Chapter 202

"She's... she's very weak..."

As the doctor spoke, Latisha stirred, trying to sit up in bed. She only made it halfway before collapsing back onto the pillows, devoid of strength. Clifford didn't wait to hear the rest of the doctor's assessment; he lunged forward to support her.

"You're awake?" he asked, helping her lean against his shoulder.

Latisha's eyes fluttered open. She saw his jawline, then her gaze drifted past him to the doctor standing on the floor. She tried to speak, but her throat was raw and dry, a lingering effect of her earlier crying spell.

She signed weakly: *Water.*

With a single glance from Clifford, the doctor understood immediately, scrambling to pour her a glass.

Clifford looked down at her, taking in her pale lips and a complexion so translucent it was almost ghostly. It was a stark contrast to the doctor's earlier claim that she was "fine."

The doctor quickly returned with the water. Clifford took it and handed it to Latisha. "Here," he said softly.

She cupped the glass and drank greedily, gulping it down so fast that water streamed from the corners of her mouth, trickling down her neck and into her collar. Clifford instinctively reached out and wiped the moisture from her chin with his thumb.

After she finished, her mind finally cleared. She tilted her head back to look up at him. They were so close, their posture so intimate, that the doctor tactfully excused himself and left the room.

Latisha shifted away, creating distance between them. There was a defiant, resentful air about her.

Clifford's expression darkened. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her back toward him. "What is the meaning of this?"

She met his gaze without flinching

and signed back sharply: *That's

what I should be asking you. What is

the meaning of this? You're always doing this locking me up one minute, yelling at me the next, and then trying to soothe me like nothing happened. What am I to you?*

Clifford froze, staring at her, momentarily speechless.

Seeing his silence, a fresh wave of anger and sorrow washed over her, and her eyes reddened. Tears blurring her vision, she signed again, her movements sharp with fury: *Tell me. What am I? A pet you keep?*

When he still didn't answer, she slid her weakened body off the bed and onto the floor. She repositioned

herself, kneeling before him, andet

clutched the fabric of his trousers. Tears streamed down her face like broken pearls as she looked up at him.

T'S

*Clifford, I'm begging you,* she signed, her hands trembling. *Please, just let me go. Or kill me. Just don't forture me like anymore. Even if I were just a dog you'd kept for all these years, wouldn't you show some mercy and set me free?*

Her tears fell relentlessly. If she could have made a sound, it would have been a scream of utter despair, of a soul pushed past its breaking point. But there was only silence, her silent tears the only testament to her agony.

Clifford looked down at her, watching her sob uncontrollably. His own breathing grew ragged.

"What did you say?" His voice was hoarse, thick with repressed rage—or perhaps something else entirely.

"You want me to let you go?" He reached out, his fingers wrapping around her neck. The threat was unmistakable: if she confirmed it, he would snap her neck.

Latisha clenched her fists, her eyes locked on his. Then, with resolute force, she nodded.

The instant her head moved, his fingers tightened, slamming her back against the edge of the bed. Already weak from having just woken up, the pressure on her throat sent her vision spiraling into darkness.