is wrong.
He fixes me with that disgusted look for a full minute before finally leaving.
I get up and retrieve the box of berries I begged for. I open it and put a strawberry in my mouth. The sweetness dulls the bitterness of my humiliation.
I can do that. If he wants to feed his ego by making me beg for food, water, and other things, I can do it. I’ll do it mechanically, without feeling it. I have a lot of fighting ahead, and choosing which battles to fight will decide whether I survive.
