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I scowl and look away, rabbit pressed to my face, but the heat in my cheeks gives me away. He’s not going to let it go, I can tell. He leans back against the bedpost, arms crossing his chest.
“You know,” he says, “I think you want to be good for me, don’t you, Kamden?”
The way he says my name, I feel it everywhere. I hate that I do. I hate that I have to cross my legs under the comforter, that I have to bury my chin and look anywhere but at him.
I’m not stupid. I get that I’m reacting to it. I just don’t know why.
It’s not like I’ve ever been a sexually active person. I’ve never even had a real partner. I’ve never so much as been kissed.
Most of the time, I’m too anxious or busy to even think about it. But something about Adrien’s voice triggers something I can’t put into words. It’s not fear. I know what fear feels like, and this is—this is embarrassing, is what it is.
“It just…” I peek up at him. “If being good gives me more freedom, it’s the um… smarter thing to do… right?”
His eyes spark. “I’d say so.”
“I’m not… It’s not that I want to be good,” I say, but my voice is limp, with no conviction to it. “I just don’t want to be chained to the bed for the next three weeks.”
“I wouldn’t want to either.”
The room goes quiet. I tug at the comforter, stare at the swirling wood grain of the dresser, look everywhere but at him.
“What happens if I’m bad?” I ask quietly.
He lifts a brow. “You don’t want to find out.”
“Is it like—you’d hit me?”
“God, no. Fuck, Kamden. I will never hit you. I’d never.”
“Then how would you punish me? If you won’t hit me?”
Adrien sighs. “There are so many ways to punish you without hurting you like that, sweetheart. It would be more like making you do things you don’t want to do, like standing in the corner or some shit. That sort of thing. None of my punishments will ever—fucking ever—be close to the abuse you’ve had before. Do you understand?”
I nod meekly.
“Good,” Adrien says, relaxing. “Alright, let’s recap. If you’re a brat, you lose privileges. If you break something, you clean it up. If you try to run, you’re back to cuffs, or worse. I don’t want that, Kamden. I want it to be good for you. If you give me that, you get more freedom. If you don’t believe me, test it. You’ll see I keep my word. I will punish you, but it will never cross that line.”
He says all this as if it’s perfectly reasonable to have a system of rules and consequences for someone you kidnapped. The part of me that is still terrified can’t help but believe him just a little bit. That’s what makes it so fucked up.
He talks about rewards and consequences the way a normal person might talk about watering a plant, looking after a pet, or maybe raising a child. Not like a psycho holding me hostage. I squeeze my rabbit and try to imagine what it would feel like to actually be good for him, like he wants.
If it means he keeps being nice to me, then maybe that really would be the best.
I look at him properly.
Dad’s friend.
My kidnapper.
The man who should have found me eleven years ago and chose not to.
The man who finally came in the worst way imaginable.
The man who says he won’t let me die as though death itself is merely another inconvenience he intends to handle personally.
The man who doesn’t want anything from me except for me to be good.
I don’t forgive him. I certainly don’t trust him either, not in any complete way. But some part of me—some shameful chunk of hungry, animal brain—does want his approval.
