The room smelled faintly of bleach and dust, a strange combination that always made Gwen nauseous. She sat on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if holding her own body together. The curtains were drawn, the walls bare. Time felt endless in that place, a prison that whispered of control and cruelty.
Every so often Marcus came in with trays of food—bread, soup, roasted meat. And every time, Gwen’s fury burned hotter. She hurled one of the plates against the wall, the splatter of stew dripping like blood down the white paint.
“Stop this nonsense,” Marcus barked, stepping forward. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharp. “I won’t tolerate such attitude.”
“I’d rather starve than eat what you bring me,” Gwen snapped, her voice raw with rage.
For a moment, Marcus’s gaz
