Page 89 of Breaking Rosalind
Every instinct screams at me to jerk away, snap or scream or spit.
“Bite my fingers, and I’ll extract your teeth,” he says with a chilling calmness that tightens my nipples and makes my clit throb.
I part my lips and allow his fingers to slide onto my tongue. The sweet, creamy rice pudding fills my senses, making each nerve ending sing with rapture. As someone who eats vegan to maintain optimal health, this is the most delicious thing I’ve eaten in over a decade.
“Good girl,” he says. “You’re taking it so well.”
My throat bobs, and the backs of my eyes sting with humiliation. I hate this man with every fiber of my being. I want to tear him to shreds.
He scoops up more rice pudding with his fingers, offering them to me like a sweet sacrament. The heat of his stare burns into my skin, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s won this twisted game of dominance.
“I had a pet once,” he says, sounding wistful. “She got pregnant and died.”
Swallowing hard, I picture another woman held hostage in this room, her belly swollen with Cesare’s spawn. I don’t need to imagine being forced into motherhood against my will. That agony is already seared into my memory.
“What happened to her?” I rasp.
He takes a deep breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if he is suppressing a flood of feelings. My heart skips a beat. Did she die in childbirth, get gunned down while trying to escape, or did he kill her in a violent rage?
“Cesare?” I rasp.
“Her belly was sliced open, and the babies also died.”
His voice falters with the detached regret someone might use for talking about a long-lost animal companion and not an innocent woman he abducted, impregnated, and probably subjected to a botched c-section.
What the hell is wrong with this man? I knew he was unhinged, but this revelation only fills me with more dread. My mind spins in gruesome scenarios, each more horrifying than the last. His family won’t let him get away with keeping a woman captive. Not when his older brother just got out of prison for a murder. Right?
Right?
The next finger full of pudding tastes sour, but I force myself to endure for the chance of escape. I can’t risk any more modifications to my body or the threat of getting infected and too weak to run.
“Cesare,” I whisper, “Please tell me about your last pet.”
He pauses, his shoulders sagging as if weighted down by the loss of the poor, innocent woman he tortured to death. “She was beautiful. Light brown eyes like yours and soft brown fur.”
My throat tightens. “Fur?”
“She was my best friend," he continues, his voice softening. "She’d hop out of her cage and nuzzle my hand, looking up at me with those trusting eyes. When I let her out to play in the yard, she’d always run back to me, nudging my leg for attention.”
I stare up at him, my breath quickening. So, he’s comparing me to an animal? “Was she a hamster?”
“Rabbit,” he rasps. “And more than just a pet. She was my companion, my confidant, my comfort. Stroking her while she sat on my lap was the closest thing I had to heaven.”
Swallowing the rest of the pudding, I scan his face for insights into his humanity. His eyes are glassy, detached, as if he really is pining for a long dead rabbit.
“Who killed her?” I rasp.
His eyes flash. “It wasn’t me.”
I flinch at the intensity of his protest. “Okay, then who?”
“My brother’s friends cut her open. They wanted to see what was inside.”
The rice pudding churns in my stomach, and I suck in a sharp breath.
“She was still warm when I found her, with her entrails and the babies scattered on the grass. I tried to piece them back together, but it was hopeless.” His voice breaks.
“What happened next?” I whisper.