Page 52 of Under His Control

It’s nice sitting beside him while he plays his game and I work on my painting. This feels normal, like how we were in the past, hanging out on the couch and enjoying each other’s company.

When I move my head every so often, the collar rubs against my skin and reminds me that this moment is a lie. A short respite before Jacob makes it clear we’ll never go back to the way things used to be.

* * *

At almost ten thirty, Jacob exits his game and turns off the TV.

He stands and silently holds out his hand. I save my progress and close the drawing app, pursing my lips as I give him my tablet and pen. A few more minutes and I would’ve finished colouring the demon’s left arm.

He points at the basket beside the couch that contains the pillow and sheet he lent me.

“Pick up the basket and come with me.”

What’s he up to now?

Jacob is a man of many surprises, most of them unpleasant. I follow his order, trailing behind him at a slower pace. My suspicion rises when he swings a right into his bedroom. I pause just outside the threshold while he stands by the door.

“Come in.”

“What’s going to happen if I do?”

“Do as I say, Penelope.”

God, his overbearing attitude gets on my nerves. It’s annoying he likes to use my full name when he’s bossing me around too.

As usual, I obey with reluctance. Jacob closes his bedroom door with a firm thud that makes me flinch. I spin to face him, clutching the basket tighter.

This must be what prey feels like when they venture into a predator’s lair.

He steps to the side to set down my tablet and pen on his dresser. When he faces me and smiles with a satisfied gleam in his eyes, my spine stiffens.

Oh, no.

Some kind of fuckery is absolutely on the horizon.

“You’ve been upgraded from sleeping on the couch. You and I are going to share my bed from now on.”

There it is.

The fuckery.

“Why would you want me to sleep in your bed?”

Though I think I already know the answer.

“We’re in this together, we should be bunkmates.”

His tone is casual, almost friendly as though I would agree that his reasoning makes perfect sense.

Hell no. It doesn’t.

I jab a finger at the bed behind him.

“That’s not a bunk bed and you’re not my cellmate. You’re the warden.”

“It’s more comfortable than the couch.”

“The couch is more appropriate. I would even prefer the floor.”