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I rub my arm where he gripped me. Yes, on all accounts. I have been hungry, cold, and I’ve spent more nights than I care to remember locked up in Bell’s basement. I know what it’s like to lie on concrete and listen to the sound of rats scurrying around me in the dark, but he doesn’t deserve the knowledge. No one does. It’s mine. My shame.
“Clean this up,” Roman says, looking at the mess on the floor. “If you break one more thing in my house, you’ll work to replace it.”
Swallowing my tears with my anger, I count to ten to prevent myself from punching him in the face.
Play the part.
I bend down, not in submission, but to hide my expression from him. I won’t give him my tears. He’s a monster, even crueler than Bell, because Bell never offers kindness only to snatch it away. At least with Bell what I see is always what I get.
Footsteps fall on the floor. Mateo’s shoes appear in my line of vision. Crouching down, he picks up the knife and fork. I stare at him with parted lips.
“The first time was my fault,” he says to Roman. “I broke the plate. It was a childish move, a stupid display of anger.” Glancing up, he gives me another semblance of a smile.
The crumbs he offers make the tears I’m trying so hard to hold in spill over. It’s the morsel of kindness that breaks me, not the cruelty or hatred in Roman’s words.
Roman balls his hands at his sides, but he says nothing as Mateo straightens with the cutlery, takes the broken porcelain from my hands, and dumps everything in the sink.
Andrew slides off his seat and asks in a too bright tone, “How about a game of pool?”
“You guys go ahead,” Roman says, not breaking eye contact with me.
Mateo hesitates.
“Go,” Roman says with a tilt of his head, his voice level. “I’ll catch up with you.”
Perhaps thinking Roman has his anger in check, they leave us alone in the kitchen. I know better. He’s still livid. He just manages not to show it. Like me, he’s a good actor.
A moment of silence passes. I regret cooking the meal. It was a stupid idea, a mistake I won’t make again. Like Roman reminded me, I’m a prisoner. I owe him nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell me my brother broke that plate?” he asks.
My laugh is wry. “Did you really want to know?”
“Yes. In the future, you won’t omit facts like these again. Understand?” He doesn’t wait for my agreement. “Did he hurt you?”
I swallow. “No.”
“Did he touch you?”
I turn to the sink, but I don’t get far. Roman locks his fingers around my wrist and spins me around.
“I asked you a question, Evie. And do not fucking lie to me.”
Exasperated, I take in his perfect features. He’s unfairly beautiful, the mask a deceptive representation of what lies underneath. It’s a face designed to deceive, a face fit for a devil.
“What does it matter?” I exclaim. “You kidnapped me. You can kill me if you like. Does it make a difference if your brother touched me?”
Every muscle in his body turns rigid. Disbelief widens his russet eyes as he says in a measured tone, “It matters. You’re mine. No one but me lays a finger on you. So you better tell me now, and the gods have mercy on you if you lie to me because I will find out.”
Seriously? He’s not only a sexist and a hypocrite but also self-righteous.
“I’m waiting,” he says, tightening his fingers around my wrist.
I don’t want to get Mateo into trouble. Being a tattletale isn’t my style, but Roman doesn’t let me go. He stands waiting, his gaze drilling into mine.
“He was upset that you didn’t lock me in a cell,” I say. “He was angry about the food, so he threw it on the floor.”
Roman regards me with flaring nostrils. “And then?”
“And then he made me kneel.”
His grip around my wrist is like a vise. Repeating the words slowly, he says, “He made you kneel.”
I lick my dry lips as I take in the fury that darkens his eyes. “Yes.”
“How?”
I blink. “What?”
He’s squeezing too hard, hurting me. “Don’t make me repeat every question. How did he make you kneel?”
“I—” I was going to say I can’t remember, but that’s a blatant lie, one Roman will punish me for because he’s a man of his word. I take a deep breath. “My hair.”
“He pushed you down with his fist in your hair.”
“Yes,” I say, the word barely audible.
“Now we’re making progress. What else?”
“Nothing else,” I say. “You’re hurting me.”
He looks at where his fingers are curled around my wrist. Lifting them one by one, he releases me.
I take a step back. The move puts my hip against the sink. He follows, planting a hand on either side of the sink next to my body and trapping me in the cage of his arms.
