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Nothing. Not a word. I have a sneaking suspicion I know why. She has me figured out. My obsession with hypnotizing her. With having her silent and at my disposal.
She’s playing me as much as I play her. Hoping to get something out of it.
Maybe even get away from me.
Someone should’ve warned her earlier in life that her cleverness would get her in trouble.
“I see. You’re being my little doll. I guess I can appreciate it.” I move on the bed to undo the knots around her ankles, massaging the rope burns. “But I need you to eat. Would you stick to your silence if I told you I made your favorite ravioli? That it’s waiting in the oven?”
“Dinner?” Leighton’s eyes widen. “How late is it?”
She shifts her gaze from me to the glass walls for the first time today. To the darkness of the night that slowly swallows up the dusk.
“Late afternoon.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“For almost a day.” I mentioned how long she’s been without food, but she’s exhausted. It’s understandable. She’ll wake up soon. “I’ll feed you. Come on, I made your favorite ravioli.”
I pause, getting a sick kick out of watching her war with herself. She wants to eat, not be fed. Not by me.
Not yet.
She won’t want what I have to say next, either.
Don’t care.
Running my palm up her thigh and to her breastbone, I hover over her. “I’ll feed you, as long as you answer my questions over our therapy session.”
That draws a reaction out of her. Her eyebrows shoot up, the same as her pulse.
“You can’t force me to talk to you.” The sound of her stomach grumbling says differently.
I grin.
She groans, crossing her arms on her chest. Tries to close her legs. I don’t let her. “I’d rather starve.”
Leighton’s resistance is adorable. It’s a farce. She’s here. In bed. Remains in her place instead of attempting to flee and lock herself in the bathroom. She doesn’t kick me in the balls or tries to claw my eyes out.
She loves me.
It won’t be long before she stops fighting this. The shock of being taken will fade. She’ll get used to me. She’ll admit to loving me.
All I have to do is give her a little push.
Just in case I’m wrong, I straddle her, caging her beneath me. My eyes burrow deep into her mind, and my beautiful doll freezes for me. Waiting for my instructions.
This time, she’s not manipulating me. This time, it’s because she’s mine.
“You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?” My suggestion makes it appear like Leighton has a choice. She doesn’t. I’m saying it to infiltrate her mind. She’ll respond better to a line of suggestions than if I bark out an order. “You’ll stay here, wait for me to pick an outfit for you, then wear it. Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t want to…” she trails off, sinking deeper. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
I stalk into the walk-in closet I had stocked for her and me. For us.
The fit of everything is perfect, thanks to years of adding her laundry to our load. And other methods.
