Welcome to Hell (by Williane Kassia) novel Chapter 184

Chapter 184

I will use every word of love, every possessive gesture, as bait. When

he least expects it, the trap will snap: vengeance will be swift and

clean.

I am going to kill this son of a bitch.

He messed with the wrong person.

I remain lying down, my body heavy, my mind lit like a brand. The silence of the cell weighs until it hurts. Then, slow, calculated footsteps break the quiet. A shiver runs up my skin; it enrages me to realize that my body reacted with fear. Rage and contempt clash

inside my chest.

The figure approaches, balancing a tray with surgical precision. The metal of the bars creaks as it opens, then closes with a dry click. He

observes me for a second that lasts an eternity.

“Cooled your head, my love?” His voice is serene, almost mocking. “I brought something to eat, but I’ll only give it to you if you apologize.”

Fury explodes, but my mouth refuses. Ragged breathing, clenched teeth. I remember the promise: pretend in order to win. Take a deep

1/5

Chapter 184

breath; one step at a time. My throat burns, hesitates, and the word

escapes, trembling.

“I’m… sorry, Adrian.”

The smile that opens on his face has the sincerity of poison

administered into a vein. He approaches slowly and sits on the edge

of the bed, so close that the heat of his body invades my conscious

field.

He leans in and brushes his lips against my forehead.

“Of course I forgive you, my love. You are forgiven.”

I clench my fist hard enough for the knuckles to turn white. The

impulse to hit him is violent; I know that if I give in, the farce

collapses. I look at the bowl on the tray: hot soup, steam rising, and

an aroma that makes my stomach growl despite the loathing.

He laughs lightly.

“So cute. That’s why I’m in love with you.”

The tone is ridiculously intimate. I force myself not to roll my eyes.

He picks up the spoon, steadies his hand, and brings some of the

broth to my mouth.

2/5

Chapter 184

The first spoonful hits my tongue, and, for a second, human

sensitivity speaks louder than contempt: the flavor is simple and

restorative. I accept the second and the third without saying a word.

While I chew, I see the contained smile at the corner of his mouth.

The word “good” slides out like a trophy.

“Good boy.”

I finish the soup with a haste that embarrasses me. I lean back

against the cold wall; soon I feel a light kiss on my cheek, so intimate

it almost turns my stomach.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers. “Keep this up and I might let you

leave the cell.”

The embrace comes next: arms that encircle me, his face nesting in

my collarbone. The contact is a violation disguised as comfort.

Disgust rises like acid reflux; rage, like an electric current. I stay still.

I don’t push him away, nor do I reciprocate.

His lips pull back for an instant, and his voice, this time, sounds

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify