Chapter 15 Ryder? Toby?
RYDER? TOBY?
The handcuffs dug into my wrist when I tried to move, and I found myself in an awkward position as I tried to keep the pressure off. After the chat we’d had, I’d been surprised to find myself cuffed to the bed, but it seemed old habits die hard.
Or he just doesn’t trust you.
He had good reason not to trust me. Just because he’d professed feelings for me didn’t mean I had any for him, and if he was distracted with dinner, there were all sorts of things I could do.
I could get dressed and make a run for it.
I could find something in his bathroom and try to end it.
I didn’t know which sounded more appealing.
Maybe he’d been right to cuff me.
I lay there alone, and I hated it. I wished he’d given me the option to go with him, because it would’ve been better than being by myself. I’d had plenty of that in the short period of time I’d been stuck in the cell downstairs.
The fact that I even wanted to be around him instead of being alone after what he’d done to me fucking terrified me.
I’d softened so much toward him — too much — and while forgiveness didn’t come easily, there was a big part of me that was too relieved he’d gotten me out of the basement to be too angry at him.
It was ridiculous. He’d been the one to put me there in the first place. I should’ve been furious at him, but I was just…
Tired.
I didn’t know what to feel or what to think. I should’ve hated him, and the fact that I somehow didn’t was disturbing. So was the lack of anger, but maybe it was just that I didn’t have the energy to be angry after everything that had happened.
We’d had such a good day until I’d gone and fucked it up.
It was hard not to hold it against myself. He’d reacted both like I’d thought he would and not. I hadn’t expected him to put me in the basement then rescue me so shortly after. Maybe he’d wanted to seem like the hero, even though he was the villain too.
Or maybe he’d really just felt bad.
It seemed like he did. He hadn’t fallen prey to his usual claims that I was his, so I was going to do what he wanted. He’d confessed something else entirely, and from what I knew about him…
He wasn’t the type to say things like that on a whim.
It made the entire situation more frightening.
If he cared about me, I was even more stuck than I’d been to begin with.
He’d been wanting the situation more than me in particular, and I’d had a small chance of him losing interest in me.
I’d have even agreed not to go to the police if he’d let me out.
I might have even meant it.
But now that this had come to light, I knew I was done for. He was possessive, obsessive, and he wasn’t going to let me go.
It should’ve devastated me all over again, but I was too exhausted to cry again. I’d spent all my tears in the basement — in the basement, and in his arms, until my tears had run dry and I’d been ready to fall asleep.
I didn’t know why I’d turned to face him, why I’d cuddled with him, but I had. Maybe I’d wanted the warmth, the comfort, the feeling of another person’s arms around me even if those arms belonged to my captor. I’d needed it so badly that I hadn’t cared where I got the solace from.
I couldn’t bring myself to care now either.
Why?
I wasn’t sure there was even an answer, let alone one I could figure out.
I heard footsteps, and I looked up to see him returning with a tray in his hands.
My stomach growled as the scent of steak filled the air, and I struggled to sit up.
It was hard with the cuff, but I managed to prop myself up.
I wasn’t going to be able to eat like that, but I doubted he was going to let me eat on my own anyway.
He set the tray down at the foot of the bed then came over to me, unlocking the cuff and tossing the handcuffs back into the dresser drawer. I rubbed at my reddened wrist, murmuring, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, offering me a hopeful little smile.
I couldn’t reward him with anything reassuring, not that time, and the smile faded almost as soon as it had appeared.
He ducked his head, looking properly chagrined, and I didn’t know what to make of his behavior.
He seemed so fucking sad, and I was the cause of it — but I shouldn’t have cared, because he’d more than made me sad.
He’d sent me into a spiral of depression and worse, until I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to come out of it in one piece.
Then again, I didn’t think I was whole anyway, not anymore.
“I’d like to feed you, if that’s okay,” he said softly. He retrieved the tray from the end of the bed, bringing the source of those delicious smells closer to me and making my mouth water.
His words, though, caught me off guard. He wanted to feed me? That wasn’t new. What was new was him asking. If I disagreed, what would he do?
“I can’t let you use silverware,” he said, his voice still subdued.
I realized he hadn’t brought in a fork or a knife and that all the meat was neatly cubed, with the vegetables in bite-sized pieces. He picked up a piece of the steak and popped it into his mouth.
Medium rare, just how I liked it.
He looked so pathetic, and I hated how my first instinct was to soothe him — not even because I was afraid of what he might do, but because he just looked pitiful and I didn’t like it. I’d seen him laugh, and it had been such a welcome change from everything else.
I wished I could laugh again.
I wished I could even smile.
“Yeah,” I said roughly before I could even think about it. “It’s okay.”
Was it really?
He smiled at me, and I envied him for that small action. What would it take to make me smile again? I didn’t even know if it was possible, not anymore.
He grabbed another piece of meat and pressed it against my lips. I parted them, letting him put the bite into my mouth even though I wasn’t sure why.
I could sure as fuck feed myself, and I’d had the perfect chance to.
I chewed the tender piece of meat and swallowed, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on in my own head.
He offered me a bite of cauliflower, and I took that too, savoring the taste.
It was buttered to perfection, just enough to enhance the taste.
Like the steak, it was cooked perfectly, neither too hard nor too soft.
It annoyed me that I’d been stuck with things like tuna and milk so often.
But he hadn’t seen me as anything but a pet, something lesser.
Now…
Now he seemed to think of me as more, and it was almost like his own bad behavior had spurred on the realization. That was all I could think of, because it made no sense for him to have such a rapid turnaround otherwise.
Another bite, then another, and before I knew it, I was shaking my head because I was too full to eat any more.
It was strange to feel that way, and it was stranger still to feel content in the wake of a meal.
This was the first time I felt relaxed and comfortable, sleepy even as the food settled in my stomach.
“Good, Toby,” he murmured. “You did well.”
The praise had always meant he wasn’t going to hurt me before, but now it felt like something different. Now I couldn’t figure out what the fuck it meant, but it was something…
New.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
He watched me for a moment then finished off the food, setting it back on the tray. “Cuffs, or do you want to come with me to the kitchen?” he asked, running a finger along my lips.
He didn’t lean in and kiss me, but I could see the yearning in his eyes.
I didn’t know what I’d do if he tried.
“Kitchen,” I said. It felt odd to have a choice. I wasn’t used to it anymore.
He nodded, sliding off the bed then offering his hand to me. “Come on, then,” he said, a little wariness creeping into his voice like he expected this to go about as well as last time.
“Can I walk?” I asked bluntly, wanting to see just how much had changed.
He sighed and shook his head. “No. You can crawl.”
Unsurprising.
I tried to use it as reason to be angry at him, but I was just so fucking tired that I couldn’t bring myself to care all that much. It wasn’t that far to go, and it wasn’t really that bad. It was just a little bit of crawling. I could do that.
This time, I followed him to the kitchen, where he went to the sink and started washing our dishes. He’d already cleaned up from where he’d cooked, the entire place looking spotless, and I wondered just how much time he spent cleaning for everything to be so organized.
Or was it just that he barely ventured out of his room? He’d spent so much time in there, watching TV and sleeping…
A pang shot through me as I wondered. I didn’t want to feel sorry for him, but fuck.
I couldn’t help it. I’d seen to the heart of him, and I could only imagine how things had been for him since the accident.
How many people would be okay with those scars — especially when the wounds had been fresh and angry-looking?
I hated feeling sorry for him. I hated the things it made me do. I hated the sympathy.
I couldn’t bring myself to hate him.
“Let’s go back to the bedroom,” he said when he was done, oblivious to my thoughts.
I wondered what he’d think if he knew I was trying so hard to hate him.
I wondered what he’d think if he knew I couldn’t.
I nodded, silently following him back to the bedroom.
“Bath time,” he announced when we got back. “We’re going to use my tub this time.”
That was new, too. Usually he brought me down to use the grooming tub, especially when it was time for him to give me an enema. I didn’t think those were going to stop any time soon, so I wasn’t surprised when he led me into the bathroom and pulled a sealed kit from the cabinet underneath the sink.
I sighed, unable to keep it back, and he glanced at me.
“I need to keep you clean,” he said. “Things haven’t changed.”
He was wrong, though.
Everything had changed.