His Revenge In My Bed

17. Josie

I lay on the center of the bed, my body curled into a tight ball. I clutched the fabric so hard my fingernails dug into my own palms, but I couldn't feel the pain.

All I felt was the hollow, gnawing ache in my stomach.

It had been thirty-six hours since I had seen a crumb of food. My insides felt like they were folding in on themselves, twisting and pinching until I felt sick.

My head throbbed with every heartbeat, a dull drum inside my skull. When I tried to sit up, the world tilted and spun, the dark corners of the room stretching and melting into the ceiling.

I was so cold. Even under the sheets, my skin was covered in a constant, prickly shiver. My bare shoulders felt like they were made of ice. He had turned off the heating. Every time I moved, the iron chain rattled against the bed, a metallic reminder that I was bound to this room like an animal.

I dragged in a breath, but it hitched in my chest, turning into a weak, dry cough. My throat was a desert. It felt like I had swallowed a handful of sand.

"Tristan," I croaked.

The sound was pathetic. It was a broken rasp that barely made it past my lips. I cleared my throat, the effort making my vision go black at the edges for a second. I gathered every bit of strength left in my shaking bones.

"Tristan!" I yelled.

The scream tore at my throat, making me wince. I waited, my ear pressed toward the door, hoping to hear the thud of his boots or the turn of the lock.

"Why?" I sobbed, the tears starting all over again, hot and stinging. "Why are you doing this?"

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, I looked at the door, my eyes blurry and stinging.

"What did I do?" I screamed, my voice breaking into a high wail. "Just tell me why! Please! Tell me what I did!"

I hammered a weak fist against the mattress. I wanted to be angry, I wanted to be the girl who fought him to get out of here, but I was too tired. I was too empty. My muscles felt like they were melting away, leaving nothing.

I looked down at the iron cuff. It looked even bigger now. The red skin around the metal made a dark ring. I reached out a trembling hand and touched a link of the chain. It was so cold.

"Tristan!" I shrieked one last time, putting everything I had into the shout.

My body gave out. I collapsed back into the sheets. I closed my eyes, the darkness of the room matching the darkness behind my lids.

I sat there in the silence, shivering and starving, still asking the empty air a question that had no answer.

I didn't sleep at all that night. My stomach was a knot of biting pain that kept me awake, a constant reminder of how long it had been since I’d eaten.

I lay perfectly still, watching as the black sky turned to a dull grey, and then finally, the sun rose.

It brought light to the room, but no warmth.

I forced myself to move. I rolled off the bed, my knees shaking so hard they nearly buckled under my weight. On wobbling, weak legs, I made my way toward the bathroom, the chain trailing behind me with a heavy sound.

I reached the sink and turned the cold tap on. I cupped my hands, drinking greedily until my stomach felt full of water, though it did nothing to stop the hunger. I even grabbed a toothbrush and scrubbed my teeth with more toothpaste than usual, desperate for any kind of flavor to touch my tongue.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty mirror, waiting for the sound of the door to finally open, until I finally heard it.

The lock turned. My heart jumped into my throat.

I didn't wait. I grabbed the towel hanging there, wrapped it around my nakedness before I turned and went back toward the bedroom, the chain snapping against the floor tiles, screaming and clashing.

I burst through the bathroom door, my eyes wide and stinging, expecting to see him standing by the entrance.

But Tristan wasn't at the door.

He was already inside. He was sitting in the high-backed armchair in the far corner of the room. He looked as if he had been sitting there for hours. His legs were crossed, his dark suit perfectly pressed, his hands resting calmly on the armrests.

On the small coffee table in front of him was a ceramic bowl. Steam curled up from it in thick, lazy ribbons. The smell hit me instantly. My stomach cramped so hard I had to double over, clutching my middle as my mouth filled with water.

Tristan didn't look at my face. He didn't look at my bare, shivering body or the mess of the bed. He just looked at the bowl.

"Beef stew," he said, "It has everything the body needs to keep the heart beating. Protein. Fats. Root vegetables for energy."

I gripped the doorframe to keep from falling over, "Tristan... please," I whispered, my voice breaking.

He acted as if I hadn't spoken. He reached out and picked up a silver spoon, stirring the thick liquid slowly.

"A person can survive quite a long time on very little," he continued, his eyes fixed on the steam.

"If you have one meal like this every twenty-four hours, your organs will not fail.

Your brain will stay sharp enough to feel the passage of time.

You will lose weight, of course. Your bones will start to show. But you will stay alive."

He finally looked up. His eyes were like two pieces of frozen coal. There was no anger in them. There was no pity. There was absolutely nothing.

"It is very efficient," he muttered, "It removes the need for unnecessary movement. It keeps the subject weak enough to be manageable, but strong enough to remain conscious."

I took a shaky step toward him, "Why are you talking like this? Why are you doing this to me?"

"Hunger is an excellent teacher, Josephine," he said, "It strips away the pride. It makes the mind very, very quiet. You fought me the other night. You wasted what I gave you. Now, you know exactly what that waste costs."

"Please, tell me... why?" I asked.

"Do you feel that, Josephine?" he asked. "That hollow feeling in your chest? That shaking in your hands?"

I tried to nod, but my head felt too heavy for my neck, "Please," I rasped. "I'll do anything. Just give it to me."

"Anything," he repeated. A small, cold smile touched his lips, "That is a very dangerous word. But it is the right one."

He ran a thumb over the scratches I had left on his cheek.

"You see, you are under a delusion," he said, "You think that eating is something you just... do. Like breathing. But in this house, food is a privilege. It is a gift that I choose to give you, or I choose to take away."

Tears trailed down my face, and dropped to the floor. I couldn't believe he was the same man who had made me sit on his lap and fed me.

"If you want to keep that privilege," he hissed, "you will do exactly what I tell you to do.

When I tell you to sit, you sit. When I tell you to be silent, you do not make a sound.

You will not fight me. You will not scream.

You will be exactly what I need you to be.

And every time you make me happy, I will reward you. "

I looked at the bowl, then back at his dark, empty eyes. I was so weak I could barely stand, and he knew it. He had waited until the hunger broke the bones of my pride.

"Do we have an understanding?" he asked, "Or do you want to see what another forty-eight hours could do to you?"

The rich, salty scent of the meat was making my head spin. My mouth watered so much it hurt. "Yes," I choked out, "Yes, Tristan. I understand."

He jerked his chin toward the coffee table, "Come on. You can eat now."

I moved toward him on wobbly, shaking legs, the chain dragged behind me with a rattle. I reached a trembling hand toward the bowl, my fingers desperate to feel the warmth of the ceramic.

Before I could touch it, he slammed his heavy black boot onto the table right beside the bowl. The wood groaned under his weight.

"No," he said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits, "You don't use your hands."

I froze, looking at the stew and then back at his frozen face, "Then... how?"

"Eat it directly from the bowl," he ordered. He looked down at the thin towel I had wrapped around my shivering body, "And get rid of that. I don't remember giving you permission to wear anything, not even a rag."

My heart dropped. I clutched the towel tighter against my chest, my knuckles turning white, "Please," I whispered, the tears starting to blur my vision again, "Please, Tristan. It’s the only thing I have. I’m so cold. Let me keep it. Please don't make me sit here like this."

"The towel, Josephine," he repeated, "Now. Or the bowl goes on the floor."

I looked at the stew. My stomach let out a sharp, painful growl that echoed in the quiet room.

I looked at his eyes and saw nothing but a dark, bottomless void.

He wasn't going to give in. Slowly, my hands shaking so hard I could barely move, I let the towel slip.

It pooled at my feet in a soft, white heap, leaving me completely bare and exposed in the center of the room.

The cold air hit my skin. I felt a deep, burning shame wash over me, making me want to curl into a ball and disappear.

"Now," he said, "Put your arms behind your back. Lock your fingers together."

I did as I was told, my shoulders aching as I forced my hands behind my spine.

"Lower," he whispered.

I bent my knees, my legs trembling under the weight of my body. I lowered my face toward the table until I could feel the steam of the stew hitting my cheeks. The smell was so strong now it made my brain feel fuzzy.

"Eat," he ordered.

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to the edge of the bowl. I had to tilt my head, lapping at the warm broth like a dog. The liquid was hot and savory, hitting my tongue with a burst of flavor that made me let out a broken, shameful sob.

"Good girl," he muttered. I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. I could hear him adjusting his cuffs, watching me struggle to get the pieces of meat without using my hands.

I sobbed into the bowl, the tears falling into the broth. I gulped down the food, the salt mixing with my tears, as the heavy iron chain hung from my leg and the man I once thought I loved watched me break.

I was a human being, but as I knelt there, naked and chained, eating from a bowl on the floor, I knew he had stripped everything from me—my clothes, my freedom, and now, my dignity.

When I had lapped up every drop of the broth, my face wet with steam and salt, he reached over. His hand moved slowly as he picked up the silver spoon. He dipped it into the remains of the stew, scooping up a piece of beef and a soft carrot.

"Open," he murmured.

He sat back in his chair, watching me as he held the spoon to my lips. He fed me the rest himself, one slow mouthful at a time, making me wait for each bite. I had to stay there, my arms locked behind my back and my knees pressing into the hard floor, forced to take what he gave me.

He didn't say another word, he just watched me swallow, making sure I understood that even the food in my mouth belonged to him.

I swallowed the last bit of meat, the bowl was empty, scraped clean. I stayed there for a moment, my head hanging low. My arms were still locked behind my back, the muscles screaming in protest, but I didn't dare move them.

I could feel his eyes on me. His gaze moved slowly, dragging down my neck, over my shivering shoulders, and across my bare skin. I felt every inch of my nakedness like a burn.

A drop of broth escaped the corner of my mouth. It rolled slowly down my chin, wet and warm, before dripping onto my chest. I wanted to wipe it away. I wanted to cover myself, to hide, to scream, to vanish into the floorboards. But my hands were trapped behind me because of the fear I was feeling.

"Please," I whispered, the word barely a sound. A fresh tear tracked through the dried ones on my cheek. "Tristan... what do you want from me? Why are you doing this? I don't understand. I thought... I thought you cared about me."

Tristan let out a soft, dry sound that wasn't a laugh, but it cut just as deep. He leaned forward slightly, blotting out the light from the window.

"Care about you?" he repeated, "You have a very vivid imagination, Josephine. I never cared about you, not for a second."

He tilted his head, mocking the way I was trembling.

"That is why I left you alone for those days. I almost convinced myself that you were innocent. I couldn't quite find it in myself to put the chain on you... not at first. I wanted to believe you were different."

He paused, a cruel, thin smile playing on his lips as he watched me tremble.

"But then I found it," he hissed, leaning even closer until I could see the reflection of my own broken state in his pupils, "I found the proof. I saw the truth of who you really are. It turns out the whore apple didn't fall far from the whore tree, did it? You’re exactly like her."

"What?" I gasped, my head spinning. "I don't—I don't know what you're talking about! My mother—"

He stood up suddenly, the movement so fast I flinched back, the chain rattling violently against the floor. He didn't look at me again. He walked away, as he crossed the room to the large window.

He stood there with his back to me, his hands clasped behind him, staring out at the trees outside. He looked so tall, so powerful, and so completely unreachable. I stayed on the floor, naked and shaking, the drop of broth drying on my skin.

"You want to know what I want?" he asked, "I want you to understand that you are a debt being paid. You are the price for everything your family took from me. And as I look at you now, broken, hungry, and chained, I realize that this is exactly where you were always meant to be."

I stared at the empty ceramic bowl sitting on the table. It looked so small, so ordinary, but it had been the tool he used to break me. I looked at the back of his head, at the neat, dark hair and the stiff, proud set of his shoulders. He stood there so calmly.

A spark of heat flared up in my chest. My fingers, still locked behind my back, began to twitch. I hated him. I hated the way he thought he could own me just because he could starve me.

I shifted my weight, my knees screaming from the hard floor. My eyes darted past his him toward the door.

My heart stopped.

The door wasn't shut tight. It was sitting just an inch open, the dark gap showing the way out. He had been so sure of my weakness, so sure that he had broken my spirit with a bowl of beef, that he hadn't even bothered to lock it behind him.

The rage turned into hope.

Every muscle in my body pulled tight. The hunger was still there, but the anger was louder. It screamed in my ears, drowning out the sound of everything.

I was going to move. I was going to run. I wasn't going to stay on this floor and wait for him to turn around.

I didn't think. I didn't plan. I just let the fire in my chest take over. My hands snapped forward from behind my back, my fingers clawing at the air until they curled around the heavy ceramic bowl.

I lunged.

I scrambled up from my knees, and I swung the bowl with every ounce of hate I had, putting my shoulder into the movement.

The sound of the ceramic meeting his skull was sickening.

The bowl shattered, white pieces flying through the air.

Tristan’s head jerked forward, and his body slammed hard into the thick glass of the window.

The glass didn't break, but the sound of his forehead hitting it was loud enough to make my own teeth ache.

I didn't wait to see if he would fall. I turned and bolted.

My feet slapped against the floor. The door was right there. I could see the wood of the floorboards outside, the way out of this nightmare. I reached out a hand, my fingers inches from the handle, my heart soaring with a sudden hope.

SNAP.

I never reached the door.

The iron band around my ankle hit its limit. It didn't just stop me, it yanked me back with a violent, bone-shattering force. My leg was whipped out from under me so fast the world turned upside down. I felt a scream of pain in my hip and my ankle as the metal bit deep into my skin.

I went flying backward. My head hit the floor with a thump, and the air was punched out of my lungs.

I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, but the ceiling wasn't straight anymore. It was spinning, melting. My vision blurred, dark spots dancing in front of my eyes like swarms of flies. Everything felt far away. I tried to move my arms, but they felt like they belonged to someone else.

Then, a shadow moved.

I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my eyes as Tristan walked into the frame above me.

His face was a mess of red. A thick trail of blood was leaking from the back of his head, coating the collar of his shirt, and another thin line ran down his forehead, dripping into his eye. He didn't look angry. He didn't look hurt.

He wiped a smear of blood from his eye with a finger and flicked it onto the floor beside my head.

"That," he whispered, "was a terrible mistake, Josephine."

I tried to shrink away, to crawl back, but the chain was already tight, holding me right where he wanted me. I could only lie there, naked and broken on the rug, as he leaned down toward me with a smile.

The sight of that smile made something inside me explode. I wasn't scared anymore. I didn't care that I was naked. I didn't care that my ankle felt like it was being crushed.

"I hate you!" I screamed. I lunged upward from the floor, my fingers hooked like claws.

I scrambled toward his face, trying to dig my nails into the scratches I had already made.

He stepped back just enough to miss my reach.

I threw myself at his legs, wrapping my arms around his knees and trying to tackle him to the floor.

I wanted him down here with me. I wanted him to feel the cold wood and the shame.

"Let! Me! Go!" I shrieked with every shove.

Tristan didn't strike me. He didn't lift a hand to hit back. Instead, every time I swung a fist, he simply caught my arm or moved his shoulder so my blow landed on muscle that felt as hard as a tree trunk.

I scrambled up, my breath coming in hot, sobbing gasps. I threw my body against his chest, shoving him with everything I had. "You're a monster!"

I reached out and grabbed his hair, pulling with all my strength. His head snapped back, and for a second, his calmness broke. He grunted, his hands coming up to wrap around my upper arms. His grip squeezing until I felt the blood stop in my veins.

I kicked at his shins, my bare feet hitting his heavy boots. I was scratching and biting at anything I could reach. I bit down hard on his forearm, tasting the salt of his skin and the copper of the blood from his head.

"Enough," he growled.

He simply stepped into my space, using his much larger body to press me back toward the bed. I fought against him, my heels sliding on the rug, the chain rattling and clashing like a hundred broken bells.

"No! Get off me!"

I tried to knee him in the stomach, but he caught my leg mid-air.

He twisted, forcing me to lose my balance.

I felt the air rush past me as he guided me down.

He didn't drop me, he pinned me. He used his forearm to press against my collarbone, not enough to choke me, but enough to hold my weight against the mattress.

I thrashed under him, my hips bucking, my hands still trying to scratch at his eyes.

A drop of his blood fell from his forehead and landed right on my lip. It tasted like metal and hate. He looked down at me, his eyes dark, his smile gone now, replaced by a look of dark focus.

The tears came back, hot and thick, spilling out of my eyes and mixing with the smear of his blood on my cheek.

"What do you want from me?" I sobbed, as I shook my head back and forth against the mattress, "Tristan, please! Just tell me what you want! Why are you doing this to me?"

I looked up at him, searching his face for a flicker of the man I used to know. I looked for the man who had held my hand, the man who had looked at me with soft eyes in the moonlight. I wanted to find even a spark of kindness hidden behind that face.

But the man above me watched my tears fall with a look of bored disgust. He leaned down closer, his forearm pressing a little harder against my chest, forcing the air out of my lungs until I had to gasp for breath.

"Tristan, please..."

"I am not Tristan," he said, "I have never been Tristan."

I stared at him, my mind spinning. I didn't understand. Was he crazy? Had the hit to his head broken something inside him?

"My name—my real name—has always been and always will be Alexander," he said.

He paused, watching me trying to make sense of that name. He leaned down until his nose was brushing against mine.

"Alexander Van Alen," he hissed.

I felt the blood drain from my face. The name echoed in my head, over and over. Alexander Van Alen.

Van Alen...

My heart stopped beating for a second as the truth finally broke through the fog of my terror.

"I'm going to give you one way out," His voice echoed in my head, "If it gets too much, if you're too scared to handle the real me, you say the word. Zane. Say it, and I'll let you go. I'll let you go back to your boring little life. But if you don't say it, you belong to me until I'm done."

"Zane?" I gasped, my voice falling to a terrified, broken whisper.