Page 15 of Peak Cruelty

Either way, she’s making mewait.

And I don’t like waiting.

8

Marlowe

Iopen my eyes.Not all at once.Not in a rush.Just a slow drag upward—the kind you use when you already know nothing good is waiting for you.

He’s there.Sitting in a chair just beyond the foot of the bed.Elbows resting on his knees.Body language loose, casual.As though he has all the time in the world.

Doesn’t speak.Just watches.And that’s all I need to know.This isn’t about rage or impulse.He wants something specific.

The restraints catch when I shift—just enough to feel them, not enough to matter.Soft leather.Professional-grade.Not something you pick up on impulse at a hardware store.

I stay still a moment longer, letting my eyes adjust to the light.

There’s no furniture beyond the bed and the chair.No mirrors.No sharp edges.No chance of improvising.

I catalog the information without thinking.It’s automatic by now.Survive first.Understand later.

He waits.

So do I.

He’s patient.No tension in it.No pressure.The kind of patience that’s already decided the ending and isn’t worried about how long it takes to get there.

My throat tightens—just once.

I don’t know if he notices.

But I do.

And for a split second, I’m back in the hallway last winter—pressed against the wall, his voice behind me all silk and warning.“Don’t make me ask twice.”

It’s enough to remind me: calm isn’t safety.It’s strategy.

The restraint digs into my wrist—just slightly, but deep.A bruise in the shape of someone else’s plan.

So I go still.Breathe even.Keep my face blank.

I don’t shift.I don’t speak.

And I don’t ask the questions clawing their way up my throat.

Where am I?

Who are you?

What do you want?

Questions only make you smaller.Questions admit you think you have something to bargain with.And I already know better than that.

He leans back slightly, as if settling in for a long watch.One leg stretched out.The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—not a smile, exactly.More like amusement.

He wants me to speak first.He’s the type who thinks silence earns him something.He thinks patience is proof of power.

So I give it to him.Let the quiet spool out between us—thin, taut, dragging the air tighter with every second.

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