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“Anything?”

I flushed. Of course, he would think of that. I hated it. Hated him. But I would survive regardless.

“No,” I said quickly. “Notanything.”

His eyes closed to slits. His pupils relaxed, going out of focus, as though deep in thought about something. I considered trying to attack him right then. He was distracted; I might be able to use the bowl as a weapon. Hit him with it and knock him unconscious. But before I could decide, he stood up from the couch. He bent over and took the tray, then set it on the bedside. Then he went behind the couch. I couldn’t see him, but I heard the bookcase open up. Light streamed in from the operating room.

“Come here,” he said.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m paralyzed.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

Rien leaned over the back of the couch and reached down to my stomach. For a split second I thought that he would touch me downthereagain, and despite everything, my body responded by clenching inside, aching for it. Revulsion filled my mind, both at the memory of his touch and at my own body’s betrayal.

But he did not touch me there.

Instead, his fingers moved to my waist, tickling me and knocking me off guard. I yelped; my legs jerked up involuntarily and my arms clutched my waist. His eyes met mine, and I saw a twinkle in his irises.I got you,the twinkle said.You can’t fool me. You’re not a survivor yet.

“You think I don’t know when my own injections wear off?” he said, grinning. “Come on.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rien

“You’re a horrible liar,” I said. I waited patiently by the bookcase as she stood up. “Is that why you’ve never made it as an actress?”

“I’m a method actor,” she said. “I’m not supposed to lie.”

She smoothed her dress down over her thighs. I wanted to throw her back down onto the couch, to plunge my fingers into her again and make her scream. It was so fun, this new kind of torture. But no, not now.

“What’s method acting?” I asked, trying to tear my thoughts away from her creamy skin, her shaped calves.

“You’ve never heard of it? That’s how Marilyn Monroe acted. It’s all about becoming the character, instead of pretending to be the character.”

“What’s the difference?”

She opened her mouth to answer, her full pink lips pursing. Then she saw the open door and what was beyond it, and horror flashed across her face.

“I don’t know if I want to go in there,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see,” I said. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t want to see him.”

Her voice was weak. I wanted to either comfort her or slap her across the face, I wasn’t sure. She had lied, sure, but I didn’t mind that so much. Not with how easy it was to pick out her lies. There was something that she was holding back, and I knew she was stronger than she appeared. So instead I waited, silently, until she stepped forward. Then I hit the switch on the side of the medical cabinet and the bookcase swung shut.

“What’s the difference?” I asked again. She stared ahead at the operating room table in the middle of the room.

“Regular acting is all about pretending. You wear masks.” Her voice was soft, the words coming out almost automatically.

“And the way you do it?”

“With method acting, you’re not pretending. You’re living. If your character is angry, you feel that anger.” Her jaw clenched, and I could see something inside her rearrange itself into a definite hardness.

“Meisner called itliving truthfully under imaginary circumstances," she said. She stood very still.

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