On the fourth morning, the basement smelled of wax from last night’s candles. Anya sat on the edge of the couch, wrapped in the blanket. She looked pale and slightly sluggish—maybe from the wine, or maybe she was deliberately playing weak.
Viktor came down. He looked energetic, almost glowing after yesterday’s “success,” a tray of oatmeal and fruit in his hands.
“Good morning, Anya.” His voice sounded almost tender. “How did you sleep?”
She didn’t look up. Her voice was quiet, a little hoarse.
“Badly. The night drags on too long. And then—the day drags on too long.”
He set the tray down and sat on the edge of the table.
“That’s just part of adapting. The brain gets used to the absence of unnecessary stimuli. Soon you’ll start hearing your thoughts, and they’ll become your best friends.”
She looked up at him. In her eyes was a mix of exhaustion and something like pleading.
“Viktor… it’s hard for me. By evening my head starts spinning. And my stomach… there’s this hollow feeling that makes it hard to breathe.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He frowned; the “caring host” in him kicked in.
“You didn’t eat well yesterday. The risotto was barely touched.”
“I can’t eat a lot at once. My body doesn’t work like that.” She paused, choosing her words. “You come down twice... in the morning and in the evening. Between those moments—there’s an abyss. I sit here for hours, listening to every sound upstairs, and I just… wait. And that waiting makes the hunger worse.”
His pupils widened. The words she’d just spoken—“listening to every sound upstairs”—hit him like a spell.
“You wait?”
She gave a small nod.
“Yes. Please… could you come down during the day too? Just for a little while. Bring something light, an apple or yogurt. I need… I need to feel like the day isn’t endless. And that the food won’t run out.”
He stayed silent, as if thinking it over. But his ego swelled.
“That… makes sense. Smaller meals are better for metabolism. I don’t want you to lose weight. Your collarbones are already too sharp.”
“So you’ll come at lunch? Around two?”
He stood and straightened his shirt, clearly flattered that she was setting his schedule for him.
“Fine. I’ll come at one thirty. I’ll bring you something fresh. Maybe soup in a thermos, or a salad. You need more vitamins.”
She gave a weak smile—her first “smile” for him.
“Thank you, Viktor. That… that will help.”
He lingered by the stairs, looking at her with a kind of possessive warmth.
“See? I told you we could come to an agreement. The main thing is honesty. If you need something, just say it. I’m not a tyrant, Anya. I just want everything to be perfect for us.”
He left, and his footsteps upstairs sounded different now—heavier, more confident, more like an owner. As soon as the door closed, Anya let out a slow breath. Her hands, hidden under the blanket, were clenched into fists so tightly that her nails bit into her palms.