Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Internally I roll my eyes. Right now, the only animal I care about him feeding is me.
He doesn’t seem surprised that I’m finally giving in. His expression is the same calm, placid one he usually has. Like this is all business as usual.
God, has he done this sort of thing before? The thought makes my stomach sour. But no, he obviously hasn’t done exactly this thing before, because there aren’t any kids running around the place. Then heat flushes my neck—what, am I weirdly excited to be special in this fucked-up dude’s world? I shake my head at myself.
The door swings open and he steps in, gaze zeroed in on my soggy form.
I want to snap out something snarky like, enjoying the view? But instead, I bite my tongue and lower my lashes. “May I have dinner, Master?” Ugh, the words feel like acid on my tongue, but I manage not to gag on them. Barely.
I keep my gaze averted, but it’s difficult, especially when Xavier doesn’t say anything in return. After what feels like an endless silence I finally hear his heavy steps coming toward me over the soggy hay.
His large hand drops underneath my chin and he lifts my face up toward his. He searches my eyes. “You’ll accept food from my hand like a good pet?”
Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react.
I nod and apparently do a good enough job of not showing that what I really feel like doing is punching him in the balls. The hand underneath my chin pushes a lock of hair behind my ear. He continues to caress around the back of my neck where he squeezes in a gentle massage. Then he pulls me in against his chest, continuing to rub my back in soothing circles.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Shh, that’s my good girl.”
And absurdly, the gentle touch after the uncomfortable, stressful, and occasionally terrifying days outside makes me want to cry and cling to him.
The fact that his warm body feels like safety is super screwed up. I know that, logically.
My body on the other hand? God, all I want to do is curl up against him.
This is how Stockholm syndrome starts screams some rational part of my brain.
It’s just that in spite of the sun coming out after the rain, I’m so cold. Cold and wet and miserable and tired. Most of all tired. I swear I might collapse at Xavier’s feet I’m so tired.
And wouldn’t that show him, the cruel jackass. He’s no more the good-hearted hero than I am Cinderella. This is no fairytale. It’s real and ugly and fucked up.
And you just have to play along and see it through to the conclusion while trying to keep your sanity intact.
No biggie.
I’ll just ignore the swell of emotions that rushes when he picks me up into his arms. Not in a fireman’s carry this time. No, he swings my legs up and puts one of his huge arms underneath my knees, the other securely under my back. My arms shoot around his neck for lack of anywhere else to hold onto. He heads straight for the house. I’m weak from the days without food and I clutch onto him with the little bit of strength I’ve got remaining.
Once we’re inside, he doesn’t head upstairs to get cleaned up like I think he will. No, instead he heads toward the kitchen.
He sits me down on the single dining room chair, then swiftly walks out again. Almost immediately I lay my head down on the table, staring after him in the direction he left.
Okay, so food will come first. That’s good. Very good.
He returns a couple minutes later, carrying one of the large arm chairs from the den. The chair is piled with towels and blankets. It barely fits through the door to the kitchen, but he sets it down and shimmies it through sideways. Then he hauls it so that it’s right beside the stove.
Without a word, he comes back to me, picks me up, and carries me over to the plush chair. When he deposits me on it, he wraps me in the blankets, tucking them around me like a parent might a child.
I can only blink up blankly at him during all of this. I don’t really know how to handle this side of him. The man who tosses me into an pigpen for three days is easy to hate.
This incarnation who caresses my hair and whispers, “Shh, you’re doing so good, everything’s going to be easier now, just rest while I make us some food.”
Him, I don’t know what to do with.
He curls up one of the blankets like a pillow against the wingback chair. “There, rest your head,” he urges, helping me settle my head against it.
I don’t even flinch at his touch this time. I feel strange and almost numb. From hunger? I’m not sure. I just know I don’t feel like myself.