Chapter 5 #2
"Then we wait." He shifted in the chair, getting comfortable. "I have all day. Several days, actually. The beauty of my life is that I’m my own boss. I’m basically everyone’s boss, in fact."
My stomach chose that moment to cramp again, loud enough that we both heard it.
"I could order lunch instead," he offered, still not looking up from his phone. "Thai food. There's a place nearby that does excellent pad Thai. But first you clean up breakfast. And promise not to do it again."
"Go to hell."
"Already been there. Wasn't impressed."
An hour passed. My stomach had moved from cramping to actively eating itself, acid burning up my throat.
The smell of eggs had faded but bacon grease still hung in the air, taunting.
I tried to distract myself by looking out the barred window, counting the decorative swirls in the metalwork, but my body had its own agenda.
Bear whimpered from his pen. A soft, questioning sound like he was wondering where I'd gone. I started toward him, but Dmitry shifted slightly, not blocking exactly but making it clear I'd have to go around him, close enough to touch, to reach the puppy.
"He needs—"
"He needs his medication in two hours," Dmitry interrupted. "Which I'll handle if you're still being stubborn."
"You don't know how—"
"Subcutaneous injection of antibiotics, oral pain medication hidden in wet food, topical antibiotic for the eye wound. Yankov left very detailed instructions." He held up the paper with the Cyrillic writing. "In Russian, which I can read. But I presume you can’t?"
Two hours passed. My hands had started shaking—low blood sugar combined with the stress of the situation.
The comfortable bed I'd woken in now felt like a trap, too soft to stand from easily, too far from both the door and Bear.
Dmitry had picked his position perfectly, controlling the room without seeming to try.
"The offer stands," he said eventually. "Thai food. Or Chinese. Or pizza, though all of that seems excessive for breakfast."
"It's not breakfast anymore," I pointed out through gritted teeth.
"No, it's lunch. Which you also don't get until you clean up breakfast."
Three hours. Bear needed his medication. I could see him moving in the pen, more alert now, probably hungry. His little whimpers had gotten more frequent, calling for the only person he trusted, and I couldn't get to him without accepting proximity to Dmitry I wasn't ready for.
"This is abuse," I said.
"This is consequences." He finally looked up from his phone. "You want to know what abuse looks like? I can show you. But I don't think either of us wants that."
The threat should have strengthened my resolve.
Instead, it reminded me that this—sitting in a chair while I threw a tantrum—was him being gentle.
Him choosing patience over violence. And somehow that made it worse, because I couldn't predict him, couldn't slot him into the categories I'd built for violent men.
By hour four, I broke.
Not because I was weak, but because Bear's whimpers had turned into soft cries, and Dmitry wouldn't let me near him until I cleaned up the mess I'd made. The puppy needed me, and I was sitting here in a battle of wills that was only hurting him.
I stood on legs that shook, went to the bathroom, found the towels he'd mentioned. They were plush, expensive, the kind of towels I'd only touched in department stores I was stealing from. Using them to clean up eggs felt like sacrilege.
But I did it. Kneeled on the floor, mopping up congealed eggs, picking up bacon with my fingers, gathering toast that had somehow scattered everywhere. The smell made my stomach cramp worse, my body screaming for the food I was throwing away.
"Good," he said when I finished, standing in one smooth motion. "Lunch will be here in twenty minutes."
Twenty more minutes. My body wanted to collapse, but I stayed standing through pure spite. He moved away from Bear's pen, finally, and I rushed to the puppy who tried to lick my face through the soft mesh.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to him. "I'm sorry I couldn't get to you."
"He's fine," Dmitry said. "Fed him while you were sulking."
Sulking. Like I was a child who hadn't gotten her way instead of a prisoner refusing to cooperate with her captor. But arguing took energy I didn't have, so I just held Bear's paw through the mesh and tried not to think about how badly I wanted the food that was coming.
We didn’t have long to wait. The food arrived, carried by a delivery guy who didn't even glance at me when Dmitry answered the door. Of course not—Dmitry probably ordered from them regularly, probably tipped well enough that they'd learned not to see anything unusual.
The smell hit was insane! Lo mein, orange chicken, beef and broccoli, spring rolls—enough food for four people, spread across the kitchen island like a feast from a dream I'd had when sleeping on concrete.
My mouth flooded again, worse than with the breakfast because now my body knew food was actually possible, actually coming, if I could just get through whatever game he wanted to play.
He set out two plates. Two sets of chopsticks and forks, like I had a choice in how I humiliated myself. Two glasses of water with actual ice, the cubes cracking as they settled. Everything arranged precisely, place settings that belonged in a home instead of a prison.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to one of the bar stools at the island.
I sat. Not because he told me to but because my legs were shaking too hard to keep standing. The food was right there, close enough that steam dampened my face. My stomach made sounds I'd only heard from dying animals, desperate and past shame.
"One rule," he said, taking his own seat across from me. "Say please when you want something. Say thank you when you receive it. Basic manners a child would know."
"Are you fucking serious?"
"Completely." He picked up the container of lo mein, serving spoon poised. "Would you like some?"
"Yes."
He waited, spoon hovering. The noodles dripped sauce that splattered on the pristine counter, each drop a small torture.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I want food. I'm starving. You know I'm starving."
"Then say please."
The word lodged in my throat like glass. Please meant asking, meant needing, meant acknowledging he had something I wanted. Please meant playing his game, accepting his rules, being the child he'd implied I was.
"This is insane," I said. "You kidnapped me. You drugged me. You made me clean up like a servant. And now you want me to say please?"
"Yes." No elaboration, no justification. Just that single word, immovable as mountains.
The lo mein sat between us, noodles I could smell, could almost taste. My hands shook as I reached for the container, but he pulled it back.
"Please," he said, demonstrating. "May I have some lo mein? It's not complicated."
"Fuck you."
"That's not please."
My vision actually blurred—from hunger, from rage, from the sheer impossibility of my situation. Here I was, twenty-two years old, survivor of things that would have killed softer people, and I was being taught manners by a man who'd tied me to a chair twelve hours ago.
"Please," I gritted out, the word scraping my throat raw.
He served me a small portion, maybe a third of what I wanted, setting the plate in front of me. I reached for it, fingers actually trembling with need, but he pulled it back.
"What now?" I nearly screamed.
"Thank you," he prompted, patient as a kindergarten teacher. "When someone gives you something, you say thank you."
"I said please!"
"And now you say thank you."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Thank you for the food," he said, demonstrating again. "Thank you for serving me. Thank you for not letting me starve. Pick whichever version you prefer."
I wanted to flip the island, send everything crashing to the floor in a repeat of breakfast. But Bear made a soft sound from his pen, reminding me that my tantrums had consequences for more than just me. And the food was right there, so close I could feel its warmth.
"Thank you," I whispered, hating myself, hating him, hating the way my body sagged with relief when he finally let me have the plate.
I grabbed for it with both hands, ready to shovel noodles into my mouth as fast as possible before he could add more rules. But his hand covered mine, firm but not painful.
"No," he said. "If you can't eat civilized, I'll feed you myself."
The threat of that—of him controlling even how food entered my mouth—made me freeze. The intimacy of it, the complete surrender it would represent, was worse than any violence he could have threatened.
"I can eat normally," I said.
"Then do it."
He released my hands, but his eyes stayed on me, watching as I picked up the fork with forced deliberation.
My fingers shook as I twirled noodles, lifted them to my mouth, chewed and swallowed like a human being instead of the feral thing I'd become.
Every movement felt performed, fake, like I was pretending to be someone who belonged at a kitchen island instead of eating from dumpsters.
"Better," he said, then served himself, eating with casual efficiency while I forced myself to maintain the charade.
The food was unreal. Hot, fresh, seasoned exactly right. My body screamed for more with every bite, but I kept the pace steady, human, civilized. I even used the napkin he'd set out, wiping my mouth between bites like I'd been taught before everything fell apart.
"Would you like orange chicken?" he asked when I'd finished the lo mein.
The word formed before I could stop it: "Please."
He served me without comment, and this time I didn't need prompting. "Thank you."
"You're learning," he said, and something in his tone made me look up. Not mockery, not condescension, but something almost like approval. Like I'd passed some test I didn't know I was taking.