A Debt Owed(20)

Still, I’m not gonna sit around and do nothing while I’m hungry as hell. There must be something in the fridge that I can eat. A delish chocolate cake stares right back at me the moment I open the door, and my mouth waters. No one will notice if I take a piece, right? It’s already been cut anyway.

I reach inside the fridge and take out the cake, placing it on the gray marble counter before searching the drawers for a knife. However, I find that all of them are locked.

“Looking for this?”

The sudden sound of his voice has me jolting up and down and holding in a squeal.

Easton holds up a sharp knife. I don’t know where he got it … or how he even discovered me here in the first place. I immediately check my surroundings; the walls, the door, everything because there must be a camera, right? How else would he have known where I was?

I back away, bumping into the counter with my hips as he approaches me. The sharp blade in his hand gleams, and I swallow hard as Easton comes close with it.

“Hungry, huh?” he asks. Cocking his head, he glances at the cake next to me.

I don’t say a word. I don’t want to give him more ammo.

Even though, according to him, I’m responsible for his pain and suffering … I refuse to let it get to me.

“Here, let me help you,” Easton says, tightening the rope around his robe before leaning in to the cake. He takes a whiff, purposely watching me as my mouth waters and my lips part. God, I wish I could have a taste, but I don’t wanna give him that pleasure.

“You can have a bite …” he muses, sticking the knife inside and cutting a piece in a very violent manner. He grabs a plate and scoots the cake onto it, bringing it up to my face.

“Smells so good, doesn’t it?” he asks, a wicked smile forming on his face. “But wait …”

Right as I lean toward the plate, he pulls it away again and fishes a key from the pocket in his bathrobe. With it, he opens a drawer beside me and takes out a fork, then immediately locks it again. Then he picks up the plate and takes off a piece of cake with the fork, holding it in front of my mouth.

“Open up,” he muses, sliding it across my lips.

But the possessive look in his eyes tells me this is more than satiating my hunger. This is about power, a game of cat and mouse, so I keep my mouth shut and stare straight ahead. His pitch-black eyes show no mercy.

“Open your mouth, Charlotte,” he says, this time with a more domineering voice. The way he holds the fork near my mouth, brushing it along my lips feels as if he’s trying to kiss me with an object.

I don’t know if denying him is the smart thing to do here because I don’t want to anger him. What if he lashes out? Then again, I don’t want him to believe I’ll become a meek little lamb. But what harm can a little cake do?

My grumbling stomach has decided for me, so I open my mouth. He slides the fork inside, and his gaze follows my lips as they close, taking the cake in my mouth. His eyes bore into me as I chew on the delicious piece and swallow it down. A satisfying groan leaves his mouth.

I feel naked. Watched. Used.

As if he only did this because it reminded him of something far dirtier.

The cake suddenly doesn’t taste as good anymore.

He scoops another piece with the fork and attempts to push it inside my mouth too, but I turn my head away.

“C’mon now …” he murmurs. “Have another bite. You love it. I can tell.”

“No,” I say. “I want to do it myself.”

“You eat when I tell you to eat, and you eat how I want you to eat,” he replies.

I refuse without words. He knows what I think. One look is enough.

Suddenly, he throws the plate on the floor, shattering it and covering the tiles with chocolate.

“Then stay hungry! I don’t fucking care,” he growls, pointing at the door. “Go! Go to your fucking room and don’t come out until I say so.”

I stay put, grasping the marble countertop and curling my toes while expecting his blowback. We already passed the stage of him becoming enraged, so now all I can do is make a choice; either run like a weakling or face the threat head on.

“I’m not a robot,” I reply with as much grace as I can muster. I won’t sink to his level.

“No, you are my hostage,” he says, his tongue dipping out to lick the top of his lips as if he’s contemplating what that means. Like the word hostage automatically means I’m supposed to do anything he wants. But that’s just it. Even as a hostage, I still have my own autonomy. I can still choose not to think or feel whatever he wants me to. He can own my body … but not my heart or soul.

The chilling silence between us speaks volumes. It tells me he knows this same thing.

His nostrils flare, and he averts his eyes, rubbing his lips together. He closes his eyes completely as he turns away from me and rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“Get out,” he says, but his much softer voice confuses me.

Where’s the anger? Debris litters the whole kitchen, and he’s standing there with slumped shoulders as if nothing ever happened. As though he’s … ashamed.

“Leave me,” he says, still pointing toward the door as he clicks some kind of button hanging on the wall near the stove. “Someone will escort you to your room.”

Within a minute, someone has arrived. A curly-haired male employee, from the looks of it, complete with outfit. As if they don’t ever sleep.