Merciless

Chapter Twelve

Aria

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.