You lived with him long enough to know that Peter was dangerous. He tried to be caring. Clothes, food, even a separate room. But you saw a psychopath in him. And you despised him.

With each passing day, his patience was running out.

Today, he entered your room again with dinner - your favorite dish. His gaze was warm, but insincere. You turned away, irritated, pushing him away, and the plate fell to the floor with a clatter.

Peter grabbed your wrists. Squeezed them so hard that it hurt, and pressed them to the bed. His face was distorted. There was no longer a hint of care in his eyes. “I give you everything!” - he hissed. - Comfort. Food that you love! Everything you could dream of! And you... you won't even say thank you!

He shook you, forcing you to look into his eyes. They were burning with some kind of terrible mixture of anger and despair. – Just say that you love me! Is it so difficult?!