Page 82 of These Tears

‘I’m good,’ I croak, each word splintering as it reaches my tongue.

He draws a long, laboured breath. And when he releases it, it threads through my hair like a brush of mint and winter and desolation.

‘This is going to be very difficult if you’re going to brood.’

The words settle with such audacity that my mouth parts on reflex. I spin to face him, if only to see whether conviction or madness is staring back at me.

He’s bent slightly.

Closer than I thought.

The curls at the top of his head are still damp, slightly fuzzy from a recent shower, softening nothing. His eyes look clearer in this light, like fragments of ice meeting the sky, all waiting to collapse into me.

There’s an animalistic calm to him – of a thing that has finally dragged a bleeding prey back into its snug, warm den so it could devour it in peace.

‘What is this?’ I snap, grinding the words through what little venom I have left. ‘There is no this! You’re holding me captive, Elias!’ The migraine knocks against my temples as a reminder to keep my voice down and my finger pressed against one of them as if to hold it at bay.

His brows flatten, his gaze clears.

He takes another bite of the apple. His teeth grind through the flesh as he lets my insubordination settle like dust falling around the ruins of an argument he doesn’t feel the need to clean up.

But there’s a flare of tension behind his eyes that reminds me the fuse is always burning.

‘You drugged me?’ Not a question.

‘Eat,’ he says flatly, as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

He raises the apple to my face again.

‘I’m not hungry,’ I hiss through gritted teeth.

One slow step is all it takes to reset the balance. Another is to underline it. The third traps me between him and the window until my spine jolts back against the cold glass that bites through the silk.

‘You will eat. You will drink. And you will perform your chores. Or we die.’

A beat.

‘Burying a body beneath twelve feet of snow and frozen earth is a hassle.’

Ice spiderwebs up my neck.

In a surge of fury, I grip the wrist of his hand still holding the apple, as if I can wrestle the demon out of him.

‘You stripped me too?’

‘I didn’t strip you,’ he says casually. ‘I undressed you. The difference is the intent.’

My teeth bare at the apple instead of at him and I rip off a chunk. The bittersweet tang bursts on my tongue. I hate the way my stomach coils as if it’s grateful.

He watches my jaw work over the bite, then tracks the swallow down my throat. Without looking away, he breaks our contact and bites into the exact place my teeth marked the fruit. His gaze drops to where our bites overlap.

‘What do you know about homesteads?’ he asks while still chewing, as if he’s compiling a grocery list rather than violating my entire reality.

Disbelief holds me frozen. He takes another casual bite of the apple and waits for my answer. Like he hasn’t drugged me, kidnapped me and brought me into a white oblivion where survival means something entirely different.

‘Have you gone mad?’ I whisper, searching his face for the answer instead of waiting for it. ‘I’m not staying here with you.’

I know nothing about this kind of survival. I’ve never lived anywhere nature could kill me before breakfast.