Lielit
This was hell. There was no other explanation.
His lips twisted into a crooked smile, his eyes squinting with it. The expression was wrong—awkward, unsettling. The moment I realised he was trying to smile at me, my stomach lurched. The straw slipped from my mouth.
“I feel sick,” I managed, pushing it away as nausea surged.
He shoved a plastic bowl under my chin just in time.
I retched hard, my ribs aching as my stomach finally emptied. When it passed, I slumped back against the mattress, weak and shaking. The shivering hit next—violent, uncontrollable—until my teeth began to chatter. The stone walls seemed to press in, closing around me.
“S-so c-cold,” I stuttered, clutching the thick covers with numb fingers.
He muttered something under his breath.
Snap.
My eyes flew open—panic flaring—but it wasn’t a weapon.
A silicone glove.
Snap.
The second glove slid on.
He leaned over me and I flinched instinctively, but instead of touching me, he lifted a folded white cloth from the bedside. He dabbed my mouth, turning the fabric before wiping my lips and chin with deliberate care.
My breathing grew shallow, laboured. The edges of the room blurred.
And then I began to drift.
?
?
?
The next time I woke, I was cautious—uncertain whether I was fully lucid or still drifting somewhere between. The chill lingered, but the violent shivering had stopped. I glanced around the room. It was empty. Light spilled in from the far side, pale and distant.
When I focused enough to listen, I heard waves. Not the soft, rolling kind—these were hard, relentless, crashing against something solid.
I closed my eyes again and pressed a hand to my stomach. The nausea was gone, replaced by a hollow ache. Hunger. My body felt wrong. Heavy. Weak. As if it no longer quite belonged to me.
God. He had nearly frozen me to death in that stone cell.
I’d felt myself slipping away—the hunger fading first, replaced by a creeping, numbing cold. And then my thoughts had turned to my family. All the people I loved. That had been the end of it.
A tear slipped free and ran into my hairline. Then another.
The door opened.
There was a pause.
It closed again.
Footsteps followed—soft, measured—as they crossed the room. I kept my eyes shut.
He wouldn’t see my weakness.
“I know you’re awake,” he said, as the mattress dipped beside me.
My mouth suddenly watered, and I inhaled the unmistakable aroma of food. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes.
There was no attempt at charm this time. No mask. His eyes were cold, his expression fixed—stoic, immovable.
“Can you sit up?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure.
I tried to lift my head from the pillow, but my body felt leaden, unresponsive. Weak.
He sighed and set the bowl down on something wooden. Ceramic scraped against the surface. The sound grated.
The covers were peeled back.
Cold bit into my skin, and I sucked in a breath as I looked down.
I was naked.
Stark fucking naked.
He was already rearranging the pillows, fingers digging into my upper arms as he hauled me upright. I barely had time to react before the covers were shoved back up to my neck, tucked firmly around my shoulders, cocooning me in place.
I stared at him as he turned, retrieving the bowl.
He lifted the spoon to my lips.
I didn’t open my mouth.
“My clothes?” I rasped.
“The most effective way to restore heat is bodily contact,” he replied calmly. “I slept with you to keep you warm. Now eat—before it goes cold.”
There was no humour in his voice. No edge of mockery.
He meant it.
Shock did the job my will wouldn’t—I opened my mouth.
Oh.
Spicy pumpkin soup.
Sweet. Warm. Heat blooming outward with herbs and garlic riding beneath it. Each swallow pushed warmth into places that had felt hollow and frozen.
By the last few spoonfuls, the fog in my head had thinned. The lethargy eased enough for the room to feel real again.
He wiped my mouth, then tipped a glass to my lips for water.
Before I could speak, he pulled the covers off me again.
Strong hands gripped my waist, tugging me flat against the mattress. I was still drawing breath when the covers were dragged back over me, sealed tight.
“No,” I said.
“Sorry?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “No, what?”
“Give me something to wear,” I said, clutching the blanket with what little strength I had.
“That won’t work with this,” he replied, nodding to the side of the bed.
I followed his gaze.
A tall metal stand. A clear bag hanging from a hook. A thin tube trailing down.
I lifted my arm and saw the needle taped into place.
“Rest,” he said, checking his watch. “I’ll take your temperature shortly. Thirty minutes.”
He picked up the bowl and glass and left.
Just like that.
The door closed.
And I lay there—naked beneath the covers—staring at the ceiling, my skin crawling with the weight of his control.
?
?
?
It didn’t feel like thirty minutes when the door opened again. More like ten at best.
As he walked toward me, I noticed he wore black gloves that blended into his black sweater. Something white poked out of his closed hand.
He held a thin glass thermometer—the kind I used when I cooked up my products.
He sat on the edge of the bed and moved the covers aside. I opened my mouth automatically, expecting him to take my temperature like a normal person.
Instead, he pulled the rest of the covers away.
He rolled me onto my belly and parted my legs.
“What are you doing?” I yelled.
“Taking your temperature.”
Cold air rushed over my back and legs, making me shiver. He pulled the covers over my upper body again, leaving my legs bare.
When he parted my cheeks, realisation slammed into me.
“No,” I gasped—but when I tried to move, the IV tugged sharply in my arm, stopping me short.
Something wet touched me first.
Then his fingers worked it in.
“Shh,” he murmured. “Who do you think has been bathing you and cleaning up after your mess?”
Pressure followed.
It certainly wasn’t the thermometer.
“What—”
“It’s easier if I finger you first,” he said calmly, as if we were discussing the weather. “It opens you up for the thermometer.”
“Oh—” I panted as his finger breached deeper.
“You’re more relaxed in your sleep,” he complained.
I tried to shout, but he continued, easing his finger in and out of me.
“There. That’s better. A little more, then I can proceed.”
I panted into the pillow, unable to believe this was happening.
Then he pulled his finger out.
Cold glass replaced it.
I held my breath as he pushed it in—slowly, deliberately. He thrust it so deep that I began to panic. But he stopped and patted my ass.
He arranged the covers over my legs again, leaving my butt bare.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Don’t move.”
“What?” I cried.
The door shut.
One of us wasn’t sane.
And at this point, I didn’t know who it was.