"You do." He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't tell me what I said. Just lets that sit there, the bastard.
I push myself up on my elbows and—fuck—my ribs scream. The sound that comes out of me is somewhere between a hiss and a whimper.
Koshin's hands are there before I can brace myself. One at my shoulder, one at my lower back, taking my weight so smoothly I don't register the help until I'm already sitting upright.
"Careful." His voice is low. "You're still healing."
"I noticed." I breathe through my teeth. "The stabbing pain gave it away."
He doesn't move back. His hand stays on my lower back, warm through the thin fabric of whatever I slept in. One of his shirts. I'm wearing one of his shirts. When did that happen? How did that happen? Did he—
Don't.
"Food," he says, and it's not a question.
Before I can answer, he's standing, crossing to a low table I didn't notice before. There's food there—bread, some kind of cured meat, fruit sliced thin.
He carries the plate back to the bed, sets it on my lap, and sits next to me again. Still here. Still not moving back.
"Eat."
"You're very bossy for someone who—" I stop. For someone who what? Killed people for me? Saved my life? Keeps looking at me like I'm something worth looking at?
I pick up a piece of bread instead of finishing that sentence.
He watches me eat. Every bite. His eyes don't waver, don't drift, don't do any of the normal things eyes do when someone is sitting with you at breakfast. It's intense andunsettling and making my skin prickle in ways I refuse to think about.
My heartbeat picks up. Which is insane—he's watching me eat bread. That's not— there's nothing—
Except there is. The way his gaze tracks the movement of my jaw. The way it drops to my throat when I swallow. The way he's so completely present that it feels physical.
I take another bite.
My hand isnottrembling.
It's not.
"You're staring," I say around the bread.
"Yes."
Great. Wonderful. This is fine.
I finish eating in silence. Every brush of my fingers against my lips, every shift of my weight on the mattress, every breath—he tracks all of it. I've never been this visible. This watched. This…seen.
I hate it.
I don't hate it.
I hate that Idon'thate it.
When the plate is empty, he takes it from my lap. His fingers brush mine—briefly, but enough to send warmth licking up my wrist, my arm, settling somewhere behind my ribs.
Stop it.
Stop reacting.
He's a god and a killer and obviously insane and you arenotdoing this.
