Page 37 of Peak Cruelty

I smile.“I don’t think it.Iknowit.”

That’s the last thing I say.

He steps behind me, hands on the back of the chair.One push would send me straight through the glass.

But he doesn’t.

He leans in instead.Close enough that I feel it—not heat, just proximity.Cold breath.Stale resolve.

Then he says it.

Soft.Flat.No triumph in it.“You made your point.”

I don’t respond.

He walks to the door.

And this time, when he locks it behind him, it’s not strategy.

It’s insurance.

19

Vance

She’s exactly where I left her—legs still strapped, back upright, eyes open this time.Like she thought staring down the sunlight might get her somewhere.

It didn’t.

I set the tray on the table.No plate.No silverware.Just a single, low bowl.

She doesn’t look at it.She watches me.Waiting for context.Permission.A threat.

There isn’t one.

Inside the bowl: sea urchin, caviar, something pale and slick, something that cost too much and now means nothing.A curl of raw flesh.Oil pooled like afterbirth.And a single orchid petal—because the restaurant thinks cruelty should be plated with flair.

“Open your mouth,” I say.

She doesn’t.

“Eat.”

Still, nothing.So I walk behind her.She tenses—barely.

I crouch.Unbuckle the strap across her chest.Just that one.The rest stay tight.

Her arms fall forward.Not defiant.Not grateful.

I reach around and take a glistening piece between my fingers.Raise it to her mouth.The smell hits sharp—brine, rot, faint metal.Something meant to remind her that options are a luxury she no longer gets.

She parts her lips—but just slightly.Not an invitation.A question.

I press it past her teeth.

She doesn’t gag.

I wait.

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