Page 102 of Petite Fleur

What kind of question is that?

I'm trapped in this house, I'm a human incubator, I have no contact with the outside world other than him, and I don't even know how to use his fancy TV. I've read the same book at least a dozen times now since all he packed with me was my textbooks and like three of my books for enjoyment.

The rest I had borrowed from the library anyway, so I assume he took those back.

Leon crosses the living room once his shoes are off, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist.

I don't want him touching me, but I don't want him stopping. It's confusing how I feel right now.

"Whatever you made smells wonderful, fleur." He says against my ear.

I feel chills up my spine from his breath on my ear, but I don't react. I can't give him that satisfaction to know that he affects me. "Greek pasta salad." I explain flatly.

I feel his hands move down to my hips, holding onto me tightly.

Again, I can't react, not even when I feel him lean into me and his erection presses into my back while his mouth trails down my neck toward my shoulder. "Have you eaten? Sit. I will serve you." He insists.

I want to tell him to piss off, but I also don't want to be a jerk and risk making my captor mad. That seems like a bad idea.

"I got it. Take your leg off, I'll bring you dinner." I say instead.

I'm telling myself that I'm doing this because he's an amputee, that I can't take advantage of the small kindness he's offering when I am not disabled, but that feels wrong.

Is that wrong to say?

I don't know what's correct in these situations but it feels wrong to treat him differently because of his leg, it also feels wrong to treat him the same. I'm so confused about that. Like I'm sure he wants to be treated like a normal guy, but shouldn't I account for his comfort and his pain with his injury?

Wait, is it insensitive to insinuate that he's not a normal guy because of his leg?

Maybe I should ask?

No, shoot. I can't ask, he'll think I care about him.

Leon kisses my neck again and releases my hips from his hold. "I've got it, sit. I want to hear about your day." He insists.

What does he want to hear? That I stared at the wall for a solid hour after he left? That I saw a few deer in his yard and stared out the window half the day to see more? Or that I threw this dinner together in less than 30 minutes and it's the only productive thing I did today other than shower and shave?

Maybe he's just mocking me. He's mocking that he knows my day consisted of nothing since he's trapped me here with no friends and no entertainment.

I take a seat at the kitchen table, fidgeting with my hands until Leon comes back with two plates of my pasta.

He squeezes my shoulder while he heads back into the kitchen for drinks, bringing me water and himself what looks like liquor in a short glass with ice.

"What's that?" I ask curiously.

He takes a sip of his glass, sitting it down before pushing it over to me. "Bourbon. Would you like to try it?" He asks.

I stare down at the glass nervously. I've read that bourbon is gluten-free, but it's made with wheat and barley so I don't seehow they can say that. I've read it has something to do with the distilling process. I don't know, but I'm too scared to trust it. "No.” I say quietly. I push the glass back to him, taking a sip of my water instead.

Leon nods, probably knowing why I said no. With the way his kitchen looks after I got sick, I'd say he researched a lot about celiac.

Leon and I eat in somewhat silence for a few minutes.

I just want to eat in peace and go to bed. It feels like that's all I do anymore is sleep and eat.

I liked living a simple, boring life before this, but now it feels like punishment. I feel like a child who's been grounded from everything.

"How was your day? What did you do?" He asks me about halfway through our meal.