Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“I’ll show you to your room,” he says, “but we should eat first.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He glances at me sideways. Is that concern in his smoldering eyes? “You need to eat, Ania,” he says.
“Why? I’m fine.”
My foot taps in the way it does, like when I’m at home, and Mikhail or Dimitri say the same thing. Eat, eat, eat. They don’t understand that every successful ballerina in history has made food sacrifices to reach their goal of maintaining a certain weight.
I don’t want to get into all that now.
“I’m not hungry,” I say when he keeps staring.
“You haven’t eaten in over twelve hours.”
“I’m too stressed.”
He shakes his head with a sense of finality. “We’re eating. Are you a vegetarian?”
“No,” I say, almost swallowing too much saliva.
He leads us into a small kitchen and starts going through the cupboards. This kernel of panic won’t quit, pumping away deep inside me and making me want to run to the nearest bathroom. It’s always the same: people refusing to understand what it takes to be great at something.
“Soup okay? Something light.”
“Sure,” I mutter.
“I’ve got some frozen bread rolls I can heat up, too. Not exactly Michelin-level, but still.”
Why is he being so nice all of a sudden? I stare at the table, trying not to flinch when he places my glass of water down. I gulp down half of it. Maybe I can tell him I’ve filled myself with water, and he’ll leave me alone. I pick at the oak table as he turns on the gas oven.
I can feel him looking at me every few moments, but I don’t turn and face him. I don’t let that happen, not giving in to the urge. I can’t. I need to keep staring at the table and not think about the food, the sick liquid sliding down my neck, the chunks of meat in there, the vegetables, whatever it is—the stuff.
Too soon, it’s all ready. He places a bowl in front of me, two bread rolls on the side. I swallow, staring down at the food. He sits opposite and immediately starts tucking in, dipping the bread into the soup, tearing chunks with his teeth.
“You eat like an animal,” I say, my hands in my lap.
“Doesn’t matter how I eat,” he grunts, mopping up more soup. “As long as I can get the calories I need—the fuel.”
Is he dropping a hint?
“What are you waiting for?” he says.
I pick up my spoon and stare down into the soup. “What is it? Chicken?”
“Beef and vegetable.”
“It’s a funny color for beef.”
He looks at me coldly, and I know he knows. Right then, he sees into the heart of the issue. He can read me. He can see me—all of me. He knows what I’m trying to do.
“No, it’s not,” he says. “Eat.”
“Eat, eat, eat,” I snap. “You think this is how this works, then, right? You think it’s that easy? Kidnap me. Bully me. Treat me like crap, and then I’m supposed to eat? Just do what you say? Fuck you, Aiden.”
Without giving it any thought, I act rashly, picking up the bowl and throwing it at the wall. Soup splatters everywhere. Then I run through the cabin to the front door, but it’s bolted with three big chunky locks.
“You’re not leaving,” he says calmly from behind me, not rising to my level of anger even a little. “If you’re too nervous to eat, go to your room.”
I turn, shaking all over now. “Go to my room? You’re my brother, not my dad.”
“Stop saying that,” he grunts.
I march right up to him, so many emotions flaring through me. I don’t know what I’m feeling, except it’s more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. Am I right? Could he read me? Could he see me? All of me?
“Why, brother? Why? Why do you care? Don’t feel good about kidnapping your sister, is that it?”
“Your room’s this way,” he says, turning away from me, his shoulders tensed, the veins in his arms looking like they’re pulsing with rage.
I follow him—the only thing I seem capable of doing—to the rear of the house. Opening the door, I see a double bed covered in dust sheets. Everything is covered. There’s a padlock on the window.
“Is that an alarm?” I say, gesturing to a small plastic attachment on the window.
“Yes,” he replies. “I can help you with the sheets—”
“I don’t need your help. Just leave me alone.”
He sighs, waits a moment, and then turns away. I close the door behind him. I can’t lock it. Padlocks are only good enough for windows, apparently. I go to the drawers, remove the dust sheet, find the bedsheets, and get to work. I can’t think about how he looked when he told me to eat. It was almost like he pitied me, but I don’t need pity. I never have, and I never will.