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He just shakes his head at me, looking disappointed. The sickest part of this moment is the fact that there’s a part of me that feels... contrite. As though I did something wrong. As though I broke his trust.Histrust. Maybe it's better if he just kills me because I'm already too aberrant to live. I don't want to see the woman I will become if he keeps letting me breathe.
Broken sobs slip out of me even as I try to keep them locked down.
“Not going to beg me? Or was that just for when you were pretending to be a good girl?”
“Would it do any good?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“No.” Gone is his sarcastic word play and his amused expressions as he reveals each new twist in his game.
He sighs, “Come with me, Pretty Toy.”
I don't move. What difference does it make if I try to obey him now or if I resist? “Are you going to kill me?”
“No, Kate.” He stretches out his hand. He's far calmer than I would expect. I did jab a needle with what I thought were drugs in his leg after all. “Now,” he says.
I want him to rush at me, all anger and venom. I want him to grab me and forcibly remove me from the room, drag me kicking and screaming to the dungeon because I cannot just voluntarily walk toward him. But he doesn't. He just waits.
He can apparently wait forever for me to go to him. What else can I do? Run? Where? Around the cell? Into the bathroom? There's nowhere to hide, no way to escape. He can just let me wear myself out.
“It will be worse for you if you don't come with me now.”
These words are all I need to start moving, this small permission to obey him without self-recrimination. After all, it will beworseif I don't. So I'm not the stupid girl walking willingly to her doom. I'm the smart girl, stopping this from escalating and becomingworse.
I take the offered hand and he leads me over to the door. There’s a brief pause while he presses his thumb against the thumbprint scanner, and the door slides open, taking us back out into that impossibly ornate hallway.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I hadn't noticed it with everything that has transpired. “Yes, Master.”
I expect he will lead me to the end of the hallway and that other steel door that leads into the underground dungeon, but he doesn't. Instead, we stop a couple of doors before that where he takes me into a large modern kitchen.
“Sit,” he says, indicating a bar near the kitchen island.
I sit on a stool, bewildered.
“I'm going to say this once, Kate. This house is locked down. There’s no way out. Every window is locked and can only be opened with a key. Each door is locked. The windows are shatterproof. There’s an alarm that would sound anyway if anything was breached. So don't be stupid again.”
I watch quietly as he takes out some pans and begins to make bacon and eggs. I don't understand what’s happening. I thought he was going to kill me, but he claims he isn't. And I'm sure he’ll punish me. The fact that he's decided he wants tofeedme right now is beyond my comprehension.
I feel suddenly self-conscious being naked upstairs in his bright kitchen with black and white parquet floors and the huge windows which offer me a stunning view of the gently rolling landscape outside.
My gaze shifts to a wooden block with an array of no doubt very sharp kitchen knives in it. He turns away from the stove and catches my guilty gaze.
He chuckles. “Don't even think about it. You don't want to escalate our relationship to knives. Trust me.”
I swallow hard and nod. Even as the smell of bacon and eggs wafts to my nose, I'm losing my appetite. How can I possibly eat knowing something extremely bad is about to happen to me? I try to keep my tears quiet, but I fail.
He makes no comment.
When the food is done, he places it in front of me and pours me a glass of milk. “Eat.”
I'm not sure if it's the smell of the food triggering my appetite or if somehow biologically my body now responds to his commands. I think it's the first thing but I wouldn't swear on it.
“Aren'tyougoing to eat?” I ask.
“I already ate.”
He cleans up the kitchen and washes the dishes, then he leans against the kitchen island, watching me as I finish up the last bite of eggs. He takes the plate and glass from me and washes those as well. I pray it takes him forever to finish this task so I can stay in the warm, bright, safe kitchen a little longer. At the same time, I can't stand the maddeningly slow way he moves, the way he drags out the time leading to whatever horrors await me for stabbing him with a needle while trying to escape. Can he really blame me for wanting to be free and safe?
