I watch warily as he opens the door. I wonder if he's going to let someone in. My brain, dulled by exhaustion, tries to understand what's happening. Why am I in his bedroom? Why is he taking care of me? All I can come up with is that he's playing me. He wants something and he's going to be nice until he gets it. Then he'll kill me.
He doesn't let anyone in. Instead, he picks something up, closes the door and brings it toward the bed. He sets a tray on the night table. The scent of chicken broth washes over me and my mouth instantly grows watery with anticipation. He's brought food.
He turns, reaches for me. I flinch. It's an automatic response, though I'm not sure if it's because I fear the pain or the pleasure that those hands can give. He rests his fingers on the belt tying me to the b
