7. Eat

SEVEN

EAT

GENEVIEVE

I smell garlic.

At first, I think I’m imagining it. When the hunger finally seemed to fade a little a couple of hours ago, I knew that was a bad sign. My body has started to accept that I won’t be eating soon, and instead of giving me signals to grab some food, it’s probably starting to catabolize my muscles for fuel. Then I caught a whiff of garlic, and convinced myself that my nose was playing tricks on me.

I didn’t ask Cross if he smelled it, too. He’s already so worried about me. If I admit that my senses are failing and there’s nothing he can do about it… no. I ignored it, even as my stomach rumbled, and sat on the cot, preserving my energy.

And that’s when I heard the footsteps.

Cross cocks his head. “They’re getting closer, aren’t they?”

He’s right. “Someone’s coming.” I know better than to hope after three long days, but I feel it pushing against my chest anyway. “Do you think it’s someone coming to let us go?”

I can tell how much it hurts him to have to dash my hopes like this, but if there’s one thing I can expect from Cross, it’s that he won’t lie to me. “If it was someone on our side, I’m pretty sure the footsteps would be louder, or we wouldn’t hear them at all.”

True. “Then who do you think it is?”

He doesn’t answer. He just motions for me to stay on the cot while he eases himself to his feet, positioning himself between the glass door and me.

The footsteps get a tiny bit louder, but there’s a leisureliness to the rhythm that tells me Cross is right: whoever is coming, they’re not here to save us.

Though they are here to finally feed us.

It’s two men. Both of them have white skin and dark hair, and that’s where the similarities end. The man on the left is at least a head taller than the one on the right. He has his hair pulled back in a low ponytail, with his face narrow and thin, his expression almost bored; he has that strung-out look a lot of older addicts have. The other man is thicker, though I wouldn’t say fat, and he’s about the same age: late thirties, early forties. Though, like his friend, it could be a history of drug abuse that ages him, because the way his round face pinches a little, he looks like he might be on Breeze right now.

The second guy immediately gives me the creeps, and not just because I’m pretty sure he’s high. I can’t really say why except for how bright his eyes get when he peeks through the glass and his gaze settles on me. He makes me feel dirty, and yeah. I haven’t showered in days. But this is a slimy, sleezy, oily sensation slicking my skin as he looks me over, darting his tongue out, playing with the corner of his mouth.

Ew.

I scoot a little, ducking behind Cross. Not even the steaming pile of white noodles he’s holding on the plate in his hand is enough to entice me to sit there and let this creep eye-fuck me like that.

The shorter guy peers at Cross next. He nods. “So you’re Carlos da Silva.”

Carlos? Who is?—

Oh, holy hell. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, Gen. Did you really think that his birth name was ‘Cross’? Of course he has a real name… and after six weeks, I probably should’ve known that.

Damien would have. There isn’t anyone he wouldn’t have gotten into bed with—or thought about doing it—without knowing every single detail about them, down to their blood type and shoe size.

These guys know more about him than I do. They know Cross’s real name—and they know mine, too.

“And Genevieve Libellula,” he says, gaze back on me again, “the Dragonfly princess.”

I fist my hands into the scratchy material of the blanket beneath me. I fucking hate it when people treat me like a mafia princess. Actually calling me one? I already didn’t like these two, but now I loathe the second man in particular.

The other man nods his head. So preoccupied by the plate of pasta his friend had, I didn’t notice that the taller idiot has a gun in his hand.

He waves it now, moving over to the keypad. He presses four buttons—I hear four beeps—and, for the first time since we’ve been in here, the glass door opens with a hiss, sliding just enough to allow the shorter man through.

“Go on,” the tall guy says. “I got your back. Bring in the tray.”

“Gotcha, Noah. Hold the door.”

The shorter man turns slightly to fit his thicker bulk in through the gap. A quick daring look at Cross has him taking a few pointed steps back before the shorter guy drops the plate on the cot next to me. Some of the alfredo sauce splashes onto my wrinkled sundress, but I ignore the white dots on the pale pink material, raising my eyebrows at the sloppy plate of noodles instead.

“Bon appetit, sweetheart.”

Ooh. My skin crawls as he leers at me, using a sickly sweet tone to call me ‘sweetheart’. But when he gestures with his chin at the fork that toppled to the edge of the plate, I realize he’s serious.

He really thinks I’m just gonna scarf this down.

Well. At least I know why they kept us hungry for so long. My hunger returning with a vengeance, I almost do .

But then my brain kicks in and I wrinkle my nose. “How do I know this is safe?”

I want to eat it. My mouth is watering. Do I care that alfredo sauce has always been a no-no food for me? I can just hear Madame’s derisive sneer that I was dare have, heaven forbid, heavy cream , but the tantalizing aroma of garlic drowns her out. I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m twenty-five, I have a womanly figure now, and if I want some alfredo, I’m gonna have some alfredo.

But though I can drown out Madame, my brother’s drawn-out sigh and dry, “You ate a meal prepared for you by the enemy, Gen?,” is enough to have me swallowing the saliva in my mouth as I look wistfully down at the plate of pasta before shaking my head.

The taller man smirks, voice carrying through the glass. “You owe me twenty, Mickey. I told you that the princess here would look down her nose at anything we offer.”

Right. So Noah sucks, too.

Doesn’t matter. “Sorry, but I can’t do it.”

“You will.”

No .

“If the boss wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” Mickey says, nodding at the plate. “Now eat.”

I push the tray away from me. It takes every ounce of strength I have to do that as I give the two men a defiant Libellula shrug. “Pass.”

Mickey sucks in a breath. “You can eat it off the plate, or you can eat it off the floor, but you’re gonna eat it.” He pointedly meets Cross’s quiet stare. “Both of you.”

When we don’t respond, Mickey makes a move to knock the plate off of the cot, onto the floor. Shit. He’s serious . He’ll really expect us to lick the pasta up off the floor?—

“Here,” Cross rumbles. “Give it to me. You want us to eat? Fuck it. I’ll go first.”

“Not very gentleman-like of you,” Mickey snorts, taking a step back as Cross snatches the plate. “Shouldn’t it be ladies first?”

“Not unless you did something to the food. In that case, I’ll be the one to test it.”

“You got a death wish, da Silva?”

“No. But if it’s laced or poisoned, it’s better that I find out over Genevieve.” He swirls his fork in the pasta, gathering up the noodles then plopping them into his open mouth. He chews, swallows, then adds, “Not that I think it is. Like you said. If your boss wanted us dead, we wouldn’t have survived the motorcycle crash.”

The taller man laughs. “You’re smarter than you look, pretty boy.”

Cross doesn’t respond. He just sets the fork down on the plate, then offers it to me.

I hesitate.

He nods. “We don’t know when we’ll eat again. Go on. Have some.”

“Listen to the Sinner, princess,” Noah says mockingly. “Be a good girl and, if you’re lucky, we’ll come back with breakfast.”

“Or maybe we won’t,” adds Mickey. “Haven’s gone. Dumb bitch got relocated right before we got the orders to move you in. With the compound down to a ghost crew and only two visitors, maybe we forget.”

I know what he’s implying. If I refuse to eat, I’ll be punished. If I do eat, they’ll know they can control me.

Cross has already shown them that they can use me to control him .

I guess you could say the same about me. I’m not going to let him go hungry because I’m too stubborn to save my own skin.

Damien would tell me to do whatever it took to survive. Now that Cross tasted the food first without any obvious adverse reactions, I might as well take a bite or two.

So I do, and once the two hired men get what they wanted, they each smirk at us, then Noah lets Mickey out of the cage, leaving Cross and me behind with a mound of woefully under-seasoned fettuccine alfredo.

I set the plate down. My stomach is roiling, unwilling to eat another noodle, and I ignore how uneasy it is by focusing on something else.

Cross .

“So,” I ask, breaking the awkward silence. “Your name is Carlos?”

“It was,” he says flatly, a clear signal that he doesn’t want me to push the topic without actually having to shut me down with his words.

It isn’t often he takes that tone with me. In fact, when you consider how often I badger him with my questions, trying to get to know him, I can only remember one distinct time that he did: when I asked him about the flames on his neck and discovered his family died in an apartment fire.

He’s hungry, I tell myself. The promise of the food is probably twisting both of our stomachs, plus the realization that this wasn’t some big misunderstanding. They know our names. They know who we are. They took us on purpose, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to let us go anytime soon.

He’s hungry—and I’ve lost my appetite.

I push the plate toward him. “You should have some more.”

“I’ll eat when you’ve had enough, butterfly.”

“I’m full?—”

He thins his lips, looking absolutely beautiful in his utter defiance. “When you’ve had enough. If that means I don’t eat, I don’t eat. But I won’t take a spoonful out of your mouth. Understand?”

I gulp.

His expression softens. Running his thumb under my chin, he lowers his voice. “Eat, Genevieve. I’ve been hungry before. I’ll survive. But you’ve gotta let me make sure you do. Okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

“That’s my butterfly.”

And though the noodles taste like goddamn dirt in my mouth as I chew it, I take another bite because it’s the only thing he’s asked of me.

Starve my savior. I swallow roughly. It’s the least I can do.