Page 18 of Kristoff

Which is probably what Kristoff is doing - trying to wipe away his guilt. But that’s his problem.

My problem is getting myself to snap out of this funk. I can’t give up. I can’t, but I’m too tired to fight him. I’m too scared of what’s coming next. I hadn’t thought he’d be capable of what he did.

What sort of things will the next man do?

“I’m not hungry, and it’s probably cold,” I say, still balled up on the bed. I should get under the covers, not let him see me naked - but it’s not like he can’t just rip them off me if he wants to get to my body again.

The pills he gave me have taken the edge off the pain, but I’m still sore in places I doubt ibuprofen can fix.

“Well, if it’s cold that’s your fault. And I don’t care if you’re hungry.” He sits on the bed, putting the tray down in front of me and taking off the lids. A bowl full of pasta and veggies and a large piece of chocolate cake greets me. My stomach growls at the sight, and my mouth waters.

Pasta is my best friend in the world.

He’ll just force me if I don’t eat, so I scoot up to sit and crisscross my legs. The movements make the pain in my ass and shoulder spark to life, but I keep it to myself. He’s been given enough of my pain for one day, he can’t have anymore.

My hand is pushed away when I reach for the fork, and he grabs it.

“I don't need you to feed me, I’ll eat,” I say, but he’s already loaded up the fork with pasta and a big chunk of tomato.

“You don’t have a boyfriend back home? You said you haven’t had sex in a year,” he says and shovels the food into my mouth. I close my eyes at the deliciousness of the meal. Whoever made this dish, knew exactly what they were doing.

“Would it have changed anything if I do?” I ask after I swallow.

He pauses, gathers up some cake on the fork and brings it back to my lips. “Probably not.”

At least he doesn’t lie to me.

“How does a pretty girl like you not have a boyfriend or at least a few one-nighters in the past year?” he asks with a little tilt to his lips.

“How does a man kidnap, rape, and sell women, sleep at night?” I counter the question, feeling a bit braver since he’s being civil. The monster who left my room hours earlier didn’t return, but that didn't mean he wasn't still there. Lurking beneath the surface.

“Soundly,” he deadpans. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious, and it doesn’t matter.

He hands me the fork and lets me scoop up more pasta.

“Why are you investigating my father? You know how dangerous he is,” he asks me, sounding more curious than demanding.

I shrug. “I’ve heard my sister talk about him. About what you do. I thought it would be a groundbreaking article.”

“Sex trafficking?” he huffed a laugh. “It’s not new, this thing he does,” he says, and his accent thickens.

“No. But - he lives right here in England. Just like a normal person, and I wanted to see it. I was just going to snap some photos of the estate - from outside. Maybe talk to a few locals that know him.” There’s no reason to be telling him this, but he’s got his feet propped up on the bed now, his hands folded behind his head. He’s never looked so casual.

“And what about everything that happens inside?” he asks with darkened eyes.

“I wasn’t going to try to get inside, yet.” My plans weren’t as developed as maybe he and his father think.

“You don’t plan so much, do you? Sort of fly by the seat of your pants through life?” There’s a lightness to his tone - one I’m not used to from him. It’s unsettling.

I finish the cake without answering him. He doesn’t deserve an answer and I’m worn out. My lids are heavy, and my knees hurt. Pushing the tray away from me, I uncurl my legs and shimmy under the covers.

His heavy sigh tells me he’s getting annoyed again.

“Tomorrow is going to be rough for you,” he announces, standing up from the chair. “We start training.” He picks up the tray with the empty dessert dish and half-eaten pasta. “Get some sleep.”

“Is training worse than what you did this afternoon?” I ask. A full stomach apparently has gotten rid of enough fear that I’m risking another beating - or worse.

His body stiffens when I mention our last encounter. The plates dance on the tray as he grips it tighter.

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