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We sit in silence for a few minutes. I chew and swallow and drink, and when I’m done, he’s still staring, unmoving.
“You did well,” he says, finally.
“Define ‘well,’” I reply.
He smiles, just at the edges. “You didn’t die, cave or give in.”
“Yet.”
“Your survival probability is higher than you think.” He slides a tablet across the table. On the screen is a file: RICHARDS, SAMUEL / STATUS: ACQUIRED / PLACEMENT: MINISTRY OF ENFORCEMENT.
I read it, careful not to touch the screen. “So I’m hired for a job I didn’t apply for. Or domesticated.”
He shakes his head. “Neither. You’re assimilated. It’s the only way the system endures.”
“And what am I supposed to do now? Lap up the gruel and beg for a treat?”
“If you’re smart.” Bentley leans in, elbows to table, and his stare is a scalpel. “But I suspect you’re not interested in treats.”
I match his gaze. “I’m interested in finding the weak spot and breaking it.”
“Then you’ll fit in here.” His voice is warm, almost proud. “I’ll train you myself.”
“Is that allowed?”
“It is now.” He says it like a challenge, and maybe it is.
We don’t break eye contact for a long time. The air is tight between us, charged with the aftermath of violence and the anticipation of more. We both know this isn’t over. It never will be.
He stands, collecting the plates. “Finish your food. You’ll need the energy.”
I nod, digging back in. I eat, growing hungrier the more I devour, counting every chew, every swallow, every movement of his body as he clears the table. He stacks the dishes, rinses them in the steel sink, and lines them up on the drying rack with the same perfection as every other detail in this house.
When he turns back, his voice is softer, almost a whisper.
“We will be transferring to my personal estate in a few hours. From now on, you eat at my table. You sleep under my roof. You do what I say, when I say it.”
“Or?”
“There is no ‘or.’” He means it.
I finish the eggs, push the bowl forward, and lean back in the chair. “So that’s it? I’m yours?”
He walks to my side, stands close enough that I feel the heat of his body. “You’re mine now,” he says.
The words hit me harder than I thought they would, but I don’t flinch.
I look up at him, let the silence stretch, and say, “Prove it.”
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are alive. “Soon.”
I wonder, for the first time, if I’m going to like it.
“What’s the first thing you remember wanting?” he asks, making coffee.
I run my tongue over a cracked molar, consider lying, then don’t. “To never be hungry again.”
He nods, not judgmental. “What’s the first thing you regret?”
