I think it’s been two days since Cross changed the rules. If I’m right, it’s been almost two weeks since I’ve been here. And two full days of not eating anything.
I refuse to eat from his fingers like a dog. I’m not his pet. The way he looks at me like he’d wish for nothing more than for me to kneel between his legs and accept each morsel is riddled with both desire for me and desire for power over me. The combination is heady, and it plays tricks with my mind. I’m addicted to the hunger in his eyes but I’m afraid of what’s to come if I give in.
I don’t want to submit and kneel in front of him. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Each ache I have reminds myself of this. As the loneliness stretches and the boredom makes me wonder if I’m going crazy, I have to remind myself. It’s always a reminder.
The thoughts make my breathing heavy and my stomach rumble. The sickening part of all of this is that I’m looking forward to him opening the door. I want him to come in tonight like he did last night and the night before. With a silver platter of temptation.
I’m starving and I know I have to give in. I know I will at some point. He’s right. I will eat. I’m already praying for him to open the door, even as I curse him and clench my hands into fists, swearing I’ll be strong enough to refuse him.
He’s going to win. I can feel it.
I’m praying for him to come, so I can have something to eat. Whatever he brings, if he were to come right now, I’d accept. No matter how much I wish it weren’t true. I would do anything to eat right now. To eat anything at all.
My eyes lift from the ground to the door as it creaks open. I don’t lift my head and I stay on the dirty ground, stiff and unmoving.
I can feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. The only thing that holds my attention is the tray balanced in his right hand and held at his chest. I can’t see what’s on it yet, but I can smell it.
My eyes close slowly and I nearly groan from the sugary scents that flood my lungs. When I finally open my eyes, cued by the sound of him moving the chair across the floor and closer to me, I see it all. I see the tasty treats that will be responsible for my pathetic undoing.
The tray is full of the sweetest things. Berries and chunks of mango and fresh pineapple.
It’s all brightly colored and arranged beautifully. Like I said, a silver platter of temptation.
“How’s your hand?” Cross asks me and it’s only then that I even acknowledge him.
“Fine.” My short answer is rewarded with him pulling the tray closer into his lap. “I think it’s bruised,” I offer him in an attempt to give him what he wants.
“You were banging your fist on that door for over forty minutes.” My teeth grit at his response.
“Well, you heard me at least,” I say, although I can’t deny that it hurts. I’m so fucking alone. And tired and sore and aching with pains. But so alone more than anything else.
“I did,” is all he says.
There’s a routine that comes with Carter Cross. He likes things to be done a certain way, maybe so that it can appear that he’s predictable but I’d much sooner think it’s so he can force my own behavior to be predictable for him.
In these sessions, the ones where food is offered, he attempts the semblance of a conversation before offering food. And today, I know I’ll talk back. I know I’ll do what he wants. I’m that desperate.
“You’re dirty,” he tells me with what seems like sincere sympathy. “You don’t wash yourself like I’d hoped you would.”
I bite my tongue at the perverted comments, but I can’t hold it all in. “I’m not a dog to be bathed.” I can’t hide the anger. I should fake my tone like he does, but I choose not to. He’ll feed me regardless. I hope. He only smiles at me in response and it nearly makes me back away from him. Not because of the way he’s looking at me, but because of how my body reacts to the smile. How he seems to enjoy it when I don’t hold back. It’s dangerous. He’s dangerous.
“You’re tired.”
“It’s difficult to sleep on the floor.” Even as I answer him, I can feel how heavy the bags are under my eyes.
“There’s a mattress at least,” he quips, and those piercing eyes stare deeper into me like he can see through the wall of defense. Just the way he looks at me makes me question everything.
Time evades me as I stare back at him, feeling those same walls crumble deep inside of me. I try to suppress the hate I have for him in this moment, just so I can get this over with and eat.
“You look weak, songbird.”
“You keep calling me that,” I bite back.
“I’ve never called you weak,” he says, and his answer is just as stern as mine.
“I meant ‘songbird.’ You keep calling me songbird.” My voice cracks. I don’t want him to call me anything. Not my name, not a sweet nickname. It doesn’t reflect how he truly sees me. It’s meant to weaken me, make me soften. “Stop calling me that.”
“No,” he says in a hardened voice. “Now come here, songbird Come kneel in front of me and let me feed you.”
This is the second part of his routine and the one where I’ve told him to go fuck himself over and over again. But today, I slowly move my body and get on my hands and knees. I swallow my pride and it hurts. It physically hurts. I didn’t know pride was a spiked ball until I move one knee in front of the other. My body is hot with embarrassment and shame as I stop at his feet.
I can’t open my eyes until his rough hand brushes against my jaw. I wish I didn’t feel the need to lean into him. Loneliness consumes me every day. If I could pause this moment and pretend I’m somewhere else, with someone else, I’d lean into his strong touch. I’d allow myself to enjoy his warmth and comfort.
But as it is, I’m staring into the dark eyes of a man who’s held me like this before. And then so quickly shown how easily he could hurt me.
Swallowing thickly, I wait for the third part. Only seconds until he tells me to open my mouth.
As if reading my mind, Cross lets his thumb brush along the seam of my lips. It’s a gentle caress that ignites something primitive in me, heating my core and making my heart beat furiously inside my chest. My knees inch forward, obeying the command from my body to move closer to him.
Closer to the man who controls my freedom. Closer to the gentle touch.
“Open,” he commands me, and I feel my lips part of their own accord.
My eyes stay closed until his hand moves away, and his warmth is replaced with the chill of the air in the cell.
My heart flickers with fear until I watch him pick up a chunk of strawberry and lift it to my lips. I’d be ashamed at how greedily I eat the small piece of fruit if only consuming it didn’t make me feel as though I’m starved. The sweetness falls into a pit of hollow hunger pains. And again, my body moves closer to him.
He doesn’t say anything or hint at anything other than his desire to keep feeding me. And I accept every piece with a hunger that only seems to intensify. My hands find their way to his knees, gripping him as I swallow the next piece he’s offering me.
It takes me far too long to realize I’m touching him. His groan of approval is what cues my awareness, but as I try to pull away, he does the same to the fruit in his grasp.
“Stay.” He gives me the simple command, and so I do. I cling to him for more.
The part that’s truly shameful though is how much hearing him tell me to stay made me crave more of him. His hand on mine, watching him watch me.
A moment passes where I realize he knows my forbidden thoughts.
My greatest fear is that he’ll voice them and bring them to life. I force my fingers to dig deeper into his leg and I open my lips wider, silently begging for more, so I can hide the temptation that grows hotter between us.
I think he’s doing it slowly on purpose. Picking up the bits of sweet fruit and taking his time before he slips them between my lips.
“Open wider,” he commands me and it’s only because my stomach pains with the need to eat that I obey him, that’s what I tell myself. I close my eyes, holding back every other thought.
“Look at me,” he commands as I swallow the small morsel and his strong hand cups my chin, forcing my head up. The juice from his fingers wets the underside of my chin in his grasp. He’s so close, his dark eyes swirling with an intensity that holds my gaze captive. “You’re so strong,” he tells me, and I hate him for it. “You don’t believe me, but you are.”
The rough pad of his thumb brushes against my bottom lip and I almost bite him, just to spite him. To prove to him that whatever he assumes I’m thinking is all in his head. I catch the broad smile growing on his face as I look back up at him.
He offers me another piece and I take it in my mouth. I have to wait for him to pull his fingers away, but he doesn’t.
My gaze moves back to his and he lowers his lips to my neck, his fingers still in my mouth and the juice of the fruit tasting even sweeter. His short stubble brushes my collarbone and then he whispers in my ear, “See how strong? You’d love to bite me, but you know how to survive.”
His hot breath tickles my neck and sends goosebumps down my body. Shamefully, my nipples harden and my back bows slightly. “Such a good girl, Aria,” Cross says, and I pull away from him, leaving the fruit between his fingers and brushing my ass against the cement as I scoot backward, putting distance between us.
The fear is alive within me, but it’s changed. I fear what I’m capable of and how much I’d enjoy it.
The vision of him pinning me down on the ground flashes before my eyes and cruelly, it only makes me hotter. I swallow thickly, feeling my cheeks heat with a blush.
Cross doesn’t move from his chair. “You’re all done?” he asks me. I can’t look him in the eye. I don’t even trust myself to speak. Maybe this is what it’s truly like to be broken.
“Is it because you’ve finished, or because you’re wet for me?” he asks me in a husky voice that only adds to my desire for him.
“Fuck you,” I say beneath my breath, narrowing my eyes and letting my blunt nails dig into the cement.
Cross lets the trace of a smile play on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes as he stands up, towering over me. “I told you I wanted you, Aria. And I get everything I want. Just remember that.”
