Chapter 34

ROSALIND

Just when I tried to get a semblance of control over my captivity, he left.

Now all I have for company is the scent of antiseptic and the constant beep of those loathsome monitors.

Shit.

Hours pass. I can't exactly keep track of the time in this windowless room, but my stomach has stopped growling with hunger. My body's survival mechanisms have kicked in, suppressing the constant ache for food.

My mind is clearer, and I can refocus my efforts on escape. I try to flex my fingers, but the thick leather bindings holding them to the metal splint restrict their movement.

If I'm ever going to get out of this contraption, it will be with Cesare's permission. As much as I despise the thought, he's got me completely at his mercy.

Footsteps approach, and my pulse spikes. I force my breaths to slow so the monitors won't betray my agitation. Too late. The door swings open, revealing the bastard himself, clad in his usual black shirt and pants and holding a steaming bowl of something that smells divine.

"Time to eat, pet," he says.

A growl rips through my stomach as though his words have summoned back my hunger. I tighten my jaw, wishing it would shut the fuck up, but saliva floods my mouth at the mingled scents of honey, warm milk, and cinnamon.

He chuckles and looms over me with a bowl. "Who's a hungry girl?"

"Not me," I say through clenched teeth.

"You need to eat."

I jerk my head to the side. If I take even a mouthful of food, then he's won. He'll erode my mind in a cycle of hunger and desperation and use that weakness to extract information about the firm that could get Miranda hurt.

He grabs my chin and turns my face to meet his gaze, but I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to give him any kind of satisfaction.

"Look at me." His grip tightens. "Open your fucking eyes and eat."

The sweet, tantalizing aroma intensifies, and he smears something warm and thick and gooey on my lips. It takes every ounce of willpower not to lick them clean. When he tries forcing his coated fingers between my lips, I clench my teeth.

Air crackles against my bare skin as though his anger has charged the room with electric sparks. My muscles stiffen with the force of my determination. I won't give that bastard an inch.

"Stubborn little thing," he says, his hot breath warming my cheek. "But I have ways of making you eat."

I hold my breath, waiting for him to pry open my jaws, but he releases my chin and steps away. The bowl lands on a table with a clink, and his footsteps retreat to the other side of the room.

My heart thrums a steady beat. The only reason it isn't racing is the concentrated effort I've put into slowing my pulse. If he wants to beat me into submission, I'm ready, because that shit won't work.

At the approaching squeak of a wheel, I crack open an eye to find him pushing a trolley. On its surface is a surgical tray filled with metal instruments, and a transparent tube I've seen on IVs, only thicker.

I huff a laugh, but it carries no mirth. "Is that a feeding tube?"

"This is a gastronomy tube," he replies with a sneer.

"You're not sticking that down my throat, and don't even think of sliding it into my nostril."

He continues toward me, his eyes flashing. I clench my jaw, meeting his glower with a glare just as hateful. The flickering lightbulb illuminates him from the back, turning the edges of his hair a vibrant shade of mahogany.

Cesare looks like a horror movie villain, a younger, hotter version of the type that eats livers with fava beans and Chianti.

A shudder runs down my spine and settles between my legs. When he picks up a sponge with a pair of forceps and runs its wet surface over a spot on my stomach, my adrenaline spikes.

"What the hell are you doing?" I rasp.

"Cleaning the surgical site."

"What for?" I hiss.

He sets the sponge back on the tray. "To insert the G-tube into your stomach. By the way, you look stupid with your lips covered in rice pudding."

On instinct, I snap, "As if I give a fuck."

Realization dawns on me like a bucket of mop water to the face, making my breath hitch. This crazy bastard is going to perform major surgery on my body just because I refuse to eat.

He picks up a scalpel, looks me dead in the eye, and says, "I won't bother with the anesthetic since you enjoy pain."

Scenarios rip through my mind like the shutters of a silent movie. Him feeding me with a tube through the stomach, then sewing my mouth shut for sass, then amputating each limb in response to some perceived slight.

He's already stitched my labia to seal my pussy shut. By the time he's finished with me, I'll be eyeless, limbless, and in no position to escape. All because I refused to eat the rice pudding.

"Fuck!" I scream. "Give me the food."

Huffing out a laugh, he sets down the scalpel, picks up the bowl, and dips his fingers into the creamy dessert.

"Go on." His sticky digits hover over my mouth.

Every instinct screams at me to jerk away, snap or scream or spit.

"Bite my fingers, and I'll extract your teeth," he says with a chilling calmness that tightens my nipples and makes my clit throb.

I part my lips and allow his fingers to slide onto my tongue. The sweet, creamy rice pudding fills my senses, making each nerve ending sing with rapture. As someone who eats vegan to maintain optimal health, this is the most delicious thing I've eaten in over a decade.

"Good girl," he says. "You're taking it so well."

My throat bobs, and the backs of my eyes sting with humiliation. I hate this man with every fiber of my being. I want to tear him to shreds.

He scoops up more rice pudding with his fingers, offering them to me like a sweet sacrament. The heat of his stare burns into my skin, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he's won this twisted game of dominance.

"I had a pet once," he says, sounding wistful. "She got pregnant and died."

Swallowing hard, I picture another woman held hostage in this room, her belly swollen with Cesare's spawn. I don't need to imagine being forced into motherhood against my will. That agony is already seared into my memory.

"What happened to her?" I rasp.

He takes a deep breath, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he is suppressing a flood of feelings. My heart skips a beat. Did she die in childbirth, get gunned down while trying to escape, or did he kill her in a violent rage?

"Cesare?" I rasp.

"Her belly was sliced open, and the babies also died."

His voice falters with the detached regret someone might use for talking about a long-lost animal companion and not an innocent woman he abducted, impregnated, and probably subjected to a botched c-section.

What the hell is wrong with this man? I knew he was unhinged, but this revelation only fills me with more dread. My mind spins in gruesome scenarios, each more horrifying than the last. His family won't let him get away with keeping a woman captive. Not when his older brother just got out of prison for a murder. Right?

Right?

The next finger full of pudding tastes sour, but I force myself to endure for the chance of escape. I can't risk any more modifications to my body or the threat of getting infected and too weak to run.

"Cesare," I whisper, "Please tell me about your last pet."

He pauses, his shoulders sagging as if weighted down by the loss of the poor, innocent woman he tortured to death. "She was beautiful. Light brown eyes like yours and soft brown fur."

My throat tightens. "Fur?"

"She was my best friend," he continues, his voice softening. "She'd hop out of her cage and nuzzle my hand, looking up at me with those trusting eyes. When I let her out to play in the yard, she'd always run back to me, nudging my leg for attention."

I stare up at him, my breath quickening. So, he's comparing me to an animal? "Was she a hamster?"

"Rabbit," he rasps. "And more than just a pet. She was my companion, my confidant, my comfort. Stroking her while she sat on my lap was the closest thing I had to heaven."

Swallowing the rest of the pudding, I scan his face for insights into his humanity. His eyes are glassy, detached, as if he really is pining for a long dead rabbit.

"Who killed her?" I rasp.

His eyes flash. "It wasn't me."

I flinch at the intensity of his protest. "Okay, then who?"

"My brother's friends cut her open. They wanted to see what was inside."

The rice pudding churns in my stomach, and I suck in a sharp breath.

"She was still warm when I found her, with her entrails and the babies scattered on the grass. I tried to piece them back together, but it was hopeless." His voice breaks.

"What happened next?" I whisper.

"My mom found me covered in blood, trying to bring my dead rabbit to life, and she screamed." His jaw tightens. "Said I was in danger of becoming a psychopath."

"Oh." I gulp. "I'm sorry."

His sticky fingers graze over my breasts, and he leans in close. "That's why I plan on taking good care of you."

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling his hot breath against my skin. So, this is his villain origin story. He probably sees himself as a tragic hero, forced to become a dark protector.

"Cesare, I'm not a rabbit."

His lips graze my cheek. "You're far more precious to me than a ball of fur. That's why I plan to break you open, pry out all of your secrets, and rebuild you into a creature of my own making."

My jaw tightens. His mother was right. He is a psychopath. If I allow these mind games to continue, I'm in danger of becoming exactly what he wants.