A Few Weeks Later
“I said I’m not hungry.”
Rokiades grimaces. He’s proven himself to be a man for whom appearances mean everything. Not his own appearance, of course—he looks like a greased-up pig with a hair overgrowth problem, and that hasn’t changed. But I have to maintain my body. I have to look pretty and perfect and young.
Ironic, really, considering the mark he’d left on my face when he struck me is only now beginning to heal.
I glance around the massive dining room. There are guards stationed at every entrance. Not exactly unusual in this place, but I have noticed the amount of security has increased significantly in the last week or so. I wonder if that has to do with fear about an impending attack.
Maybe Kian’s planning on rescuing me.
I cringe at my own thoughts as soon as I have them. When I had become that girl? The fucking damsel in distress who waits on a man to save her?
Also, when had Kian O’Sullivan become the prince in this twisted fairy tale?
I look down at the plates on the table. My lunch consists of a few thin slices of baked chicken and a side of limp boiled vegetables. Rokiades, on the other hand, is feasting on a medium rare steak, potatoes dripping in butter, and bits of crispy bacon floating around in a dark red wine jus.
I’ve barely eaten in days. But even still, my stomach doesn’t crave food. My appetite is nonexistent. And because of my morning “training regimen,” I’ve been feeling nauseous every morning this week.
The sick fuck forces me to run on the treadmill for at least sixty minutes every day at the crack of dawn. If I slow down or refuse to work, he has one of his men beat me. On the days he’s feeling particularly malicious, he beats me himself.
I’ve gotten so used to the pain that I barely feel it anymore. I don’t feel much of anything anymore, really. But I am getting curious as to what his plans for me are.
Things have been suspiciously quiet of late. The last I’d heard of Kian was when Rokiades put me on speaker so that Kian would be able to hear my screams. I’d never heard the outcome of that particular conversation, but I do have a set of cigarette burns down my left forearm commemorating the moment. A nice little souvenir from my soon-to-be husband.
His lips are slicked with blood from the steak. “Suit yourself,” he says. “You’ll cave soon.” As I watch, he forks a disgustingly large piece of meat and stuffs it into his mouth. Some of the jus gets on his mustache, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The nausea resurfaces again, but that’s the one good thing about never eating: there’s nothing left to throw up.
“You look pale,” he adds.
“Why do you care?”
“Because I have to look at you,” he growls. “And I’m not interested in seeing a pale, scrawny, sweaty little whore.”
“You prefer your whores radiant and smiling?” I ask sarcastically, before I can stop myself.
He reaches out and clamps my nipple through my sheer shirt. I bite back a scream as I try to slap his hand away, but the cuffs around my wrists prevent me from making the gesture effective.
He twists aggressively. I cry out, unable to hold it back anymore, and sag away from him.
Rokiades holds on for a moment longer, just to prove he can. Then he releases me. “What have I told you about that tongue of yours?” he chides. “It gets you into so much trouble, glikia mu. You make me hurt you when I don’t want to do that.”
I resist the urge to sling another sarcastic comment at him. Instead, I look down at my plate and push the food around without actually eating anything.
“Eat the vegetables, at least,” he barks.
“I told you, I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t want you so thin that you look like a walking fucking skeleton,” he snaps. “I expect you to look the part. My wife will not be a goddamn zombie.”
I grit my teeth to keep from lashing back out, but I still don’t bother touching anything on my plate. He growls low, though thankfully he drops the fight—for now.
One of Rokiades’s men appears from the first entrance and walks up to him. He leans in and whispers something in his don’s ear. I study every expression that flickers onto Yannis’s face. He looks focused at first, then his brow twists with annoyance.
“Fucking contain him,” he hisses low, but. I still manage to hear him. “He’s one fucking man!”
It takes every ounce of willpower to keep my expression neutral.
“Yes, sir,” the man mutters, chastened.