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His eyes go directly to the apple.
I look at it too, remembering the way he clutched the last one against his chest as I dragged him upstairs, how tightly he held on to something I would have willingly given him if he’d only asked.
“You may eat the apples,” I tell him.
He looks at me then, his eyes swollen and red from crying, but he doesn’t say anything.
“The greenhouse is not forbidden,” I continue, although the words feel strange coming from me after what I did earlier. “Only the roses. You are not to touch the roses.”
His brow furrows. “Why?”
The answer rises immediately.
My mother planted them.
I don’t say it.
Instead, I look at the apple sitting beside his dinner and then at the man who begged me only hours ago not to leave him alone.
“Eat,” I say quietly.
16
Boone
I palm my cheeks and force myself to sit up, but the moment he steps closer, I flinch. Then his hand appears in front of my still-damp face, palm turned upward with his long fingers curled just slightly, and I stare at it like it’s about to bite me. He doesn’t grab me or rush me, though. Instead, he simply stands there waiting until I finally slide my trembling fingers between his, allowing him to close his hand around mine and pull me to my feet.
He guides me toward the table and even pulls the chair out for me, which only makes me more nervous because I don’t understand this version of him or what he expects from me. I glance up at him before lowering myself into the chair, but I can’t look at him for long. Instead, I focus on the tray sitting in front of me and try to understand why the same man who threw me into this room earlier is suddenly pulling out my chair.
I ate so much in the kitchen that I’m not even hungry, and I don’t think I could force myself to eat now even if I were starving. For whatever reason, that’s the thought that finally pushes me over the edge. Before I can pull myself together, I drop my face into my hands and begin to sob.
I miss my father. I miss my home. I would give anything to get away from the man standing beside me and go back to the life I had before any of this happened. Even the things I used to worry about seem insignificant now. Problems I would gladly take back if it meant sitting across from Dad at our little table again. All I want is to be somewhere familiar, somewhere I know what tomorrow will bring.
“Are you not hungry?” he asks.
It only makes me cry harder. In a minute or two, he’s going to tear my clothes off, and the moment he’s done with me, he’s going to lock me in here again.
And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
His hand comes to rest against the back of my neck. My entire body tenses as I brace myself for what usually follows, already expecting him to force me onto the bed and take control of me again.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” he says quietly.
I force myself to stand and turn to face him. His hand falls away from my neck and drops to his side.
“Then let me go,” I beg, searching his face for some indication that this time he might actually listen to me.
He looks at me for so long that eventually I’m the one forced to turn away. Whatever fragile hope I had is already disappearing before he finally answers.
“I’ll never let you go.”
I already knew that, but hearing him say it out loud is crushing in a way knowing it silently never was. Whatever small, pathetic part of me still hoped he might eventually change his mind disappears. I move past him and lie down on the bed. I’m going to end up here anyway, and right now, I don’t have enough energy left to pretend otherwise.
“Come with me,” he says.
Again.
I close my eyes and turn my face away from him, unwilling to move when I know exactly how little choice I actually have.
