I looked at the spread. My stomach clenched with want and something else—guilt, maybe.
Through the bond, he felt the spiral starting. His hand covered mine on the table.
"No," he said quietly. "You're allowed to enjoy this. Denying yourself doesn't honor those you hurt. It just continues the cult's work."
I nodded.
"Good." He released my hand and picked up a piece of bread. "Open."
I opened my mouth automatically. The command triggered something in my brain—six years of obedience training, of following orders without question. But this was different. This was care, not control.
He placed the bread on my tongue. It was still warm, soft enough that it practically dissolved. I tasted butter. Salt. Something sweet I couldn't identify.
"Chew slowly," he instructed. "Pay attention to the texture. The flavor. How it changes as you chew."
I followed his direction. The bread transformed in my mouth—first sweet, then savory, then just comforting warmth sliding down my throat.
"Good," he murmured.
The word hit me through the bond like a spark. Small. Almost imperceptible. But there.
He picked up a cube of cheese next. "This is aged cheddar. Sharp. Try it."
I opened my mouth again. He placed the cheese carefully, his fingers brushing my lower lip for just a second. Electricity jumped between us. The cheese was sharp, almost aggressive on my tongue. I made a face.
He smiled. "Too much?"
"It's strong."
"Try it with this." He paired a softer cheese with a slice of apple, holding both together. "Open."
I did. The combination was better—the apple's sweetness cut the cheese's sharpness, made it more complex.
"Good girl."
The words hit harder this time. I felt warmth spread through my chest. Felt something low in my belly clench.
What was that?
Zephyron's eyes tracked across my face. Through the bond, I felt his attention sharpen. His satisfaction.
He'd noticed my reaction.
He picked up a strawberry, holding it by the stem. The fruit was perfect—deep red, ripe, probably picked this morning from someone's garden. I'd seen strawberries before. Had eaten them twice during feast days. But they'd been served in measured portions, eaten in ritual silence.
"Open wide," he said, his voice dropping slightly.
I opened. He pressed the strawberry between my teeth, watching as I bit down.
Juice flooded my mouth. Sweet and tart and so intensely flavorful that I made a small sound without meaning to. The taste was overwhelming. Perfect. Everything the cult had tried to train out of me—pleasure, spontaneity, joy in something as simple as fruit.
"Oh," I breathed around the strawberry.
"Good girl," Zephyron said, and this time there was no mistaking the deliberate weight he put on the words. "Such a good girl for Daddy."
Daddy.
The word crashed through me like lightning. Heat flooded my face. Heat flooded lower, too—between my legs, in my core, places I'd learned not to think about. My thighs pressed together automatically, trying to contain the sensation.
