Chapter 8
Eight
Wynter
He leaves.
The door closes with a soft, definitive click, and the sound echoes the slamming shut of a cage door.
I’m left alone in the vast, silent room, my body trembling with the aftershocks of his presence.
My cheek still tingles where his thumb brushed away my tear, a phantom touch that feels both like a burn and a balm.
I stare at the spot where he sat, the mattress still indented with his weight.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
He is a monster. He threatened me, cornered me, forced me to obey him.
And yet… he didn’t strike me. When I flinched, expecting the blow that always follows a person’s anger, it never came.
Instead, his anger seemed to turn outward, directed at a ghost I couldn’t see.
“No one will ever hurt you again. Not like she did.”
How does he know? How could he possibly know about Evilin? The thought that my private hell was visible to him, a stranger, is a profound and terrifying violation. He saw the bruises, the fear. He looked at me and didn’t just see a girl; he saw a victim. And it made him angry.
The anger, I understand. The gentleness, I do not. It’s a weapon I don’t know how to defend against.
Slowly, the pills begin their work. The sharp edges of pain from my cuts and bruises soften, melting into a dull, manageable ache. My head clears. The frantic, spiraling panic recedes, leaving behind a cold, hard dread. I need to think. I need a plan.
I push myself out of the massive bed, my bare feet sinking into a thick, plush rug.
The shirt I’m wearing falls to my mid-thigh.
It’s his. The scent of woodsmoke and something musky, uniquely him, clings to the fabric.
I should be repulsed, should want to tear it off my body.
Instead, I find myself pulling the collar closer, inhaling the scent.
It’s the smell of power, of danger, and my body’s traitorous response is a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold.
I take a moment to survey my prison. The room is a testament to him. It’s huge and masculine. The furniture is all dark wood and clean lines. There are no photographs, no clutter, no personal touches to soften the space. It’s the room of a man who values control above all else. A fortress.
My eyes are drawn back to the wall of windows.
I walk toward them, my steps unsteady. Standing before the vast expanse of glass, I feel the sheer scale of my isolation as a physical blow.
An endless sea of snow-covered pines stretches to the horizon, where jagged, blue-tinted mountains rise.
It’s brutally, breathtakingly beautiful.
And there is no sign of civilization. No roads, no lights, no other houses. Just wilderness.
There will be no running. There is nowhere to run to.
The door opens again, and I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat. It’s him. He carries a tray laden with food, the aroma of coffee and bacon making my stomach twist with a hunger I hadn't realized I felt.
He places the tray on a small table near the fireplace. He doesn’t look at me; his focus is on arranging the plate and cutlery.
“Eat,” he says. It’s not a request. It’s a command, quieter than before, but no less absolute.
The spark of defiance I thought he had extinguished flickers back to life. “I’m not hungry.”
He finally looks at me, his icy blue eyes pinning me in place from across the room. “You’re weak. Malnourished, according to Doc. You will eat, and you will regain your strength.”
“So I can be a better prize for you?” I retort, the words sharp and bitter.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re no use to me broken, Wynter. And you can’t hope to escape if you starve yourself to death. So, eat.”
His logic is twisted, cruel, and infuriatingly correct. He’s right. If I have any hope of ever getting out of here, I need to be strong. Wasting away in this bed is not an act of defiance; it’s a surrender.
My shoulders slump in defeat. I walk to the table, my eyes never leaving his. He watches me, his gaze intense and unwavering, as I sit down. He remains standing, a silent, intimidating guard.
I pick up the fork. The food is simple: scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, and toast with fresh butter. It’s also the most delicious meal I’ve had in years. Evilin always said a girl’s beauty was in her slender frame, and my meals were measured and monitored, a constant, gnawing hunger my companion.
Here, in my captor’s den, I am being fed.
The irony is a bitter pill to swallow. I eat quickly, mechanically, trying not to show how much I’m enjoying it.
But he sees. I can feel his knowing gaze on me, tracking every bite.
He is watching me like a hawk, and it makes my skin prickle.
It’s not the dismissive, critical gaze of Evilin.
It’s focused. Possessive. As if the simple act of me eating is something that belongs to him.
When I’m finished, I push the plate away. I feel stronger already, the food a welcome warmth in my belly. But I also feel more trapped than ever. I have accepted his food, his medicine. My body, in its weakness, has betrayed me, accepting the care of my captor.
“Good girl,” he says again, the words a low rumble of approval that makes my stomach clench. He picks up the tray. “There’s a bathroom through that door,” he says, nodding his head. “You’ll find everything you need. I’ll have clothes brought for you.”
He turns and leaves, the lock on the door clicking shut behind him, the sound a final, definitive statement.
I am his. And he is going to feed me, clothe me, and care for me until I am strong enough for… for what?
The question hangs in the silent, opulent room, and I am terrified of the answer.