“I went through all this trouble to cook for you.” He spreads his hands, like he’s pleading with a stubborn child. “To take care of you. I told you that’s what I’m doing. But you have to meet me halfway. You need to eat.”
He steps closer.
I shrink back even though there’s nowhere to go, the chair solid against my spine. Anger claws past the fear.
“Make everything difficult?” I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You kidnapped me, tied me up, dragged me out here like an animal, and somehow I’m the problem because I don’t want your fucking stew?”
His eyes flash. “I’m protecting you,” he bites out. “You belong here. With me. When everyone else left you to rot, I didn’t. Why can’t you see that?”
His hand reaches out—reflex more than thought—and I kick. My foot hits the bowl. It flips, crashes, explodes on the floor in a spray of broth and vegetables. Stew splatters across the worn wood near the hearth.
We both go still.
The fire pops, loud in the sudden silence.
I barely have time to register the fury that flares across his face before his hand clamps around my forearm.
“I didn’t want to do this, Meredith,” he growls, voice raw.
Panic detonates in my chest.
In one smooth motion, he drops back into his chair and hauls me with him. The world tilts. Suddenly I’m staring at the floor, the room upside down, my body draped over his lap. My bound hands are crushed between my stomach and his thighs, utterly useless. I kick, twist, try to lever myself off him, but his arm bands across my lower back, pinning me like I weigh nothing.
“Let go! Get off me!” I snarl, rage and humiliation burning hot behind my eyes.
Nick leans over me, chest pressing against my back, his mouth close to my ear. His breath ghosts over my skin. When he speaks, his voice is silk wrapped around a knife.
“If you don’t stop squirming,” he murmurs, “I’ll pull those pants down and spank your bare ass. Is that what you want?”
Heat rushes to my face, equal parts fury and mortification. My body goes still before my brain catches up, breath snagging mid-inhale.
He wouldn’t.
He might.
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. I bite my lip until I taste copper and glare at the floorboards. “Fuck you,” I spit, but my muscles lock. I go rigid across his knees.
He takes that as permission.
His palm slams down onto my backside with a sharp crack that echoes in the small cabin. The impact jolts me against his thighs. Fire explodes across the curve of my ass, hot and stinging even through the thin fabric. I suck in a breath through my teeth, refusing to give him more.
He doesn’t hit again. Not immediately. Instead, his hand smooths over the burn he just caused, rubbing slow circles, heat seeping through cotton, the heel of his palm pressing into the sore spot.
Relief and pain mix into something dizzying. A strangled sound claws up my throat; I swallow it back, jaw clenched.
The next smack lands on the opposite cheek, just as hard. My body jerks; a muffled grunt escapes before I can choke it down. Tears sting my eyes. Again he follows it with that infuriating, careful rub, thumb sweeping along the curve, palm cupping and soothing where he just hurt me.
“You want to act like a brat?” he asks over the sound of my labored breathing. “I'll remind you what happens."
Another slap. Harder. The air punches out of me in a choked cry. Pain flares, bright and hot, spreading outward. My thighs clench, an involuntary reaction I can’t control. Shame floods me, thick and choking.
“I’m not your enemy,” he says, his voice low, almost earnest. “I’m the only one who cared enough to come back for you.”
A memory flashes—Nick curled on the bottom bunk, arms wrapped around his ribs after a beating, flinching at every footstep in the hall. Me climbing up next to him, wrapping around his bruised body, lying through my teeth about how it would all get better while his tears soaked my shirt.
Now I’m the one across his lap, paying for defiance in the language we both learned too young.
His palm comes down again, sharp and merciless. A broken sob rips from my chest. Tears spill hot and fast down my face. Every nerve in my backside screams. And still, when his hand gentles—when he rubs over the raw sting he created in slow, tender circles—another sound claws free, something dangerously close to a whimper of relief.
