DON'T CHEAT ON ME!

CHAPTER 38: Lunchtime

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As the tension in the room lingers,
I take another bite of my food, chewing slowly, watching her from across the table. Patricia's fork hovers over her plate, hesitation written all over her face. I can see her thoughts racing, the questions she doesn't dare to ask.

She picks up a small piece of meat, studies it for a moment, then glances up at me. Her eyes flicker with doubt, suspicion creeping in. I know what she's thinking. I know her silence is her way of piecing things together, but I can't have her spiraling-not now.

I set my fork down, leaning back slightly in my chair, trying to soften my expression.

"Don't worry, Patricia."

I say, my voice calm but with an edge of something darker.

"It's not human flesh. It's not Dave's meat either."

Her hand freezes mid-air, her eyes widening just enough for me to notice. The color drains from her face, but she doesn't speak. The room feels heavier, the air thick with unspoken fears.

"Just eat."

I urge her, my tone a mix of reassurance and command. I offer her a small, almost disarming smile.

"Trust me."

Her gaze locks onto mine, searching for any hint of a lie, but I give her nothing. I hold her stare, unflinching, until she finally lowers her fork to her plate.

"You'll feel better after you eat."

I add, my voice softening slightly, though the tension lingers in the space between us.

"You need your strength, Patricia."

She nods slowly, her movements mechanical, and takes a tentative bite. I watch her closely, her every reaction, every twitch of her face. She chews carefully, as though expecting something to taste off, but when it doesn't, she swallows, the fear in her eyes dimming just slightly.

"See?"

I say, my tone lighter now.

"It's fine. Just food. Nothing to be afraid of."

Patricia doesn't respond, but she takes another bite, her movements still hesitant. I return to my meal, the clinking of utensils the only sound in the room. The silence stretches on, heavy and oppressive, but I let it linger. It's better this way.

The less she talks, the less she asks, and the more control I have over the situation.

As I eat, I keep my focus on her, watching for any signs of rebellion or resistance. She's good at hiding her emotions, but not good enough. I can see the cracks forming, the doubt creeping in. It's only a matter of time before she breaks.

As I sit back in my chair, Patricia continues chewing slowly, her fork trembling slightly in her hand. Her movements are deliberate, careful, as though every bite could be her last. I watch her, not with malice, but with curiosity-like an observer dissecting the behavior of some fragile creature caught in an inescapable web.

She glances at me again, her lips parting as if to speak, but then she hesitates. I know what's on her mind. She's trying to piece it all together-the bodies, the silence, the food on her plate. The questions are practically written all over her face, but I wait. She won't hold it in forever.

"Jordan..."

She starts, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Why-"

"Don't. Not tonight."

I cut her off, my tone calm but firm.

She freezes, her fork still poised mid-air. I can see the wheels turning in her head, her instinct to fight back warring with the fear I know I've instilled in her.