Page 71 of Bratva Sacrifice

A sob tears out of her throat; the poker clatters to the floor. She drifts slowly back to the library, exhausted, dejected. The fresh plate rests there upon the table like a taunt. Her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs. At last she drops to her knees and begins to eat.

No, not eat—Christ. She is shoveling the food into her mouth with both hands, choking it down as fast as she can. She gags around a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

Fuck. I am already out of my seat. The library is close, and I run.

I hear the barely-contained sounds of retching even before I enter the room. She is trying to eat past the impulse to vomit, scooping up a handful of eggs with her fingers. “Koshechka, stop,” I command.

It is too much food, but her escape attempt proved fruitless, and she cannot trust me not to put her back in the pit. She cannot trust me not to hurt her. She would rather choke herself trying to fulfill my order than test my promise.

She does not stop eating. Not until I pry the plate from her hands, casting it into the corner where it splinters into pieces, scattering the remains of her breakfast against the wall, the floor. Her stomach heaves; her face is a pale, sallow color. Tears course down her cheeks. Her fingers are greasy with the remnants of buttery eggs. The smell of fear is acrid in the room, tainting every breath I take.

Another choking heave. Her whole body shakes with exertion. As if her strength has deserted her, she pitches forward onto her hands, and her stomach empties itself. In between heaves, she sobs—deep, wracking sounds dredged up from her soul.

I scrape her hair away from her face, gather it in one hand. Rub her back while she retches. The trembling becomes deep shudders, the sobs become whimpers of pain and humiliation and fear. She is left pale and weak, so drained and empty she cannot even pull herself away from me. She reeks of sweat and bile and vomit, and her skin is cold and clammy.

She is stiff with fright, only waiting to know the fate I have selected for her. For trying; for failing.

I curl my hand around the nape of her neck, forcing her head against my chest. “I’m sorry,” I murmur against the top of her head. “In future, you should eat as much as you are able. I should have said this.” She skitters away the instant I release her, her damp palms sliding across the tile floor. “Go to bed,” I tell her.

And then, as she scrambles for the door, her relief to have been spared a tangible thing, I add, “Koshechka. Go to our bed.”

Just so we are clear.

∞∞∞

She has followed my instructions to the letter, while exercising as much defiance as she feels is safe. She is curled up in a tiny ball at the very foot of the bed, swathed beneath a mound of blankets. The furthest she can get from my intention while still complying with my words.

I much preferred her outright defiance. But that was for a time when she knew I would never hurt her. Now, that fragile illusion has shattered. She is shattered.

I balance a tray across my thighs as I sit at the edge of the bed and stretch my arm across the vast expanse of bed that separates us, finding her hip with my palm. Even through the thick padding of the blanket, she feels thinner. I know just how much weight she has lost lately, how her collar bones jut, the delicate framework of her ribs. I know how much less substantial she feels in my arms every night I retrieve her from one of her hiding places.

Last night I found her in the laundry room, sound asleep where she had tucked herself back beneath the folding table. The door closed; the light off. Even the darkness which she hated is now more friend to her than I am, if she thinks it will hide her from me.

“Koshechka,” I say, and my voice is raw, guttural. “Come and eat.”

She is not asleep, but she is feigning it. Still, her body is stiff beneath my hand—a reaction she cannot control. An instinctive rejection.

“If you will not eat, you will have to have a feeding tube.” My fingers curl into the plush batting of the blanket. “I do not want that for you, koshechka. But you have to eat.”

There is a faint sigh, tired and resigned. Gradually, she shoves herself up on arms that tremble and shake with her new fragility. She drags herself to her knees, wrapped in a protective layer of blankets. Her arms emerge, stretched out for the tray. Her face is averted; her disheveled hair obscuring most of it. Her lashes are lowered, hiding her eyes from me.

I set the tray aside, perching it upon the table at the side of the bed and pat my thigh. “Come here, koshechka.”

Her chin jerks; a soft denial.

“This is not a request.” I hate that I have to capitalize upon her fear to force her capitulation. I hate that she no longer trusts the hand I extend to her, that it is only her dread that sends her scrabbling across the surface of the bed toward me. I hate that her shirt sticks to her spine with a sheen of sweat, that there is no ease in her stiff posture. I hate that she takes no comfort from the slide of my palm down her back.

I reach for the tray, settling it beside me once more, stirring the spoon in the bowl of soup. Vegetables dance in the thin broth, floating alongside chunks of chicken and thick egg noodles. Probably I made a mistake in trying to get her to eat such heavy fare for breakfast. Too dense, too rich for a stomach so long deprived. She never had a chance of success. The soup is simple, but nutritionally sound.

I lift the spoon to her lips, and slowly, resentfully, she eats. One bite at a time, never relaxing the stiff board of her spine. Only enduring. Silent. Reproachful.

And for long moments, I pretend. I pretend I am not feeding a woman whose broken body is slowly healing. I pretend I am not responsible for the yellowing bruises I see upon her thin wrists. I pretend I am not responsible for her wasting form. I pretend she is not constantly seeking new avenues of escape. I pretend she does not hide from me in this house that should be home and haven to her, that I do not know she spends hours each day sitting beneath the hot spray of a shower in some deserted guest room. I pretend I believe that I can win her back. That I can earn her trust again.

I pretend I can fix what I have broken between us.

Eventually she turns her face away from the spoon with a small sound of protest. I turn my attention to the bowl—she has consumed less than a quarter. Not nearly enough to sustain her, but it is still more than she has eaten lately. So I don’t fight her. I will let this be a battle she wins—for now.

“Okay, koshechka. You can—”