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“Your choice. Your funeral, seeing as you’d rather starve to death.”
“If only...” I grumbled to myself as he clicked my door shut.
I didn’t have time to bask in the bitter silence under the bright light that reminded me of all the things I had here but didn’t deserve. The dresser, the ensuite, the vintage armoire that looked like it could come to life any second, doors flapping wide as it danced around the room, showing off its extravagance. The roof over my head and the offering of food.
All things I had no appreciation for.
For the third damn time, the door crashed into the wall, delivering a bigger dent that swallowed up the old ones. I jumped, and not because of that.
That wretched robotic voice sounded again. I threw the TV remote at the little culprit I spied in the corner, but the speaker was far too high.
“Not hungry, cuore mio,” it said.
Mercer, with that keypad in his hand and a suit that matched the one what’s-his-face wore, covering the muscles of his body, stood in my doorway. The sheet slipped from my hand.
He didn’t pay my breasts any attention. The look of disinterest on his scowling face was insulting to my body.
“I’d die before eating with you.”
He typed another message. “You might just do that. Because if you don’t eat with me, you won’t eat at all.”
“Fuck you!” Two hate-filled words brought him closer, another pair of black fucking shoes leaving more prints on the pink carpet.
I scowled, and he followed my gaze to his feet.
“Do you not like me messing up your cute little girly room?” the voice asked.
The rage painting my cheeks red answered for me. I hated it. I hated how it reminded me of home. Of how a pretty pink room could be tarnished by filth and changed forever.
Another message played, “You’re probably wondering why you’re up here and no longer locked in the cell.”
I shrugged, acting as if curiosity wouldn’t kill me if given half the chance. I had wondered many times. Wondered if it was all to do with Trix, but no thoughts other than Chandelle stayed in my head for long.
He stepped closer, another message already typed and transmitted, when two fingers flicked my chin and guided my face to his. “You can have a pretty room, my little prisoner. It’s not like you can run away.”
He lowered to his haunches, long legs taking his weight. He lifted the bed skirt, pulling something out from below me.
A wheelchair was brought into view as he stood, my eyes blinking in confusion as he unfolded the pink chair, setting the safety clips into place.
He looked down at me, a smirk on his face. “You’ve even got some wheels,” the emotionless voice spoke again. “You don’t have to spend your last days sitting in this bed...you could go to the window and see the freedom you’ll never get.”
“I will,” I lied.
He stilled.
“I will be free of you,” I lied again. “You won’t kill me, you twisted creep.”
He leaned in, his shadow pushing me down. His fingers gripped my throat, pulling our faces close enough to smell his spearmint breath.
What makes you so sure? His gaze questioned.
He smirked, looking demented and handsome all at once.
“You’d have done it by now. You don’t have the balls to stop her heart,” I spat, actually spat, into his face.
His grip tightened, and he seriously looked like he grew those murderous balls right at that very moment.
“Starvation will do that.” He didn’t even look at the keyboard to type that message. His eyes never left my face, his sinister smile trying to unnerve me...and succeeding.
