Chapter 62 Sixty two
Elena's POV
He came for me in the morning. No knock. The door opened and he was just there, with two men standing behind him.
"Get your things," he said. His voice left no room for anything.
"I have no things," I said. I stayed in the chair by the window. I had been sitting there for hours.
"Then come as you are."
I didn't move. "I am not going with you."
The two men looked at the floor. He walked into the room. He leaned down, putting his hands on the arms of my chair. His face was close to mine.
"If I am your jailer," he said, his voice low, "you will live in my sight. Not down the hall. Not out of view. In my sight."
I stared back. My jaw hurt from clenching it. "I would rather have the concrete box."
"No," he said, straightening up. "You would not. But you are getting a different box. Mine. Now get up."
His hand closed around my arm. He pulled me to my feet. His grip was like a metal band. He turned and walked out, leading me. I could follow or be dragged. I followed.
He took me to his own rooms. Not a guest suite. His personal space. The bedroom was large. The bed was wide. The air smelled like him. Sandalwood and clean linen.
He pointed to a chair by the fireplace. "Sit."
I sat. I held my spine very straight.
He went to the big desk on the other side of the room. He sat. He opened his laptop. He started to work.
He ignored me completely.
Time passed. The light shifted. A maid brought lunch. She put the tray on a small table between my chair and his desk. Two places were set.
He stood up. He sat at the small table. He picked up his fork. He began to eat.
I did not move.
"Eat," he said. He didn't look at me.
"I am not hungry."
"You will sit there until you are." He kept eating. He was calm. Efficient.
I sat. I looked at the wall. My stomach was empty, but the thought of eating here, with him, in this room, was impossible.
He finished. He pushed his plate away. He leaned back and looked at me. He said nothing. He just waited.
An hour passed. My back ached.
Finally, he spoke. "Your food is cold. I will have more brought."
"I do not want it."
"You need to eat. We have established this."
I stood up fast. The movement was sharp. "I am not a pet to be fed on your schedule!"
He looked up. His face didn't change. "You are a prisoner who refuses to eat. I am correcting the behavior. Sit down."
"I will not."
"Then stand." He went back to his desk. He resumed his work.
I stood by the chair. My legs got tired. The afternoon sun moved across the floor. My silence felt stupid now. Pointless. He wasn't arguing. He was just being. A steady, heavy weight in the room.
Slowly, I sat back down.
He didn't look up. "Dinner will be at seven. You will eat it."
When dinner came, I ate. I ate the soup, the fish, the bread. I didn't look at him. I didn't speak. The food had no taste.
He ate too. The room was silent except for the sounds of our meal.
After, the trays were taken. Night came. He turned on a lamp at his desk. He kept working.
I sat in the chair. The fatigue was a stone in my bones. The storm inside me was dying down, leaving wreckage. My eyes were heavy.
He looked up from his papers. He saw me fighting to stay awake.
He pointed across the room. At the bed.
"Sleep," he said.
I looked at the bed. The big, familiar bed. I had slept in it before. Willingly. Happily. The memory cut deep.
"I am not tired," I lied.
"You are." He put down his pen. "Go to sleep. I have work to do."
He looked back at his desk, dismissing me.
I sat for another minute. Then, because my body was giving up, I stood. I walked to the bed. I didn't undress. I kept my jeans and sweater on. I climbed onto the far side, near the edge. I lay on my back, stiff, staring at the ceiling.
The pillow smelled like his shampoo. The sheets smelled like him, and like us. The scent of our past was in the fabric. I couldn't escape it.
I turned on my side, facing away from him. I pulled the covers up. I closed my eyes.
I could feel him. I could feel his gaze on my back. I knew without looking that he was watching me. He wasn't working anymore. He was just sitting at his desk, in the lamplight, watching his prisoner try to sleep in the bed we used to share.
The space between us felt huge. It also felt like nothing at all.
I lay there, trapped between memory and hate, exhaustion and awareness, with the man who was my jailer watching me from the shadows.
Matteo's POV
I brought her to my room because I couldn't stand the distance. The thought of her down the hall, alone, plotting, hating me, was worse than having her here, hating me in person.
I made her sit. I made her exist in my space. I forced my presence on her, every second.
When she refused to eat, I waited. I have nothing but time. I would wait all night. I would wait for days. She would break before I did. She needs food. I need her to obey.
She ate. A small victory. It felt like ashes.
As night came, I saw her weariness. She was trying so hard to stay upright, to stay angry. But her body was failing. The fight was draining from her limbs.
I told her to sleep. I pointed to my bed. Our bed.
I saw the flash of pain in her eyes. She remembered. Good. Let her remember. Let the good memory hurt as much as the bad ones.
She lay down. She didn't undress. She stayed on the far edge, a small, rigid shape under the covers. She turned her back to me.
I stopped pretending to work. I watched her.
This is the new reality. Her in my bed. Me at my desk. Ten feet and a universe of betrayal between us.
The silence was complete. I could hear her breathing, slow and forced. She wasn't asleep.
I didn't move. I just watched the line of her shoulder under the sweater. I watched her hair spill on my pillow.
This is what I wanted. Her here. With me. And it is the most profound loneliness I have ever known.