The Orphan Queen

Almost Trust

("Ella")

I wake up to sunlight trying to murder me through floor-to-ceiling windows. My wrists are zip-tied to the fancy headboard now. Sometime in the night, the bastard must have crept in and upgraded my cage while I slept. Smart prick.

The door opens. Miguel walks in wearing grey sweatpants and nothing else, carrying a tray like he’s room service at the Ritz. Abs cut like someone carved them with a knife he probably owns. Bite mark from last night, purple on his forearm, my teeth marks. Good.

“Morning, bunny. You drool when you sleep…. Cute.”

“Untie me, and I’ll show you cute, right before I shove that tray up your ass.”

He sets it on the nightstand, smirks. “Tempting. But pets who bite get fed first.”

He pulls a knife, my own switchblade, the motherfucker… and slices the zip ties clean. Blood rushes back into my hands like fire.

I lunge at him. He sidesteps easily, catches my wrist mid-swing, twists just enough to hurt without breaking. “Eat. You’re hangry.”

I yank free, rub my wrists, glare at the tray: pancakes, bacon, fresh strawberries, a bag of Slim Jims on the side like he’s mocking me.

I hate that my stomach growls loud enough for both of us to hear.

("Miguel")

She glares at the food like it had personally insulted her parents. I lean against the dresser, arms crossed, watching her try to decide if eating means surrender.

She tears into a Slim Jim first, ripping the plastic with her teeth, chewing like she’s imagining it’s my jugular. Juice runs down her chin... Savage little thing.

“Slow down,” I say. “No one’s taking it from you.”

She freezes, eyes narrowing. “Is that a joke about the bridge?”

“No. Just hate watching pretty things choke.”

Her cheeks go pink, rage or something else, hard to tell. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grabs a strawberry, and bites it in half. Juice stains her lips red.

I have to adjust my sweatpants. f**k.

("Ella")

He’s staring like I’m the first girl who ever ate in front of him. Creepy, but… not the worst kind of creepy. I shove a whole pancake in my mouth just to be disgusting. Syrup drips on the sheets. Take that, rich boy.

He laughs, an actual laugh, not the scary one from last night. Sounds almost human. “You’re a mess,” he says, but there’s no bite in it. He grabs a napkin, steps closer, and dabs the corner of my mouth like I’m five.

I freeze. His thumb lingers half a second too long.

I slap his hand away. “Touch me again and lose fingers.”

“Relax. Just didn’t want you sticky.” His eyes flick down my body, quick, subtle, then back up. “Yet.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I hate him. I hate that he smells good. I hate that the bacon is perfect.

("Miguel")

She finishes everything except the pancakes she used as a weapon. Then she stands on the bed, curvy slim figure, furious, syrup on her shirt, and points at me.

“Keys. Now. I’m leaving.”

“Cute. Door’s unlocked.” I step aside, gesture down the hall. “Elevator needs a code. Windows are bulletproof. But go ahead. Run. I’ll give you a ten-second head start.”

She stares. Realises I’m not lying.

Then she does something I don’t expect: she grabs one of the pillows, hugs it to her chest like armour, and walks past me without another word.

I follow at a distance. She explores the penthouse like a stray cat, poking cabinets, opening the fridge, finding the drawer full of knives, and not touching a single one.

Smart bunny.

She ends up on the couch, pillow still clutched, staring at the city forty-two floors down.

I sit on the opposite end. Far enough she doesn’t stab me. Close enough she can smell me.

Silence stretches.

Finally, she mutters, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why not just….” She gestures vaguely, cheeks red. “You know. Last night. Most guys would’ve.”

I shrug. “Most guys are idiots. You’re not a quick f**k, Ella. You’re… a problem I want to solve slowly.”

She snorts. “That's supposed to be romantic?”

“No. Just honest.”

She pulls her knees up and buries her face in the pillow. Muffled voice: “I still hate you.”

“I know.”

Another long quiet. Then barely audible, “Thanks for the Slim Jims.”

My chest does something stupid.

I hide it behind a smirk. “Don’t thank me yet, bunny. Days’ just starting.”

("Ella")

I fall asleep on the couch sometime after noon, pillow smelling like him, sunlight warm on my face for the first time in years.

When I wake up, there’s a pair of new boots by the couch, the same size, waterproof, and with steel toes. And his hoodie draped over me like a blanket.

I pull the hoodie tighter, breathe in the scent of gun oil and whatever expensive soap he uses, and tell myself it’s just because I’m cold, not because it feels safe, not because he noticed the holes in my old ones.

I wake up to sunset bleeding orange through the windows. Neck stiff, mouth tasting like bad decisions. The hoodie’s still wrapped around me like I put it on myself in my sleep.

The boots are still there. Note under one: Try running in these. They’ll last longer. 'M'

My feet slide in perfectly. Like he guessed my size just to f**k with me.

I pad to the kitchen. He’s pulling two beers from the fridge, back to me, sweatpants low.

“Hungry again, bunny? Or just stalking?”

“Both, " I replied.

He slides a beer across the island. I catch it.

“Poisoned?”

“Only your standards,” he says

First sip is cold heaven. He watches me like I’m a bomb he’s waiting to see explode.

“Why the boots?” I ask.

“Because your old ones looked like they lost a fight with a lawnmower. And I hate ugly.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s it?”

He smirks. “That’s it... Don’t read into it, bunny. I’m still the asshole who stole you.”

I down half the bottle. “Good. Don’t go soft on me.”

“Never,” he says, eyes flicking to the bite mark on his arm. “You’d get bored and bite my throat out.”

“Promise?”

He laughs... low, real, the sound rumbling in his chest like thunder that hasn’t decided to strike yet.

“Keep wearing my hoodie, and we’ll see.” I flip him off and start to walk away, but something stops me. The way he’s leaning on the counter, shoulders less squared, eyes not quite as sharp.

I turn back.

“You’re different tonight.”

He lifts a brow. “Different how?”

“Less… asshole.” I gesture vaguely. “The first night you dragged me here, you were all threats and teeth. Now you’re buying boots and laughing like a normal person.”

He looks down at the bottle in his hand, rolls it between his palms. “That first night,” he says slowly, “I was drunk, angry, not at you... at everything else. Came straight from a fight. Took it out on the wrong person.”

I stay where I am, arms crossed.

He meets my eyes.

“I don’t make excuses. I was rough. I know it. But I’m not always that guy.”

I study him. The split knuckles. The faint bruise under his eye. The way he’s holding himself, like he’s waiting for me to bolt.

“Prove it,” I say. He exhales, almost a laugh. “Working on it.”

Silence stretches, not uncomfortable for once.

I take another sip of beer.

“Why keep me?” I ask, quieter. “You could’ve dumped me anywhere after the bridge.”

He sets his bottle down and leans forward on his elbows.

“Because you looked at me like you weren’t scared. Like you’d fight me and maybe win. No one’s ever done that.”

I snort. “I still might.”

He smiles... small, real. “I’m counting on it.”

I feel something shift, tiny and dangerous, in my chest.

I crush it fast.

I’m not here to like him.

I’m here to survive him.

I finish the beer, set the empty bottle on the counter with a soft clink.

“Don’t get comfortable thinking I’m tamed,” I say.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I walk away before my face does something stupid.

But I’m still wearing the boots.

And the hoodie.

I snuggle deeper into the hoodie anyway. Just playing nice like I planned, asshole. The better to gut you later.

I still hate him.

Mostly.

("Miguel")

She walks away without looking back, braid swinging once, hoodie hanging off her shoulders like it’s already hers.

I track her like a predator stalking prey, every step, every shift of weight, waiting for the pause, the glance over her shoulder. The moment people get right before they run.

It never comes.

She disappears into the bedroom and shuts the door like she’s done this a hundred times before. I stay where I am, leaning against the counter, beer warm in my hand. I don’t remember taking the last sip. My eyes stay locked on the doorway like she might reappear if I stare hard enough.

Part of me wants to believe it, the calm tone of voice she shared with me, the way she didn’t argue about the boots, the questions she asked tonight… real ones, not the sharp, curious, Careful, probing kind. Like she was testing the ground instead of setting traps.

That part of me is stupid.

The other part, the one that’s survived this long… knows better. Girls like her don’t relax overnight. They don’t settle in, they observe, they map exits, they wait for you to slip. I drag my thumb over the bite mark on my arm. The scab pulls. Hurts just enough.

She meant to leave it there.

A warning. Or a claim. Hell if I know which.

I kill the lights and sit in the dark, back to the couch, eyes fixed on her door. The penthouse hums around me, quiet and uneasy.

I don’t sleep.

If she runs, I’ll hear it. If she stays… I’ll still be watching.

Trust gets people buried.

Not tonight...Not with her.