12. Sonnet Ellison
SONNET ELLISON
“Why does a man planning to kill me care whether I have a fever?”
The cool cloth stopped moving against my temple. He sat beside me on the bed, dressed in black with that mask still hiding everything except his eyes. His bare hand rested near my face now that he had removed his gloves, and the contrast disturbed me because his skin felt so gentle.
Nothing about him was supposed to feel gentle.
“I didn’t bring you here to kill you,” he tried to insist. “So, you don’t have to pull all of these tricks. I’m trying to help you. Roman wants you dead.”
The name caused cold to run through my veins, despite the fever.
“I don’t know any Roman.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You saw him kill Donovan.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
The denial came quickly, but not quickly enough to sound convincing.
His eyes narrowed slightly, causing me to notice the freckles peppering the skin surrounding them. “You’re a smart girl, Glasses. Too smart to believe pretending you don’t know what happened will make it untrue.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I snapped.
There had the nerve to be a twinkle in his eyes behind that mask. “It fits.”
“I told you I didn’t see anything,” I insisted, ignoring that.
“You saw Roman Granger shoot his son in that loading area.”
My heartbeat accelerated. I forced my expression to remain still, though my entire body wanted to retreat from him because he knew exactly what I had witnessed.
“That isn’t true.”
“You recognized Donovan on the news. You researched Roman. You figured out why everybody suddenly started watching you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re denying it because you think the truth will get you killed.”
“Wouldn’t it?”
His silence confirmed everything.
I looked away from him.
The room shifted slightly, and I closed my eyes until the dizziness passed.
“He hired me to take you. I was told you were a witness who needed to be secured until they could figure out what you knew.”
“Secured,” I repeated bitterly. “That’s a convenient word for kidnapping.”
“I’m not excusing what I did.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I’m explaining it.”
“There is no explanation that makes this okay.”
“I know.”
That answer surprised me enough to make me look at him again. He didn’t appear ashamed, but he wasn’t pretending to be innocent either.
“If I refused the assignment, Roman would’ve sent somebody else who would’ve taken you straight to him.”
“So you kidnapped me for my own protection?”
“Yes. I needed time to find out why he wanted you.”
“And if you hadn’t found out?”
His shoulders became still. I searched the only part of his face available to me.
“Would you have delivered me?”
He didn’t verbally answer, but his silence told me everything.
A laugh left me, weak and humorless. “You would have.”
“I didn’t.”
“But you would have.”
His jaw shifted beneath the fabric of the mask.
“You were his obedient weapon until you discovered he lied to you.”
I saw the irritation enter his eyes. “Be careful.”
“Why? Are you going to punish me for telling the truth?”
“Don’t confuse my restraint with weakness.”
The warning in his voice should have frightened me more than it did. Maybe I was too exhausted to respond properly. Maybe part of me had started recognizing that if he wanted to hurt me, he had already been given countless opportunities.
“You need to eat,” he said. “You’re sick because you haven’t eaten. You can hate me with food in your stomach.”
“I’d rather die.”
The words made his eyes harden, but the hand holding the cloth became more careful against my skin.
“No.”
I frowned. “No?”
“You don’t get to kill yourself just to fight me.”
“It’s my body.”
“And I’m trying to keep it alive.”
“Why? So the real killer can do it himself?"
His gaze locked onto mine. For one strange second, he looked stunned by the question. Something shifted behind his eyes. His lips moved beneath the mask as if an answer had reached his mouth before he decided whether he should say it.
Then he looked away.
He reached for the sandwich on the tray, removed one half from the plate, and tore off a small piece. “Open your mouth.”
I stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”
“Eat.”
“No.”
He sat farther back on the bed and slid one arm behind my shoulders.
I tried to push him away, but my limbs felt useless. He pulled me upright against his chest without effort.
“Let me go.”
“Eat first.”
“I said no.”
He brought the piece of sandwich toward my mouth. I turned my head, and his fingers pressed gently against my jaw. “Stop fighting.”
I opened my mouth to curse him, and he pushed the food inside.
My eyes widened as he covered my mouth, forcing me to chew or suffocate.
Then he released my jaw and waited. I considered spitting it into his lap, until I tasted it, and my empty stomach cramped so painfully that I had to close my eyes.
“Chew,” he ordered.
I did, hating him through every bite.
He held the water to my lips afterward. I refused at first, but he waited without lowering it.
Eventually, I drank. Then he tore off another piece. This time, I only turned my head once before giving up.
He fed me slowly, one bite followed by a sip of water. There was nothing hurried or rough about it. His hand remained steady beneath my shoulder, supporting more of my weight whenever my body weakened.
The fight gradually left my body. He wiped a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. The touch was soft enough to make my breath catch.
His eyes dropped to my lips. Then lifted immediately.
I became painfully aware of how close we were.
My back rested against his chest. His arm curved around me, solid and warm, while his bare fingers held the next bite near my mouth.
His fingertips brushed my lips as he fed me another bite, and the softness of them made me want to close my mouth around his fingers and suck them.
I shoved the asinine thought out of my virgin, apparently thirsty brain before my thoughts could betray me any further.
For the first time since he had taken me, his strength didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like something holding me together. That realization frightened me more than the locked door.
I ate without being told again. He continued feeding me until half the sandwich was gone, then set the rest aside and eased me against the pillows. He replaced the cool cloth across my forehead and tucked a loose section of hair away from my damp face.
“Sleep,” he softly ordered.
I watched him through tired eyes, asking, ““Can I have something else to do besides read?”
He paused. “What do you want?”
“Puzzles. Crosswords. Maybe a laptop with logic games on it. You can disable the internet or whatever paranoid thing you need to do.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What the fuck are logic games?”
“Brain teasers, strategy and problem-solving games, things like that. I need cognitive stimulation. Prolonged isolation, limited social interaction, and repetitive surroundings can affect attention, memory, emotional regulation, and executive functioning. It’s similar to what happens during solitary confinement.
The brain needs novelty and problem-solving to remain engaged.
Extended social isolation has also been associated with cognitive decline, especially when there’s no meaningful mental stimulation.
” I took a breath, then added, “Basically, I don’t want captivity to make me stupid or cause my brain to start deteriorating like I’m developing early dementia. ”
A low laugh escaped him. “You’re such a nerd.”
However, those words didn’t sound insulting. Instead, there was something warm and almost admiring in his voice that made me strangely confident.
“I have a master’s degree,” I reminded him.
“I know.”
Of course he did.
“Puzzles and a laptop,” he said. “Anything else?”
I considered it. “A chessboard.”
“Do you know how to play?”
I laughed, not so weakly anymore since that sandwich was allowing some strength to come back. “Of course.”
He stared at me for what felt like too long. The threat in his eyes faded until they looked almost soft, as though he wasn’t merely listening to me but admiring something he saw.
The attention made me shift beneath the covers.
Then he pulled his gaze away and stood. “I’ll get you whatever you need.”
Before I could respond, he gathered the tray of the uneaten breakfast and left the room, locking the door behind him.
The man beneath the mask had admitted that, under different circumstances, he might have delivered me to my death.
Yet he sat beside me cooling my skin so carefully, as if he was happy to be my nurse.
I wondered what kind of face belonged to hands capable of snatching me from my home and feeding me with such tenderness.
I wondered who he was when nobody needed to fear him.
Most of all, I hated that I wanted to know.