“Princess, please eat something.”
I don’t care how many times Sam asks—begs, even—I’m not doing anything these people tell me. Besides, even if I wanted to eat, I couldn’t. Not with the lump lodged in my throat and panic thrumming like electricity beneath my skin.
“Pretty please, with a cherry on top? It’s your favorite—French toast.” Sam tries again, maybe for the hundredth time.
Before, the sweet scent of vanilla and sugar would’ve made my mouth water. Now, it churns my stomach. I pull my knees tighter against my chest, folding in on myself like a dying star. I’ve been in this exact position for two days—since they locked me up like an animal.
The first day, I screamed until my throat shredded, begged them until my voice cracked and broke. I tried to fight the terror clawing its way
