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breath. Also my stomach demanded for something to fill it aside from cum.
    His breathing slowed. He eyed me while slipping into his pajamas.
    Did I detect a hint of guilt?
    "You need something to eat?" He gave a sideways glance, hooked a thumb under the waistband beneath his navel. His pajamas settled dangerously low on his hips and his crotch remained thick.
    "Yes, please." Refusing to see his guilt, I glanced away. Guilt equated to caring and if he cared for someone other than himself, I might start liking him as a person.
    I'd rather hold on to hatred and keep thinking of him as a monster.
    On the flip side—getting along with him would make this ordeal a little easier.
    Maybe.

3. THE SIXTH DAY
    D ays passed and he hadn't killed me—yet.
    Brandon had peeled the duct tape from my wrists and inspected the wound on my genitals to make sure it wasn't infected.
    To my amazement, he honored his promise to leave me be. He only came to deliver some food or drinks. He brought me one of his shirts to wear, which was better than wandering around stark naked. His T-shirt was large enough to reach my knees and doubled as a night gown.
    I took showers when I wanted and every two days he gave me a clean shirt.
    He left me to freely roam the basement and I watched television to help pass time. The upstairs door stayed locked whenever he slept or left.
    In the meantime my hatred for this place dwindled.
    And my hatred for him dwindled. I'd lived as his prisoner nearly one full week. He kept me fed, clean, healthy.
    I learned his father was Dr. Robert Levine, a plastic surgeon who owned a practice in Houston. Robert was controlling and tough. He expected Brandon to become a physician as well. Robert also refused to let anyone express pity over his son's heart condition. He wouldn't let Brandon feel sorry for himself. No special considerations despite Brandon's possible death sentence and endless surgeries.
    As long as he complied with his father's demands, Robert paid his son's way through college, paid Brandon's expenses and even bought his house.
    When Brandon found he needed a heart transplant and quit medical school, Robert stopped paying the bills. Brandon's mother helped him by sending a fat check every so often.
    Brandon's heart condition—hypoplastic left heart syndrome—developed when he was inside the womb. His left ventricle didn't form properly, among other heart problems.
    His cardiologist told him that he could die anytime from heart failure, stroke or other complications.
    These personal confessions stirred my emotions in a way I'd never experienced. Changed me within my own healthy beating heart.
    This confused me.
    How could I feel this way for my captor? Yet I did. I didn't want to feel sympathy for Brandon—I simply couldn't stop it from happening.
    I'd glimpsed the human behind the monster. Now I couldn't go back.
    * * *
    E vening.
    I was perched on the bed when he swaggered in carrying a bottled water. I took it, downed a few mouthfuls and set the bottle by my feet. 
    Brandon looked especially good today. He'd styled his hair in a slight pompadour. Blond highlights streaked darker tones. He wore a long-sleeved burgundy V-neck and faded jeans. His clothes appeared brand new and he exuded zesty, enticing cologne.
    He reminded me of those preppy rich boys I used to go to school with. I hated them.
    He plopped down next to me, watching and making me uncomfortable. He was so close his arm lightly brushed mine.
    Slowly my gaze drifted to his.
    Whenever I was nervous I talked too much. I blurted out my weird dream where I explored a huge mansion and heard piano music.
    "What was the song?" he asked. I couldn't believe he cared.
    "Nocturne by Chopin."
    "Which Nocturne?" His lips spread to a sexy grin, his eyes softening. "Was it number one, two, three..."
    "Number two."
    "My mother listens to Mozart. But her favorite song is by Tchaikovsky." His eyes glazed as if recalling a sweet childhood memory.
    "Tchaikovsky? Which