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Ari keeps his mouth shut.
“Liv misses a meal,” Jax warns, his tone dropping to a cold whisper.
Ari’s eyes dart to me. He sees my anxious expression. He opens his mouth with visible self-loathing and takes the food.
Jax feeds him slowly. He enforces the same agonizing pauses. He makes Ari completely dependent on his timing and generosity. Ari chews mechanically. He swallows without tasting.
The rhythm begins. Jax feeds me, then Ari, then me again. He keeps us both waiting at his feet in absolute submission. I lean into the arrangement willingly. Ari endures it entirely through force.
Jax speaks casually throughout the meal. He discusses the weather outside. He talks about his plans for the day.
“Liv yields so perfectly,” Jax tells Ari, dragging a finger along my jaw. “She understands the peace of surrender. You are taking your first steps toward that exact same peace.”
Jax touches us both. He cups faces, strokes hair, and claims his property. I lean into his warm palm instinctively. I crave the physical contact. Ari remains tense, but the flinching stops. Ari learns to accept the touches because pulling away means punishment for me.
The meal lasts until both plates sit empty. Jax trains us to part our lips on command and accept his provision with gratitude. It strips away our humanity layer by layer.
“Take him back.” Jax addresses the guards.
Ari stands up. The shame written across his features breaks my heart, but only a fraction. He accepted the role of an animal to keep me fed. Jax successfully turned me into a weapon to dismantle Ari’s will. We both know it.
The guards escort Ari out. The door locks behind them.
I remain on my knees. I do not move without explicit permission.
Jax looks down at me. Genuine affection softens his dark eyes. “You were flawless. Your obedience taught him a very important lesson. I am incredibly proud of how far you have come.”
The praise sets my blood on fire. I lean my weight against his leg. I press my face against his knee, showing him my devotion.
“Return to your chair, little bird. Read your book.”
I rise gracefully. “Thank you for breakfast, Jax.”
I cross the room and settle into the velvet armchair. I open one of the volumes of Wuthering Heights and stare at the yellowed pages. The words blur together.
My mind races back to Ari. I replay his absolute humiliation. He is falling into the same pit I live in. I should feel a deep, crushing guilt. He came to rescue me, and my presence here forces his surrender.
But a twisted, ugly truth rises in my throat. I feel camaraderie. I feel relief I am no longer alone in this sick dynamic. Worse, a dark satisfaction purrs in my chest. I remain the favorite. My obedience earns rewards while his resistance brings agony.
A creeping horror settles into my bones. I am complicit in his conditioning. Jax uses my comfort and safety as leverage. Instead of finding solidarity with my fellow captive, I feel relieved to maintain my status.
Before the kidnapping, I would have fought alongside Ari. We would have united against the monster holding the keys. Now, I passively participate in breaking a good man.
It feels too good to be Jax’s favorite. The praise, the trust, the twisted love. I refuse to give any of it up. Even if it means watching Ari Carter shatter into a million unrecoverable pieces. Even if it means participating in a psychological slaughter.
I close my eyes. The physical cage means nothing anymore.
I have become one of the bars.
11
JAX
Istand before the wall of monitors in my private study. The screens cast a cool, sterile blue glow across the heavy mahogany desk. Rain lashes against the reinforced glass of the estate windows, a relentless drumming that underscores the absolute silence of the compound. I swirl two fingers of aged bourbon in a crystal glass. The ice clinks against the rim. It forms the only rhythm in the room.
On the left screen, Liv sits curled in her velvet armchair. The warm lamplight washes over her blonde hair. She turns a page of the vintage novel resting in her lap. Her posture radiates total peace. She belongs to the cage. She thrives inside it. The tension that used to bunch her shoulders disappeared weeks ago.
On the right screen, Ari Carter paces the length of his narrow gray cell. Seven steps forward. Pivot. Seven steps back. He moves like a cornered wolf, shoulders locked tight, jaw clenched hard enough to crack enamel. His physical body learns to comply, but his mind wages a violent, silent war against the reality of his confinement. The frantic pacing betrays the deep panic settling into his bones.
