4. Properly Motivated #2
A relentless pounding fills my chest. I don’t trust him, not for a second. But I can’t stop myself from wondering . . . What choice could I have left?
The words echo in my head, swirling, drowning out everything else. He speaks of choice, but all I can think of is my freedom. The freedom I’ve been denied. The freedom I lost when they stole my life and my family from me, when they locked me away.
I can feel my pulse pounding in my throat, my veins pulsing with rage, my magic swirling dangerously beneath my skin.
The fear that once gripped me has faded.
It has been replaced by something far stronger and more dangerous: an anger that has been building in me for over a century, waiting for this moment to burst out.
All the years of torment, all the loss, all the pain, all of it comes crashing down on me in an instant.
It’s not smart. I know it isn’t. I am already too close, dangerously too close.
My body moves before I even think about it.
I lunge toward him, the words burning my throat, cutting through the air like a blade.
“What choice are you offering me, you arrogant, deluded—” My voice breaks, and a growl slips past my lips.
His body tenses in response to the rawness of my fury.
“You think you can just waltz in here, offer me some pathetic decision, and everything will be okay? You think you can save me or fix what you’ve destroyed? ”
I pace, my fists clenched at my sides, rage clouding my thoughts. “You took everything from me.” The words taste bitter on my tongue.
“You took my family, my home, my life. And now, you stand there like you’re offering me something noble?
Like you care?” I can feel the heat in my chest, the magic wanting to break free, my power flaring at the edges of my control, but I still can’t reach it.
“You’re no better than your father. You’re just a—”
I don’t know how long the words spill out of me, how long my rage grips me, how many words I throw at him like daggers.
I can’t stop it, can’t control it. My past, my pain, my helplessness, all of it bleeds into the moment.
It’s as if everything I have kept buried for so long has finally ripped free, tearing through me in a torrent of raw emotion.
My hands shake. I want to lash out, to break him, to make him feel what I have felt.
But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even move.
He stands tall and steady, completely unamused and unfazed by my outburst. He just stares at me and gives me the space to unleash everything I have been holding in on him.
Those dark eyes, endless and cold, never leave my face, reading me, as if he understands the depths of my rage.
It should make me angrier, but instead, it confuses me.
And then, just for a fleeting second, I see something flicker across his face. Something . . . almost like . . . regret? Guilt?
No, I tell myself. I’m imagining it. I can’t afford to trust him. He’s no different from the rest of them.
But it is there. It is so brief, so subtle, that if I weren’t staring at him so intently, I might have missed it. And it is gone before I can fully process it, disappearing behind the mask of indifference he wears.
I stand there, chest heaving, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My anger has burned through me, leaving only a hollow, exhausted ache behind. The room feels too small, the walls too close.
When the words stop coming, when my fury has burned itself out, and I am left with nothing but the remnants of my pain, he speaks.
“You will have a choice,” he says, his voice smooth and almost indulgent, like he is humoring a child who doesn’t yet understand the game they are playing.
His words are quiet, but there is an undeniable weight to them.
A subtle edge that makes them feel less like an empty promise and more of a quiet threat.
“But let’s not fool ourselves into thinking you’re ready for it. ”
I open my mouth to argue, but before I can, he steps closer.
My mouth snaps back shut, and I can feel his gaze seeping under my skin, making my pulse quicken.
The faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, as though he’s found some pleasure in my confusion, in my struggle.
“You think you are,” he continues, his voice a soft mockery, “but you're not. Not yet.”
A sharp chill slithers down my spine, but I force my voice to steady.
“Where am I?” I demand, switching the subject, my breath shallow, my hands curling into fists.
“Can they find me?” The words taste like iron, my heart slams against my ribs as I fight to keep my voice from breaking.
Did you bring me here just to hand me back to them?
He pauses, eyeing me with that same dark humor, a slow chuckle bubbling up from his chest. “You think so little of me.” The amusement in his voice only makes my stomach twist tighter. He doesn't answer my question, not really.
“Then tell me,” I push, my fear bleeding into something desperate.
His smirk deepens, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “I suppose you’ll figure it out eventually,” he murmurs, his words wrapping around me, as his power presses in from every angle.
I open my mouth to say something more, but my throat is raw, and the words stick in my chest. Before I can even fully process it, he turns, his figure already slipping into the shadows.
“Eat,” he says over his shoulder, his voice dripping with that cold, commanding tone, as if my resistance is beneath him.
“You’re terribly thin.” He pauses, the words lingering in the air like a challenge.
“You’ll need your strength, of course. When I return, I’ll help you dig that magic of yours out from wherever you've hidden it, though I’m sure it’ll get a little . . . messy.”
His smirk is practically audible as he says it, like he’s found the whole situation both amusing and inevitable.
Then, he is gone. No flourish, no grand exit, nothing but the chilling void left in his wake.
It’s as if the very air has been sucked from the room, leaving only the echo of his presence behind.
The loneliness is oppressive, heavy with the weight of his absence, like a storm that has swept through, tearing apart everything in its path only to leave nothing but a haunting stillness in its wake.
He leaves me standing alone, every nerve in my body buzzing, my mind racing, replaying every word that was said. I can still feel his soft caress on my skin, his breath on my neck. It takes everything in me to try to force my body to stop trembling.
You need your strength. His words echo in my mind. When I return . . .
He isn’t offering me help. What he is offering is power and control, a chance to be something more than what I am now. To become something that can destroy. Something that can fight back.
But the thought of trusting him, of accepting anything from him, makes bile rise in my throat.
I turn away, my focus falling on the food that was left on the table.
It sits there, untouched, a quiet invitation to take a moment for myself, to gather what little strength I have left.
But the thought of eating seems hollow. My stomach clenches at the idea of feeding the body that has been caged for so long.
My mind wanders.
A choice. But what does that mean? What choice could I really have in a world where everything has already been stolen from me? What if the only choice I have left is to become what he wants me to be?
I clenched my fists at my sides at that thought.
I am sick of feeling like a prisoner.
And yet, in the dormancy that follows his departure, I can feel the truth of it settling in—I am still trapped.