Daryl's Angel: Saviour (Book Two)

Chapter 60: Choices

Negan doesn't grace me with his presence for a while, but someone does come to get me eventually. I stir from a dreamless, restless sleep as the door creaks open, a square of light acting as my alarm clock. I stay down, closing my eyes again. The more defeated I look, the better, and though part of this is an act, it's hard to imagine getting up and walking when I feel so weak. I think I could eat a five-course meal with extra dessert and still have room for more.

I hear footsteps, then a hand on my shoulder. I expect a rough yank, manhandling, but instead, the person gently shakes me.

"Get up," he urges.

I force myself to open my eyes, and immediately upon seeing the man, I'm more awake. Dwight kneels beside me, still wearing Daryl's vest, and it burns me inside to see him wearing it. I push myself up with speed that surprises me, pressing myself against the far wall in a bid to get as far from him as possible. His expression falls.

He's the one who stole Daryl's bike and left him in the burnt forest. He's the one who shot Denise. He's the one who tortured Daryl while he was a prisoner here. How dare he look at me with...what, sadness?

And yet, my anger at him doesn't threaten to consume me, not like how I feel around Negan. His wife gave up everything to save him, and he lost her twice. Maybe that's the sorrow I'm seeing on his burned, scarred face.

"Come on," he says. "You're moving."

"Where?"

"You'll see."

All my choices have been taken from me. I stand and follow him from the cell, mentally preparing for the trials that await me today.

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Dwight leads me to a room just off the wives' lounge. It's furnished with all the creature comforts of the world—a four-poster bed, plush armchairs, a black leather couch, and a glass coffee table. There are shelves tastefully decorated with vases and statues. It's the nicest place I've seen outside of Alexandria's fully furnished houses.

Negan sits in one of the armchairs, Lucille laid out on the coffee table next to a plate with an egg sandwich and potato chips on it. He grins when he sees me, spreading his arms wide.

"Good morning!" he greets. He gestures to the armchair across from him. "Sit down."

He waves his hand at Dwight, and he leaves without a word, shutting the door behind him. I wait for a second, looking around the room, then at the food on the coffee table. Negan waits while I slowly take a seat, arms crossed over my chest.

"Go on, eat," he urges. "The chips are homemade. Kettle cooked."

The sandwich looks delicious, and I haven't had a potato chip in forever, but I don't want to trust it. His wives fed me, and nothing happened, but what if he laced it with something? Can you get roofied from a sandwich?

He sighs. He reaches over, takes half the sandwich off the plate, and bites the corner off. He chews, swallows, and opens his mouth to show me that it's empty again before setting the sandwich down. He waits, expectant.

I must look like an animal with the way I devour that sandwich. I barely stop to breathe between bites. I think the last time I had eggs was at the C.D.C.—the best powdered eggs I'd ever eaten. It almost brings tears to my eyes at the thought.

"Damn, Negan Junior must be hungry," he says. I cough a little, slowing myself enough to make sure I don't choke, and he grins. "That sandwich? That's nothing. As my wife, you wouldn't want for anything. Whatever you want, you take. Your friend Eugene has really gotten with the program."

Eugene. I feel foolish for not thinking of him since arriving here, but Negan's words confuse me, pushing past any fleeting guilt. I look up from the plate, now just chips, and frown. "What?"