Chapter 112: Chapter 112 A Desperate Kind Of Love
Perry’s POV
"Strike me, rage at me, do whatever it takes to release your fury. Just don’t torture me with this silence." I cradle her face between my palms, searching her eyes for any spark of life. All I find is emptiness. "Return to me."
A storm of emotions crashes through me as our mate bond stretches to its breaking point. The sensation is unbearable—worse than any physical pain I’ve endured.
It’s like a noose tightening around my throat, cutting off my air.
"Come on, you need to eat." I press my lips to her forehead before retrieving her meal. Settling beside her, I wait for her to take a bite. When she doesn’t move, I lift the spoon to her mouth myself.
She’s become a hollow version of herself. The realization of how completely I’ve lost her hits me like a punch to the gut.
Phoebe has slipped beyond my reach.
"Please, say anything." I coax food toward her lips, but she keeps them sealed tight.
She’d rather waste away than live—since taking her own life isn’t an option.
No response. Nothing.
"Just one word." I set the plate aside and clean the food from her mouth. She’s barely touched it. "You have to eat."
I squeeze my eyes shut. Patience has never been my strong suit, but for Phoebe, I’ll endure anything.
"Please, Phoebe." Then I do something desperate. I take the meat into my mouth, chew it, and transfer it to her lips with mine. I force her to swallow.
Her eyes widen with shock—the first real emotion I’ve seen. It makes me want to do it again. At least she’s reacting instead of staring through me.
"If you won’t eat normally, this is how it’ll be."
She presses her lips together, finally meeting my gaze.
"Don’t you dare shut me out." The harsh words escape before I can stop them. I don’t want to be rough with her. "You need food. I won’t watch you make yourself sick."
I repeat the process, and her struggles mean nothing as I pin her wrists above her head with one hand while gripping her chin with the other.
She writhes beneath me, accidentally kicking the plate. It crashes to the floor, scattering food everywhere.
At least she swallowed the meat. With the plate destroyed, I need another one.
Since I can’t leave her alone, I mindlink a warrior to bring more food.
"That’s it—be furious with me. Strike me. Hate me. I can handle all of it." I stroke her cheek, and she sinks her teeth into my hand.
She doesn’t hold back, but I only grimace slightly—it’s barely an inconvenience.
Instead, I run my fingers through her hair. "Perfect. Let it all out." I smile as if she’s done something praiseworthy.
This version of Phoebe—full of fire and fury—is infinitely better than the lifeless shell.
When she realizes she won’t get the reaction she wants, she shoves me away and wraps her arms around herself. She rocks back and forth, seeking comfort.
She’s doing it again.
When fresh food arrives, she refuses half of it—probably afraid I’ll use the same feeding method.
Eventually, exhaustion wins and she sleeps.
She rests through the entire night. Near sunrise, she stirs. I feel her slip from the bed and pad toward the balcony, where she settles on the floor to watch the sun paint the ocean’s surface gold.
I observe her from the bed, seeing only her silhouette, but it’s enough. Every movement she makes pulls me from sleep—I’m constantly aware of where she is.
As long as she’s safe, I can live with whatever she needs to do.
Hours pass. She sits motionless in the same spot.
She accepts breakfast but nothing more. She doesn’t budge even when the brutal sunlight beats down on her.
"Come inside before you collapse from heat stroke." I lift her into my arms, expecting resistance. Instead, she remains limp and distant.
She stares past me toward the horizon. Once again, she’s unreachable...
"Want to walk the beach tonight?"
Silence.
I need patience. That’s all.
——
Flynn’s thoughts spiraled out of control after the clandestine meeting. His mind refused to settle.
"I should have never entertained the idea," he muttered, dragging his hands through his hair. The conversation with Reginald replayed on an endless loop, driving him toward madness.
Reginald had slipped away in the darkness, requesting the secret rendezvous just days before the civil war would erupt.
*I want her.*
Those three words echoed in Flynn’s skull. Reginald wanted Phoebe.
Living in the palace had given Reginald plenty of time to read the political landscape. As a spy, quick assessment was essential to survival.
He’d figured out that Flynn viewed Phoebe as nothing more than dead weight—a liability he’d rather be rid of. So Reginald had offered to remove the burden.
*Hand her over since she’s useless to you. We both win. This arrangement doesn’t interfere with our war.*
