Page 88 of Breaking Rosalind
He chuckles and looms over me with a bowl. “Who’s a hungry girl?”
“Not me,” I say through clenched teeth.
“You need to eat.”
I jerk my head to the side. If I take even a mouthful of food, then he’s won. He’ll erode my mind in a cycle of hunger and desperation and use that weakness to extract information about the firm that could get Miranda hurt.
He grabs my chin and turns my face to meet his gaze, but I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to give him any kind of satisfaction.
“Look at me.” His grip tightens. “Open your fucking eyes and eat.”
The sweet, tantalizing aroma intensifies, and he smears something warm and thick and gooey on my lips. It takes every ounce of willpower not to lick them clean. When he tries forcing his coated fingers between my lips, I clench my teeth.
Air crackles against my bare skin as though his anger has charged the room with electric sparks. My muscles stiffen with the force of my determination. I won’t give that bastard an inch.
“Stubborn little thing,” he says, his hot breath warming my cheek. “But I have ways of making you eat.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to pry open my jaws, but he releases my chin and steps away. The bowl lands on a table with a clink, and his footsteps retreat to the other side of the room.
My heart thrums a steady beat. The only reason it isn’t racing is the concentrated effort I’ve put into slowing my pulse. If he wants to beat me into submission, I’m ready, because that shit won’t work.
At the approaching squeak of a wheel, I crack open an eye to find him pushing a trolley. On its surface is a surgical tray filled with metal instruments, and a transparent tube I’ve seen on IVs, only thicker.
I huff a laugh, but it carries no mirth. “Is that a feeding tube?”
“This is a gastronomy tube,” he replies with a sneer.
“You’re not sticking that down my throat, and don’t even think of sliding it into my nostril.”
He continues toward me, his eyes flashing. I clench my jaw, meeting his glower with a glare just as hateful. The flickering lightbulb illuminates him from the back, turning the edges of his hair a vibrant shade of mahogany.
Cesare looks like a horror movie villain, a younger, hotter version of the type that eats livers with fava beans and Chianti.
A shudder runs down my spine and settles between my legs. When he picks up a sponge with a pair of forceps and runs its wet surface over a spot on my stomach, my adrenaline spikes.
“What the hell are you doing?” I rasp.
“Cleaning the surgical site.”
“What for?” I hiss.
He sets the sponge back on the tray. “To insert the G-tube into your stomach. By the way, you look stupid with your lips covered in rice pudding.”
On instinct, I snap, “As if I give a fuck.”
Realization dawns on me like a bucket of mop water to the face, making my breath hitch. This crazy bastard is going to perform major surgery on my body just because I refuse to eat.
He picks up a scalpel, looks me dead in the eye, and says, “I won’t bother with the anesthetic since you enjoy pain.”
Scenarios rip through my mind like the shutters of a silent movie. Him feeding me with a tube through the stomach, then sewing my mouth shut for sass, then amputating each limb in response to some perceived slight.
He’s already stitched my labia to seal my pussy shut. By the time he’s finished with me, I’ll be eyeless, limbless, and in no position to escape. All because I refused to eat the rice pudding.
“Fuck!” I scream. “Give me the food.”
Huffing out a laugh, he sets down the scalpel, picks up the bowl, and dips his fingers into the creamy dessert.
“Go on.” His sticky digits hover over my mouth.