By the third hour, I'm light-headed. My hands shake where I've folded them in my lap. The smell of food has gone from tempting to nauseating and back again. He simply waits, patient as a hunter, occasionally mentioning things that sound like casual conversation but feel like threats.
"Your family," he says suddenly, and my blood freezes. "Are you close with them?"
I can't breathe. Does he know? Is this about Tommy? I force my face to remain neutral, but my hands clench harder in my lap.
"Family is everything," he continues, watching my reaction. "I'd do anything to protect mine. I assume you feel the same?"
"Yes," I whisper, because it's the truest thing I've said all night.
"Good. Then we understand each other." He leans forward. "Let me explain something about control, cara. Real control isn't about refusal. It's about choosing when to yield."
"I won't yield to you."
"You already have. You're here. You're wearing my ring. You're sitting at my table." His voice drops lower. "The only question is whether you'll do it gracefully or whether I'll have to outlast you until you collapse."
My vision swims slightly. When did I eat last? The champagne at the wedding doesn't count. Before that… I can't remember. The last two days blur together in a haze of terror and transformation.
Part of me wants to submit just to end this game, and that terrifies me. When did I become someone who would even consider surrender?
"Still feeling stubborn?" he asks, and there's something almost gentle in his tone now that makes it worse.
I want to say yes. Want to maintain this last small rebellion. But my body betrays me with a visible sway, and his expression shifts from patient to decided.
"Enough."
Alessandro stands and moves to my side in three quick strides. Before I can protest, he's pulled his chair next to mine, close enough that our knees touch. The contact sends unwanted electricity through me. He reaches for the plate, selecting a piece of bread, freshly baked this afternoon.
"Open your mouth."
"I can feed myself."
"You could, but you won't. So I will." He tears off a small piece, holding it to my lips. "The last person who refused to eat at my table lost three teeth. But you're my wife, so I'll be… accommodating. Please eat, cara mia."
The threat wrapped in gentleness makes my resistance crumble. Or maybe it's the exhaustion, the hunger, the image of Tommy that I can't shake. Either way, my lips part.
The first bite is heaven. Warm, soft, with just a hint of rosemary. He feeds me slowly, patiently, small bites that won't overwhelm my empty stomach. His free hand rests on my knee, thumb stroking absently through the silk of my skirt as he watches me with an intensity that makes me shiver.
"Good girl," he murmurs when I finish the bread, and heat tingles in my core at the praise. I hate myself for the reaction.
Next comes the soup, bone cold but still delicious. He holds the spoon steady, never shaking despite the intimate position. I feel humiliated, being fed like a child, but there's something else in his eyes. Not mockery or condescension, but something almost like… fascination.
"Why?" I ask between bites.
"Why what?"
"Why be gentle? You could force me."
His hand tightens on my knee, and my pulse quickens. "Where's the fun in that? I much prefer watching you struggle between wanting to defy me and wanting to thank me. Your face is deliciously expressive when you're conflicted." He offers another spoonful. "Besides, you're my wife. Taking care of you is my responsibility now."
The word 'responsibility' sounds like a promise and a threat combined from his lips. He continues feeding me: small portions of everything, watching carefully for signs of distress. When my stomach starts to rebel against too much too fast, he stops immediately.
"Better?"
I nod, unable to trust my voice. My body feels warm and loose, the shakiness replaced by something else entirely. The way he cares for me with such control, such deliberate gentleness, makes heat spread through my limbs. This strange mixture of tenderness and dominance makes my head spin more than hunger ever did.
He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The gesture is possessive and tender at once, a combination that makes my pussy ache. I know he can see my body's response: the flush spreading across my chest, the way my breathing has changed, because his eyes darken, tracking every tell.
"You're exhausted," he says, though his voice has gone rough. "Come. Time for bed."
