Page 17 of Condemned By Pain
After inflating Bruno’s new mattress, deflating the old one, and cleaning his room, I finally collapse onto the comfortable couch in front of his bed. At least I got a vacuum this time, but even with it, I feel like I took forever.
I glance around the tidy room, floor shining. Not bad—for someone who’s never done this before.
My stomach growls. I glance at the clock above the couch. It’s already six p.m.
I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.
A maid comes in and places three bowls of Bruno’s dinner on his small dining table, then looks at me.
“Master is calling you to the dining room,” she states icily before leaving.
I walk downstairs into the dining room.
The moment I see my captor’s face, the guard’s words echo in my head.
Has he really planned something like that?
What makes you think he’s decent enough not to?The smart part of my brain questions the dumb part that doubted for a second.
I reach the dining table. He looks up and points to a bowl on the floor.
“Eat.”
I swallow the bitterness in my throat and sit on the floor beside his chair.Think of it as being treated like a dog.Which, honestly, isn’t the worst thing in the world.
The bowl is filled with cacio e pepe, with no fork or spoon in sight. I guess I’m using my hands. Another first.I’ve heard food tastes better with your hands. Let’s find out. Maybe it’ll taste even better from the floor, extra grounding, you know?
I lift the spaghetti, put some in my mouth, and suck the rest in. It tastes amazing. For the next bite, I try something different. I lift the spaghetti, tilt my head back, open my mouth, and drop it in. That smears sauce all over my mouth—up to my cheek. Next bite, I roll the spaghetti on the plate, gather it into a ball, and pop it in. Umm… This is definitely the best way. It doesn’t paint much of my face with sauce.
Salvario
If I hadn’t kidnapped her myself, I would never believe she was Alexander Bennett’s daughter—the girl who’s known nothing but luxury her entire life.
I expected tears over the humiliation of eating on the floor. Outrage over having no spoon. A thousand other reactions. But not this.
Eating like a fucking toddler—sauce smeared across her face, mouth stuffed beyond capacity. I’ve never seen anyone this classless.
If she hadn’t cried yesterday, I’d assume she was mentally unstable—incapable of feeling humiliation. Now I don’t know what to make of her.
I look away and focus on the food on my own plate, which I haven’t touched yet.
After ten minutes, she mumbles, “I need more food.”
I glance down. Sauce on her face, on her hands. She licks her lips clean, those big round eyes glinting under the light.
I force my gaze away, pick up a plate of white truffle risotto, and empty it into her bowl. Even that fails to humiliate her the way I intended. Something flickers across her face, but doesn’t stay. Instead, it irritates me further. I’m not enjoying this, and her lack of reaction only makes it worse.
Is she doing this on purpose—to irritate me?
I look down at her again. It’s hard to tell. I don’t know her well enough to judge.
I need to learn her weaknesses. Her fears. Only then can I plan her torture effectively.
A small part of me recoils at the thought. I glance at her once more. Emotions long buried shift in their graves, turning against me. For this woman—who looks soinfuriatingly innocent—that unfamiliar venom of guilt seeps into my veins.
I push back my chair, leaving my dinner unfinished, and walk out of the dining room.
I cannot feel guilt.
