Page 62 of Hunted to the Altar
"Couldn’t sleep," I said finally, my voice clipped.
He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You should eat," he said, gesturing to the spread of food. "You need to keep your strength up."
I bristled at the command, but Marcello’s unspoken advice echoed in my mind. Strength wasn’t about defiance—not always. Sometimes, it was about survival. I reached for a piece of toast, my movements deliberate as I met Samuel’s gaze head-on.
"Do you care about my strength?" I asked, my voice deceptively soft. "Or do you just care about keeping me alive? Some kind of sick fantasy for a breeding machine?" I scoffed.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he leaned back in his chair, his eyes dark and calculating. "They’re the same thing," he said finally. “I mean, no.”
I scoffed, tearing a bite off the toast without looking at him. "Convenient answer."
The tension crackled between us, a live wire that neither of us dared touch but couldn’t ignore. I forced myself to keep eating, the mundane action grounding me even as my thoughts swirled in a chaotic storm.
"Why do you care so much, Samuel?" I demanded, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "Is it guilt? Obsession? Or something else entirely?"
His eyes darkened further, a flicker of something raw and unguarded flashing across his face before he masked it with his usual composure. "Does it matter?" he countered.
"It does to me," I said firmly, setting the toast down. "If I’m going to survive this—if I’m going to survive you—then I need to understand."
The air between us grew heavier, the silence stretching intosomething almost unbearable. Samuel’s fingers tapped against the edge of the table, a subtle but telling sign of his irritation. Finally, he leaned forward, his gaze boring into mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"I care," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "because I do."
The simplicity of his answer caught me off guard, leaving me momentarily speechless. It wasn’t the declaration I had expected, nor was it the explanation I craved. But it was honest, and that made it even more disarming.
I nodded slowly, the gears in my mind turning as I processed his words. Marcello was right. Samuel’s obsession wasn’t just a weakness; it was a weapon. And for the first time, I felt like I might wield it.
Later that day, I wheeled back to the balcony, the city skyline stretching endlessly before me. Marcello was there again, his cane resting across his lap as he stared into the distance. His silence was oppressive, but it wasn’t empty. It was a reminder of what I had lost—what Samuel had taken from both of us.
I rolled closer, hesitating before speaking. "Do you ever think about what life would’ve been like if he hadn’t…?"
Marcello didn’t look at me, but he tapped his cane lightly against the floor—a single, sharp sound that cut through the quiet. No. There was no point in thinking about what could have been. We were here now, and this was all that mattered.
I exhaled shakily, my hands tightening on the wheels of my chair. "I hate him," I said, my voice trembling. "I hate him for what he’s done to me. To you. To everyone."
Marcello’s eyes flicked toward me, and for the first time, I saw a glimmer of something like pity. He tapped his chest, then pointed toward me, his message clear: Hatred wouldn’t save me. Only strength would.
Strength. I wasn’t sure I had it in me, but as I looked out at the city lights, a spark of determination ignited within me. Samuel might have broken me, but I wasn’t finished yet. I wouldsurvive this. And maybe, just maybe, I would find a way to turn his obsession against him.
For now, though, I would play the part. I would bide my time. And I would remember Marcello’s silent advice: Survival wasn’t about escaping the lion’s den. It was about learning to live among the lions.
The next morning felt like a haze. As I moved into the dining room once again, Samuel’s presence loomed heavier than the day before. He sat there, the dark silhouette of him as sharp as the edge of a blade. My chest felt tight, the mixture of hatred, confusion, and something else I couldn’t name weighing me down.
"Good morning," he said, his voice smooth but laced with that familiar dominance. He didn’t rise or move, but his eyes followed me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"Morning," I replied curtly, wheeling myself to the table. The distance between us was deliberate. Yet, I could feel his gaze burning into me, making me wish I could melt into the floor.
As we sat there in silence, I studied him from the corner of my eye. His hands moved methodically as he adjusted the cup of coffee in front of him. Everything about Samuel was measured—even the way he carried himself spoke of control. But that control seemed to fray when his gaze met mine.
"You’re quieter than usual," he commented, his voice casual, almost teasing. "Thinking about something important?"
I let out a bitter laugh, my hands clenching on the edge of the table. "Thinking about how surreal it is to be having breakfast with my captor, if you must know."
Samuel’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Captivity is a matter of perspective, Nina."
"Spoken like a man who’s never lost his freedom," I shot back.
His eyes narrowed slightly, the amusement fading from hisexpression, "I’ve lost more than you could ever imagine,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
