No. No.
Heat pools low in my belly, ugly and confusing. My mind recoils, horrified, even as my body melts into the touch for a split second. I bite down on a sob, on whatever else is trying to escape.
His hand finally stills, splayed warm and possessive over my throbbing skin. I can feel his own breathing is uneven, chest lifting and falling against my back.
“Shh,” he whispers, loosening the arm across my spine to card his fingers through my hair. It’s a mockery of comfort and still my traitorous body tilts toward it. “It’s over, Sugarplum.”
The nickname scrapes something raw inside me.
He eases me off his lap, guiding me down onto my knees on the rug between his feet. My legs are water; I would’ve collapsed without his hands. The second my weight settles back on my heels, pain spikes through my ass and I flinch with a hissed breath.
Nick curls his fingers under my chin and tips my face up. My vision blurs with tears, but I can see him clearly—eyes dark, full of some wild mix of anger and adoration.
“Are you ready to listen now?” he asks, voice low, almost a purr. “Will you be a good girl and eat for me?”
Everything in me wants to say no. To spit in his face. To tell him I’ll starve before I let this become normal.
You won’t live long enough to fight if you never play along.
The thought lands cold and steady underneath the chaos. I swallow hard.
“Y-yes,” I manage, my throat raw.
His mouth softens. “There she is.”
He stands and helps me to my feet like I’m fragile, like he didn’t just put me over his knee. He guides me back to the couch. When I sit, the cushion presses against my sore flesh and I can’t bite back the little sound that escapes. His eyes flicker with something that looks disturbingly like guilt. Or maybe pride. I can’t tell.
He reaches for a knitted throw and drapes it around my shoulders, tucking it in gently. The gesture feels almost obscene after what just happened.
At the hearth, he ladles stew into a clean bowl, then returns and sits on the low table in front of me. I don’t fight this time. That doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him. It means I’m not stupid.
“There we go,” he murmurs as I part my lips. The first spoonful is almost painful in its comfort—hot, salty, filling. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until warmth spreads through my chest, prickling all the way to my fingertips.
He feeds me slow, careful bites, watching each swallow like it matters. The only sounds are the pop of the fire and the wind worrying at the eaves. I keep my eyes on the bowl, on the way the broth ripples when he dips the spoon, anything but the man holding it.
“Good girl,” he says under his breath when I don’t hesitate at the next bite.
The words twist in my stomach. Humiliation. Relief. Something darker I shove down hard.
By the time the bowl is half-empty, my tears have dried on my cheeks. My body still throbs, my pride is in tatters, but the edge of panic has dulled into a heavy, exhausted ache.
He reaches out, brushing a stray tear track with his thumb. “See?” Nick whispers, tilting my chin so I’m forced to meet his gaze. The firelight throws gold into the dark of his eyes. “I told you I’d take care of you, Sugarplum.”
For one heartbeat, I see the boy on the back steps again—the one who clung to me and believed every lie I told about cabins and safety and “just us.”
My chest tightens, hard enough to hurt.
Then the moment is gone, swallowed by the unsettling gleam in his eyes. Possessive. Sure.
I look away, curling deeper under the blanket as I swallow the last bite. He takes the bowl from my hands, sets it aside, and slides onto the couch, his arm settling around my shoulders like it belongs there.
“That’s better,” he murmurs into my hair.
A shiver skates down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
Outside, the wind howls through the pines. Inside, the fire crackles and Nick’s fingers trace idle, careful patterns on my arm, gentle like he didn’t just break me down to get what he wanted.
“You’re safe here with me,” he says quietly.
