I wash down bite after bite, opening another hydration pack to quench my thirst. The foolish man left the boxes sitting so close to my cell that I can grab them. Emptying both boxes, I pull all the foodstuffs greedily into my cell. It takes me a minute to rip the bottoms of the boxes open, fold them flat and pull them through the bars. They will make decent padding for the cold, hard cot. I carefully stow the food and drink that will keep me alive for the coming weeks around the room but off the floor. Though I haven’t seen any rodents so far, why take the chance?
Dropping back down onto the floor, I wrap myself in the extravagantly soft blanket he brought to me. Running my hand over it sends shivers up my spine. This warm throw would be considered luxurious by any being’s standards.
Why did he do all this? He could have left me in here to rot and collected the bounty nonetheless. Then again, why did he strut around in ornate clothing and refer to himself as Tarion of the Hielsrane? Probably the same reason he was breathing dragon breath all over my chest and then slapping the shit out me the next. He’s Mister Crazypants. Based in his recent actions, it makes little sense to question his motives. Then again, maybe I’m the crazy one, since I keep swinging back and forth between daydreaming about having sex with him and wanting to put as much distance between us as possible.
Taking the last bite of food from the metallic wrapper, I lick all the sweetness from inside. Looking around, an idea pops into my head. I neatly tuck the wrapper between the cardboard and the cot. Every bit of padding helps.
Sipping the last of my second hydration packet, my mind drifts back over our conversation. Though I went in with the goal of getting him to empathize with my plight and warm up to me, I hadn’t thought in a million years that it would be so easy to get him to open up. What the hell kind of lonely life must the man have to allow all his vulnerabilities to come pouring out at the blink of an eye? Hell, I was beginning to feel something for the horrible creep. I keep going back and forth about him in my mind, wondering when I’m going to come squarely down on one side or the other. Either he’s a hot misunderstood dragon who has never had the chance to care about anyone but his immediate family, or he’s a reprehensible creature incapable of empathizing with my plight.
It occurs to me that my feelings are a muddled mass of curiosity, mild attraction, empathy for his loss, and horror at how casually he talked about being trapped in a vent. The thought of him as a little boy, trapped and facing death all alone, honestly did break my heart. Maybe it even explains why he’s so broken.
Sighing, I close my eyes and give myself a good talking to. Tarion of the Hielsrane is not your friend, Carissa. He abducted you and took away the nice ship you stole all fair and square. You know he’s going to sell you right back into slavery. He’s admitted it.
Of course I already know all that, but continuing to remind myself of what an ass he is seems like a good idea in case I start getting stupid again. He slapped you in the face and threatened to strip you bare and let his men rape you. Stop thinking he’s not so bad because he tossed you a few crumbs.
Again, I know that’s the only sane conclusion to be had in this situation. He’s not to be trusted simply because he’s brought me food and treated me like a person for a few minutes. No one’s ever really been interested in just talking with me before. The last person to show an interest in me was my mother. Still, just because the big stupid dragon showed an interest in my past and demonstrated some kindness is not enough to offset the fact that he’s taken my hard-won freedom away.
Maybe that’s what makes him tick; crushing women under his heel and then picking them up, dusting them off and doing the same thing all over again. That sounds about right. Well, fuck that. Carissa of the Maeberry is not going to be a willing victim.
Just because Tarion can weave a good tale, doesn’t mean any of it is true. The cold hard fact of the matter is, he’s an evil villain and brigand. I can’t trust a word the thug has to say. He’d lie to a woman in a heartbeat to get what he wanted. It’s up to me to keep a clear head.
My mother taught me all about Stockholm Syndrome. Am I learning about my captor and finding out we aren’t quite so different? She said that Stockholm Syndrome encourages a person to empathize with their abductor’s plight and participate in their own degradation. I mull this over in my mind. According to her, the condition occurs when a person is placed in prolonged captivity and in fear for their life. It’s the only explanation for this growing feeling in the pit of my stomach – the feeling that’s currently telling me he’s not all that bad and my situation isn’t all that it seems, when getting abducted and held prisoner is clearly one of those situations that’s exactly what it seems. I’m being exploited and Mister Crazypants is actively making that happen. I’m not about to begin feeling sorry for my ruthless captor.
I climb onto my newly padded cot, pull my blanket over my body and tuck the edges underneath. I’ve never felt this good in my life. It’s probably a combination of having enough to eat and
