Chapter 6 Dangerous Sweetness
Aiyana's P.O.V
At first, I thought it was a mistake.
The small plastic cup sitting on the breakfast tray.
A cup filled with chocolate-covered almonds and honey-dipped nuts, didn’t fit with the usual pattern.
Everything Jerome Black did was precise, intentional, and terrifyingly controlled. Nothing about him suggested unnecessary sweetness.
Literally or figuratively.
So the sweets had to be an accident. Something the chef added, maybe. Something that slipped through the cracks. Something not meant for me.
That’s what I told myself as I stared at the tray from the farthest corner of the bed, chains clinking every time I inched even a finger.
But then the next meal came, then the next, and with each one, the same cup of sweets reappeared.
Sometimes it changed flavors.
Sometimes it was a different container.
Sometimes it was arranged too neatly, like someone had glared at a chef until they centered each piece perfectly.
I didn’t want them.
I wanted to believe I didn’t.
But the moment the guard left and the door clicked shut, my fingers would betray me. They’d tremble toward the cup, hesitate above it… then grab one. A tiny act of rebellion. Or stupidity. Or survival.
The chocolate tasted like heaven, but the sweetness tasted like danger.
It's been three days since the sweets kept coming.
More days of the same cold room.
The same unchanging shadows.
The same heavy chains that anchored me to the bed like a trophy on display.
Several days of wondering why?
Why was he adding sweets? Why was he suddenly acknowledging that I liked them? How did he even know I had a sweet tooth? Had someone watched me eat? Studied the way I reached for food?
The questions coiled inside my mind like snakes, hissing worst-case scenarios into my ears.
“He’s fattening you up”
“He’s softening you to break you later”
“He’s pretending to be kind so the real cruelty will hurt more”
“He’s playing with you”
“He’s studying you like a pet he wants to tame”
The voices in my head said, one after the other, shaking my very would and increasing the fear I already felt.
So much that I wished I had died before he saw me, that he just walked past me while I was dying but just my luck.
I knew nothing about Jerome Black, nothing except what the world whispered in fear and I knew very well that there was no smoke without fire.
He was ruthless.
He was merciless.
He didn’t show affection.
He didn’t care for people.
He didn’t keep anyone alive unless they were useful.
So why me?
Why this?
Why… sweets?
Every night, the same cycle repeated.
The silence, fear, confusion, questions, and then at some point exhaustion would swallow me whole.
Until this morning.
This morning, things got worse, as soon as the sound of the lock turning jerked me awake.
I curled instinctively into myself, as the chains pulled taut around my wrists and ankles. Footsteps echoed through the room as the guard with the breakfast tray stepped aside, but then, Jerome Black walked in.
I didn’t need light to recognize him. His presence was unmistakable, cold, heavy, silent in a way that made air strain to hold itself around him.
He didn’t look at me at first.
He was looking at the things the guards carried in.
Clothes.
Stacks of neatly folded clothes, and at first glance, I knew they were for me.
Well, except there was another woman here that was around my age.
My heart immediately hammered so violently I thought it might bruise itself against my ribs.
I knew deep down that I was probably overthinking but can one blame me? I was in the house if one of the most notorious gang leaders ever, I have heard him kill someone already in less than a week that I've been here.
I would be stupid to not be scared, even though I knew my fear could do absolutely nothing.
Why clothes?
What did he want?
What was he preparing me for?
The guards placed the items on the small table to the right of the bed. It ranged from dresses, to tops, sweatshirts, hoodies, jeans, robes, etc.
What had me shocked was the fact that they were all in my size.
My breath froze.
Jerome finally turned to look at me.
Not at the chains. Not at the bruises. Not at the fear written all over my face.
At me.
His eyes traveled slowly, assessing, studying. It was like he saw too much much by just staring at me. I felt bare.
“How are the injuries?” He asked, looking at me with no thoughts behind his eyes. He always has a blank stare that had me on my ties because I couldn't guess what he was thinking.
He didn’t sound sympathetic. Didn’t sound warm. Didn’t sound anything.
His voice was flat.
But the question itself…
Why was he asking?
Why did he care?
“I…I’m fine.” I whispered, though the throbbing in my ribs disagreed violently.
He didn’t respond to the lie, even though I could tell that he knew I was lying by his lingering stare. He simply nodded toward the table.
“These should fit.” He stated, pointing to the huge bag of clothes that I didn't ask for, but appreciated.
I swallowed. “Why…?” I started but the words died halfway out of my mouth when his eyes sharpened.
He didn’t like being questioned. I knew that much, but instead of snapping, or threatening, or ignoring me, he spoke slowly.
“You can’t stay in the same clothes forever.” He responded, picking out the particular clothes he wanted me to wear for the day and I boiled in anger.
So much anger, you would think he just wiped out my whole family, if I had one.
I hated it so much.
The confusion, the situation I was in, the fact that I didn't even know why I was being chained here or wha
t my fate was, being here.
Asking meant death, not asking meant death.
I chose to pick.
“Jerome Black, what do you want from me?”