“Well, you won’t go far,” he jokes coldly, nodding to my position on the bed.
“You fucking asshole,” I gripe, turning my head. No matter how hard I try, he never fails to remind me that there can’t be another side to him. He is nothing beyond the guy who has tortured me. Who continues to torture me.
He sighs in exasperation. “Alright, hold on,” he says with an irritated tone. He goes to his dresser and fumbles around in the second drawer, pulling out some sort of small electronic device. He opens the door and attaches it inside the lock and then moves a switch on a small remote around.
“What are you doing?” I ask, craning my neck to try and see.
“Making sure no one bothers you,” he assures me, trying something on the lock a few more times. “I’ll be right back.”
I can’t tell if I have physical symptoms of emotional whiplash or if my neck is just aching from the suspension of my arms dangling from my hands. One minute he’s as cold as ice. The next he’s worried for my wellbeing. Or maybe it’s just that he sees me as his property. He doesn’t care what happens to me, as long as he’s the one to do it.
Some boyfriend you’ve found yourself, Ophelia. And he’s not even that. He’s Vivian’s boyfriend. He’s just my kidnapper.
My eyes grow heavy as I wait for what seems like forever. I jump at the sound of the door, worried Emmett’s contraption failed and someone else is coming in like he warned. But he appears with a tray of fruit in his hands.
“The cooks are gone for the night,” he explains, taking a seat next to me. “This is all I could rustle up.”
“I’m so hungry, I don’t care. I’ll eat anything,” I state anxiously, moving my hands forward in anticipation. But he shows no signs of setting me free.
Instead, he takes a grape between his fingers and holds it to my lips.
“What are you doing?” my face twists in disbelief. “You’re seriously not going to uncuff me long enough for me to eat?”
“It’s more fun this way,” he says mischievously, brushing the grape to my bottom lip, begging for me to open and let him feed me.
“This is ridiculous!” I protest, clenching my jaw shut tight.
But his eyes spark with that same strange tenderness. The one that keeps popping up suddenly out of nowhere and surprising me. A bead of moisture drips from the fruit across my lip and down my chin.
My stomach growls again, forcing me to give in. I part my lips slightly, letting my tongue brush the cold purple surface as he moves it closer into my mouth. The taste of it is too much to refuse. I unclench my teeth, letting him inch it in so I can take a bite. He watches intently, continuing to feed me slowly and sensually for what feels like hours. First grapes. Then strawberries.
I don’t want to be turned on by it, but I am. Like everything with him. He stops every so often and runs his tongue along the edge of my mouth, collecting the juice of the fruit as it pools.
Once the tray is empty, things get awkward and silent. We’re both breathing heavy, weighed down by all of the sexual tension and staring at each other with expectant “what now?” expressions. But we say nothing. Afraid to ruin it.
Finally, he stands and leaves the tray on the top of his dresser. He pulls some pajamas from the drawers and looks to me, as if he’s about to say something. By the way he eyes my clothes, I think he might offer me something to sleep in. But he stops himself. I don’t know why it’s so hard for him to be kind and decent to me. Even offering me food has to be done on his fucked up terms.
“Well, we really should try and get some sleep,” he grumbles half-heartedly. He knows that’s going to be impossible. We’re both too riled up and anxious about everything that’s happening.
“How’s this going to work?” I concede. “Where will you sleep?”
“The floor,” he replies, pulling some spare blankets and pillows down from his closet.
I have to admit I’m disappointed that he plans to sleep on the floor. I’ve already come this far in surrendering to him. He might as well put me out of my misery and finish the job. But more than that, I’m afraid. I wish I was home. I don’t know what kinds of fucked up things tomorrow has in store for us. I just want to be close to somebody…anybody for comfort.
“Emmett?” I call out softly after he’s turned out the light and settled into his sleeping bag on the floor. He doesn’t answer, so I try again. “Could you come to the bed?”
“That’s not a good idea,” he answers in an almost whine. For once, maybe I’m the one torturing him.
“Why not?” I persist. “I would just…I’d feel better.”
“Ophelia,” he says sternly into the darkness. My heart tightens with the way he says my name, so earnest and desperate. “If I come up there and lay next to you, I won’t be able to control myself.”
His words hang in the air, teasing me. Daring me. I want more than anything to tell him I don’t care. That I’m counting on him giving in. But I take his restraint as an opportunity to remind myself what he’s capable of. I’d hate myself for letting him fuck me. I’m chained to his bed for christ’s sake. I’m his prisoner.
I don’t answer him. Instead I try to settle down onto the pillow as far as I can, forcing myself to close my eyes. I’m exhausted, but nothing happens. Hours go by. I look over at him every so often and see that he’s just as miserable as I am. His eyes wide and glaring at the ceiling. The room is pitch black, but the glossy whites catch the moonlight coming in through his window.
We both stay like that for the rest of the night, unable to fall asleep for more than a few seconds.