"I hope those cuffs are treating you nicely, dear.", I hiss as I pass a plate across the floor that slides and hits his thigh, making him flinch a little.
Robert looks up at me, his eyes half full of defiance, half terrified. The bruises on his cheek and lip catches the dim light from the bulb, the only light source lighting up the basement. I can see him trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent, the way a soldier does when he isn't sure if the next word will get him shot.
"Eat," I say, voice flat. "You'll need your strength."
He hesitates, then mutters, "B-But my hands are cuffed..?"
A smirk spreads across my face and followed by the look of realization on his face. He meekly bows his head down and digs into the plate full of rice and curry like the fucking dog he is. For a few seconds, I just watch him. The way his hear dangles as he picks at his food. The way he avoids my gaze, like he's afraid of seeing a ghost when he looks up.
I step closer until I'm right in front of him.
He flinches again not from the words, but from how calm I am. I almost smile at that.
Then I turn away, unstrapping the holster from my belt, laying the gun on a makeshift table beside my folded jacket. My hands are steady now, almost too steady.
"You used to make me feel small," I say. "Now look who's small."
He looks up again, and this time, there's something else in his eyes. Not fear. Pity.
"I didn't mean to..-"
"Shut it."
That sends him a jolt through his body, that makes me pause. Just a second. Long enough for the old aching pain to crawl back into my body. I crouch down in front of him. The metal cuffs scrape against the floor when he shifts, a sound that makes the corner of my mouth twitch.
There's blood at the edge of his lip. I dip my handkerchief into a bowl beside me and wring it out, the water turning pink before it drips onto the concrete. My hand moves before I can think, and I dab his mouth. He flinches, just a little. I don't stop. I press gently until the stain fades, until his breathing evens out again.
"Does that hurt?", I ask.
He shakes his head, eyes fixed somewhere past me. I can tell he wants to ask something else, something that's been clawing at his throat since I brought him here.
"Are you…" His voice cracks. "Are you going to kill me?"
The question hangs between us. I can almost taste the fear behind it. I set the cloth down, fold it neatly beside me, and look at him.
"No," I say. "That would be showing you mercy. You don't deserve mercy."
He blinks, confusion mixing with dread. "Then what—"
"You'll be my husband.", I cut in. "That's worse, since you hate me, right?"
I stand and walk toward the small table near the wall, my table. I straighten the folded jacket, align the gun beside it, and look back at him. His hands tremble faintly against the cuffs. It almost makes me giggle seeing him in pain.
"You'll stay here," I tell him. "You'll eat when I tell you to. Do what I say. Breathe when I let you. And maybe, if you learn to behave…" I tilt my head, letting the smallest trace of warmth slip into my voice, "I'll let you see the sun again."
He doesn't reply. His silence feels heavier than the gun ever did.
I walk back, pick up the same cloth, and gently wipe his cheek one last time. My hand lingers on his face despite my will power screaming to bruise his pretty little head up.