When the guards come back an hour later to collect the dishes, they notice the untouched meal but don’t comment.
They just take it away and leave me alone again.
That night I lie in the ridiculously comfortable bed and stare at the ceiling.
I catalogue everything I know about this place: the layout of the room, the position of the guards I saw, and the security measures I noticed.
I think about escape routes and vulnerabilities and ways I might be able to get a message to my father.
I also think about Leo Santoro’s face when he told me about his brother.
The grief I saw there, just for a moment, before he locked it away again.
The pain that’s driving this whole insane revenge plot.
It doesn’t excuse anything or make any of this okay.
But I understand it, maybe. Just a little bit.
Which pisses me off even more.
Day two is the same.
Three meals delivered by silent guards.
Three meals I don’t touch.
The food is always good—too good for a prison—and I’m getting hungrier, my stomach cramping and my head starting to ache.
But I won’t give in.
I won’t let them win this small battle.
By day three, I’m weak and dizzy and my hands are shaking from more than just fear.
When I stand up too quickly, the room spins and I have to grab onto the furniture to keep from falling.
That’s when Leo comes.
I’m sitting on the couch, hugging a pillow to my chest and trying to ignore the breakfast tray sitting on the coffee table, when I hear the lock turn.
My heart jumps into my throat and I scramble to my feet, immediately regretting it when the room tilts sickeningly.
Leo walks in and his eyes go immediately to the untouched tray.
They then track to the dinner tray from yesterday that’s still sitting on the desk.
Then to me, probably looking pale and shaky and like I’m about to pass out.
His eyes flash. “You need to eat.”
“Fuck you.” The words come out weaker than I want, my voice hoarse from disuse and dehydration.
He moves closer and I scramble backward, my hip hitting the arm of the couch.
Suddenly I’m acutely aware of how much bigger he is than me.
Six-three to my five-seven.