34. Lucrezia
Chapter 34
Lucrezia
I lose track of time in the darkness—hours, days, and nights all blur together until I can’t distinguish my dreams from my nightmares. It’s a limbo of stale air, frigid cold, and the cloying scent of old mold. My tongue is dry, my lips are cracked, and I can’t recall the last time I truly slept.
But I do know it’s been at least two days since I tried to escape.
The attempt still burns in my memory, fueling my hatred and regret in equal measure. The moment I saw the door left an inch ajar, I snapped into motion. I eased it open, and hope flared in my chest. I thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe I can get out. Maybe I can see the sky again and feel fresh air on my skin. I kept telling myself to stay calm. One foot in front of the other. One breath at a time.
Then Kristopher stepped out of the shadows. His voice was eerily calm— “Where do you think you’re going, Lucrezia?” —followed by the sharp crack of my body hitting the cabin wall. I fought him—I kicked, I swung my fists, I used every ounce of fury in me. I even managed to knock over a chair, smashing it into his side and sending him staggering. But it wasn’t enough.
He pinned my wrists behind my back and forced me into the musty, dank room I’d been staying in. Rage boiled off him in waves, but beneath it, I sensed something else: excitement, as if my defiance thrilled him. He threw me into complete darkness afterward, withholding food and letting me freeze with only a scratchy blanket to keep me warm. My hunger twisted into cramps after a while. I curled up on the floor, my head spinning until I couldn’t tell up from down.
I don’t know how long I was there. When the door finally opened again, Kristopher left a bottle of water behind and slammed the door. Not a word. Not even a glimpse of the outside. I practically devoured the water, gulping it down so fast I made myself nauseous, but I didn’t care. It was the only relief I’d had. My stomach hurt, but at least it was full for a little while.
Now, I’m huddled in the far corner, knees pulled to my chest. I’m exhausted. Every muscle aches from the chill in the air, and my spirit feels like it’s unraveling bit by bit. I remind myself that I am the strong one. An outcast, yes, but strong enough to endure my family’s mistreatment, to survive Mother Superior in Italy, to fight for my place in a world owned by Castigliones. Yet Kristopher’s madness is a different beast entirely—intimate, obsessive, and inescapably close. And two days of near-starvation erode my defenses in ways I never imagined.
The door opens again. This time, footsteps fall heavy and deliberate on the concrete floor. I tense, trying to rise to my feet, but my body wobbles. I catch myself against the wall, swallowing a bitter burst of self-disgust at my weakness.
The glow from the outside spills in, and in steps Kristopher. He’s changed clothes again—clean trousers, a fitted black shirt, his hair neatly combed back. He looks more like a gentleman caller than a kidnapper, but the flicker in his eyes betrays his calm facade. Something about him is always on the edge of snapping.
It’s been two days—maybe more—since I last saw him, yet the memory of my attempted escape is as fresh as an open wound. My stomach twists in protest, but I remain silent, forcing a defiant glare onto my face.
He sets a tray on a small table near the door. The smell of warm soup wafts over, and my mouth waters instinctively. My pride flares—I don’t want his pity or his food, but my body screams otherwise.
Kristopher clears his throat. “You must be starving,” he says, tipping the bowl slightly, letting me see the steam rising from the rich broth. “I brought you something to eat.”
I swallow back the urge to leap at the tray, my throat constricting with need. The gnawing emptiness in my stomach feels like it’s eating me from the inside out. Instead, I square my shoulders. “I’d rather die hungry than accept kindness from you.”
He exhales, and something like disappointment crosses his features. “You’re weak, Lucrezia. There’s no shame in taking nourishment.” He steps closer, and the heat of his presence makes me recoil. “You don’t have to fight anymore. I’m taking care of you now.”
I bark a hollow laugh, ignoring how my throat feels scraped raw, how each word burns like swallowing glass. “You call this caring for me? Locking me in the dark for two days? Withholding food and water? That’s your version of caring for someone?”
His jaw tenses, a muscle flickering near his temple. “I wouldn’t have to do that if you didn’t try to run away.”
The room spins a little, hunger and exhaustion pulling me off balance. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as my knees threaten to buckle. I lean against the wall, cursing how my body betrays me. “I’m not a caged bird you can keep, Kristopher. I’ll never stop trying to run away.”
His eyes flicker with anger, but he tamps it down, forcing a calm that’s more unsettling than any outburst. The change is subtle—like watching storm clouds gather behind glass. “We’ll see,” he says softly. He steps so close I can smell his cologne—sharp, with an undertone of something sweet, it reminds me of decay wrapped in expensive packaging. “Sit down.”
I don’t move, so he puts a hand on my shoulder—pressing just enough to guide me without forcing. I stiffen under his touch, skin crawling where his fingers meet my shoulder. My body wants to collapse, but I summon enough strength to hold myself upright, refusing to yield.
He notices, and a faint smile creases his lips. “Still so defiant,” he murmurs, thumb tracing a small circle on my shoulder. “Even after everything.” The words drip with equal parts admiration and warning.
The memory of being dragged across the floor, locked in darkness, and left to starve causes my fury to flare, but it’s dulled by fatigue. I can barely muster a sharp retort. “You’re a sick bastard.”
He sighs dramatically, feigning hurt. “You think I enjoy this? Come, eat, please. You need your strength, my love.”
I glare at him but can’t stop my gaze from flicking to the soup. My stomach twists in hungry agony. He sees it, and something like pity crosses his face, but it’s twisted by the madness in his eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap, hating how my voice trembles. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anything from you.”
“It’s not pity,” he says quietly, leaning forward with an intensity that makes me want to shrink away. “It’s devotion. You’ve always misunderstood me, Lux. Everything I do, I do for us.”
“Don’t call me that,” I spit, though it lacks venom. I’m too tired, too drained from days of resistance. But the nickname feels like a violation coming from his lips.
Kristopher lifts a spoon of soup, offering it to me. Steam rises from the golden liquid, carrying an aroma that makes my mouth water traitorously. “If you don’t eat on your own, I’ll have to feed you.”
Revulsion hits me, churning in my already empty stomach. “I’d rather starve.”
His eyes darken. “Don’t do this, Lucrezia. It doesn’t have to be so difficult. Let me help you.” With unsettling gentleness, he tries to guide the spoon to my lips, his other hand hovering near my jaw, ready to force the issue if necessary.
My pride wars with my survival instincts. My body cries out for nourishment, and I realize if I collapse now, I can’t fight him later, can’t plan an escape or cling to hope. So I let him, albeit with a sense of defeat blossoming in my chest. The spoon touches my lips, and the warm broth flows into my mouth. My taste buds sing with relief, but my spirit sags under the indignity.
“Good,” Kristopher breathes, a genuine satisfaction crossing his face. “See, I can take care of you. You don’t need to fight.”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. “Don’t fool yourself,” I murmur thickly around another mouthful. “I’m only doing this to survive. I’ll never be yours to take care of.”
He tilts his head, eyes shining with a mixture of anger and affection. “You will. In time, you’ll see that I’m the only one who truly understands you. You’ve always wanted to belong, haven’t you? That’s what drove you. I can give you that belonging—better than your brother ever did.”
“Don’t talk like you know me,” I snarl. “Raiden understands me more than you ever will. Saverio, even in his ignorance, gave me more than this—more than your manipulative ‘care.’ And I’d choose them a thousand times over before I’d ever choose you.”
The spoon lowers, and an unmistakable flicker of rage twists Kristopher’s features. “Raiden,” he hisses, lips curling. “That brute won’t be a problem much longer. I’ll erase him from your life, and you’ll have no choice but to see that I’m right.”
My heart thuds, terror edging into my bones at the idea of him going after Raiden. But I maintain my composure. “You’re delusional if you think that’ll make me love you.”
He exhales shakily, standing up and pacing the small space. “I don’t want your forced love,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “I want your acceptance. Your realization that I’m the one who’s always been there, even when they cast you aside.”
I clench the edges of the chair beneath me, knuckles whitening. He’s rewriting history, I remind myself. He’s always been a sidekick, never the main character. “You’re sick, Kristopher. And one day, you’ll realize you’ve lost everything—especially me.”
He studies me for a long moment, then he sets the bowl aside and reaches out, gripping my chin. I tense, expecting another threat, but instead, he leans in and presses a small, chillingly tender kiss to my lips. My stomach twists, nausea bubbling up at the unwanted touch. It’s not violent, but it’s no less horrifying. I jerk back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
His eyes shine with triumph at my reaction. “See? You’re still fighting. I admire that, Lux. I always have.”
My throat burns. “Don’t you dare…” I can’t finish the sentence. I’m too revolted. We stare at each other—predator and prey locked in a cage neither can fully escape.
But Kristopher regains his composure first, stepping back and exhaling as if letting go of a dance he doesn’t want to end. “Rest now,” he says quietly, gesturing to the battered mattress in the corner. “I’ll come back soon. We still have so much to discuss.”
He walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “And Lux?” he says without turning around. “Don’t try to escape again. It can get so much worse than this, you know.”
With that, he exits, shutting the door behind him. The click of the lock resonates like a coffin lid closing, sealing me in this tomb. I slump in the chair, tears finally escaping the corners of my eyes. I’m furious at myself for letting him feed me, for letting him kiss me without delivering the violent reprisal he deserves. But I’m spent—physically and mentally. I can’t be strong all the time. And that reality cuts deeper than any bruise.
I stay there, listening to the dull throbbing in my head. The soup sits on the table, half-finished. My stomach growls, and I know I should finish it, but my thoughts drift to Raiden. I want to believe he’s out there looking for me, turning over every stone in Manhattan, making deals with devils if that’s what it takes to find me. But as I stare at the locked door, doubt creeps in. Kristopher’s madness is all-consuming. Can anyone stand against it?
I pull myself up and stagger to the mattress. My legs protest, muscles trembling, but I need to lie down. My eyelids sag, and the meager meal settles uncomfortably in my gut. Lying on the thin mattress, I stare at the grimy ceiling, letting the hush of this cursed space envelop me.
The darkness closes in, and fatigue tugs at my consciousness. My spirit flickers, battered and weary, but I refuse to let it die. Kristopher can starve me, isolate me, and manipulate me into believing the world outside has vanished. But he can’t kill the last glimmer of defiance that lives in my heart. I cling to that as I drift off, half-conscious, listening for any clue that might signal an end to this nightmare.
Time loses meaning again. I slip in and out of shallow sleep, jerked awake by nightmares of Kristopher’s laughter or the phantom press of his lips. At some point, I think I hear voices outside—angry and tense—but it might be my exhausted brain playing tricks on me. The door remains shut, the outside silent once more.
Eventually, I push myself up, hunger gnawing but not as intense. My head spins with a dull ache. I shuffle to the table, sipping the cold soup, hating every swallow but needing the sustenance. Each mouthful is a betrayal of my pride, but I do it anyway. Survival , I remind myself, is the first step to escape.
For now, I’m trapped in a sick limbo of forced feeding and psychopathic claims of devotion. But I endure. Because deep down, beneath the layers of fatigue and hunger, a core of steel remains. I am Lucrezia Castiglione, daughter of strength and defiance. And I will survive, if only to prove to Kristopher that I’m nobody’s prize. You don’t win a girl like me; you earn me—through respect, through honor, through treating me as an equal. And he has failed at every turn.