And he was there to care for her too, lucky girl, if she behaved herself, if she didn’t outlive her purpose sooner than expected. If she did exactly what she was told without protest whenever he allowed her to wake. Maybe he’d even remove her gag sometime soon if she acted correctly and stopped all that pathetic whimpering she seemed so very keen on every time the drug wore off; such an inconvenience, such an abuse of his care. So much to put up with. That was worthy of punishment if anything was.

Heath allowed the bars to support his weight as he peered in at his prisoner, lying curled up in a foetal position, back curved, head bowed, and limbs bent and drawn up to her torso. He shook his head and winced before continuing his rumination, all too familiar feelings of frustration and inadequacy threatening to become uncontrolled rage that could erupt at any moment, exploding to the surface without warning. The feeding tube did the basics; it provided nourishment; it kept the little bitch alive for as long as required without the use of the bowls. But it was far from ideal.

How could she tell him she loved him or scream out her dread with her mouth taped shut?

Heath began swaying to and fro as his anger intensified, skin flushed and mottled, his limbs shaking at the extremities. What was it with little brats of her age? He’d gone to a great deal of effort on her behalf. The little bitch! Why not show some gratitude in her lucid moments? ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,’ was all the obnoxious little brat was capable of saying in her times of clarity.

This one had better shut her stupid mouth. She’d better not annoy him any more than she already had. She had to wake sometime. He couldn’t sedate her forever. Where was the fun in that? What use was an unconscious child?

Heath began massaging the back of his neck before slumping to the floor, his hands moving in jerks as the young girl began to splutter in her sleep, her throat irritated by the tube. He reached out, touching her elbow through the bars, his mind still racing, darting from one thought to the next as was his custom. Maybe this one was different. She may understand him, learn to love him, unlike the others, the disappointments who’d let him down before death.

Heath jabbed a digit at his captive, nostrils flared, eyes wide, showing the whites. The little brat had better be different for her sake. He could tear her apart. Slice her to pieces. Feed her to the rats in the sewers. She would prove no less disposable than the rest. The brats he’d entertained in the war zones, the famine regions, the victims of natural disasters in need of charity. Before he was thrown on the scrap heap, his career in tatters, at a premature end. Before the bastards in charge forced his resignation for no good reason at all.