I remain still and quiet, and her face changes from soft to hard.
"You can't just do whatever you want to me," she says. "That isn't how life works, Javi. I know you've been up here alone for so long. I know you don't understand normal social conventions, but even you must know the difference between right and wrong."
"You are mine," I tell her again.
She has always been mine. Since the moment I first saw her. Since the moment my obsession began.
"I'm not yours," she says. "I'm my own person. And what you're doing here is wrong."
"According to who?” I ask. “Who exactly says what I’m doing is wrong?”
“I do,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
“Funny you did not say so when I was fucking you,” I answer.
She is quiet, lost in her thoughts, fingers still wrapped around my arm. Small and delicate.
"I can’t protect myself from you," she murmurs.
Her words anger me. And I can't stop myself. I lean down into her face, and she stops breathing. She stops moving. She trembles before me, and her fear makes me hard.
It makes me want to lose control.
"I did what you wanted," I tell her. "What you wrote."
Her mouth falls open, horrified. I squeeze her face in my palm and kiss her. Taste her. She squirms in my grasp and balls my sweatshirt in her fists.
She isn't pushing me away. Or pulling me closer. She is always so tormented about her feelings. The same holds true for me.
I pull away and stop myself.
"Eat your lunch," I demand. "And then write more."
She looks up at me, indignant.
"I'm not writing more. You never should have read that journal in the first place."
"You shouldn't have left it lying around then."
"You mean in the privacy of my own home?"
"Write more," I tell her again. "Or I'll write the story for you."
Chapter Seventeen
Iestimatethat I have been at Moldavia now for a little over three weeks. In that time, I have read more than I ever thought possible. Books upon books upon books.
Javi's library cannot be rivaled.
I don’t think I could come close to putting a dent in it even if he did keep me locked here forever.
On my bad days, I wonder if I will ever be free again, or if it’s true what he says. If I will remain forever in his garden of roses. If I will live and breathe and die here in this enchanting prison.
I write.
I write a lot.
And then I tear the pages out and hide them. Hide my darkest thoughts and fears and... wants... from the monster.