The Paper Swan(6)

Damian didn’t reply. He was still behind me, out of my line of sight, and he kept doing whatever the hell it was he was doing.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I started to tremble, but stifled the whimper that threatened to escape.

It was a slow, psychological game—him, being in total control, and me not knowing what was going to happen next, or when, or where, or why.

I startled when he slid a stool next to me. It had a bowl filled with some kind of stew, a hunk of bread that looked like it had been ripped off—no knife, no niceties—and a bottle of water. My stomach jumped at the sight of it. I felt like I hadn’t eaten in days, and although I wanted to throw it all back in his face, I was ravenously hungry. I lifted my head and sank back down—the motion, combined with the rocking of the boat, making me woozy and disoriented. I attempted it again, more slowly this time, coming up on my elbows before sitting up.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

What the hell was that?

“I wouldn’t turn around if I were you,” he said.

Interesting. He didn’t want me to see his face. If he planned to kill me, why would he care? It would only matter if he didn’t want me to be able to identify him.

I spun around. The world went all dizzy and blurry, but I spun around. Maybe I was a crazy-ass bitch, but I wanted to see his face. I wanted to memorize every last detail so I could nail the bastard if it ever came down to it. And if he killed me, so be it. At least we would be more even.

I saw your face: Bang Bang.

Rather than I-Have-No-Clue-What-I-Did-To-Deserve This: Bang Bang.

He didn’t react to my defiance, not the slightest hint of a response. He just sat there, dipped his fingers in the paper cone he was holding and tossed something in his mouth.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

His eyes were shielded by a baseball cap, but I knew he was watching me. I shuddered when I realized he was taking his time, weighing my punishment like he weighed whatever he was eating, before chomping it down with his teeth.

I didn’t know what I was expecting. I already knew I hated him, but now I hated him even more. In my mind, I had pictured someone completely different, someone as mean and ugly on the outside as he was on the inside. That made sense to me. Not this. Not someone so ordinary, you could walk right by him on the street and never realize you’d just brushed past pure evil.

Damian was younger than I’d anticipated—older than me, but not the grizzly, hardened thug I’d assumed he’d be. He might have had an average build and height, but he was strong as hell. I knew because I had kicked and punched and fought him like a wildcat in that parking lot. Every inch of him was cold, hard steel. I wondered if it was a requirement in his line of work: abduction, mock executions, smuggling girls across the border.

He hooked his foot around the stool and pulled it towards him. The glossy, custom shoes were gone. He was wearing ugly, generic boat shoes with ugly, generic sweat pants and an ugly, generic t-shirt. His lips curled mockingly, as if he was fully aware of my disdainful appraisal and was enjoying it. The * was enjoying it.

He tore the bread in half, dipped it in the stew, letting it soak up the thick, brown gravy, and bit into it. Then he sank back, chewing it slowly, while I watched. It was sourdough bread. I could smell it. I could almost taste the crispy crust, followed by the soft tang of the dough melting in my mouth. The steam rising from the stew filled my stomach with the promise of carrots and onions and pieces of soft, tender meat—a promise that Damian had no intention of keeping. I knew that now. I knew this was my punishment for turning around when he told me not to. I knew he was going to make me watch as he finished every last bit of the food that was meant for me.

The kicker was that he didn’t even want it. He looked like he was so full, he had to force every delicious f*cking bite into his mouth while my stomach clamored, and I went dizzy with raw, gnawing hunger. My mouth puckered each time he swirled the bread in the stew, picking up chunks of slowly simmered vegetables and gravy. I watched him finish the bowl, unable to look away, like a starving dog ready to pounce on a stray morsel, but there was nothing left. Damian wiped every drool-inducing bit of it clean with the last piece of bread. Then he stood and uncapped the bottle of water, holding it over me.

Oh God. Yes. Yes.

I held out my hands as he started pouring, my dry, cracked lips anticipating that first thirst-quenching drop of water.

The water came. It did. But Damian held his dirty hand over me, the one he’d used to eat with, so that the water passed through his soiled fingers before it got to me. I had a choice. Accept his degradation or go thirsty.