He catches me watching him, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and though it’s slight, I can sense the satisfaction behind it. There’s a warmth to his gaze that wasn’t there before, a possessive sort of pride, as if he’s relishing every second of my presence in this small, quiet space.
“Hungry?” he asks, his voice low, smooth, almost gentle. It’s a tone I’ve rarely heard from him, and the intimacy of it leaves me unsettled. I want to respond, to make some cutting remark, but my stomach betrays me, letting out a quiet growl that earns me a deeper smile from him.
Ashton doesn’t mock me for it. Instead, he dips a spoon into the sauce simmering on the stove, brings it to his lips,then steps closer to where I sit, offering the taste to me. The gesture is simple, but there’s something incredibly intimate about it—how he watches every move I make, how he leans in just a bit too close.
“Open,” he murmurs, his voice more command than request, but there’s a tenderness to it, a softness I didn’t expect. I hesitate, but he waits, unbothered, his gaze never wavering until I part my lips just enough to taste the rich, velvety sauce. It’s warm, slightly sweet, with a hint of spice that lingers as he pulls the spoon away, his eyes darkening as he watches my reaction.
“It’s…good,” I murmur, almost embarrassed by how much I mean it. His expression softens, a flash of something almost vulnerable crossing his face, though it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
He turns back to the stove, pouring the sauce over the tender cuts of chicken he’s been preparing, every movement deliberate, controlled. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing the muscles in his forearms, and I notice the faint scar that traces along his wrist. I’ve never thought of him as careful, but there’s an unexpected grace to him now, as if this ritual means something more than just the act of feeding.
“You know,” he says, almost conversationally, though his tone holds a subtle edge, “cooking for someone is an act of trust. It requires patience, precision.” He glances over his shoulder, meeting my gaze. “You have to know exactly what they need.”
His words hang between us, heavy and charged. I feel the weight of them settle over me, a subtle reminder of the strange, twisted bond that has somehow grown between us in these last few days. As much as I’d like to deny it, there’s an intimacy here, an understanding that defies logic.
He plates the food, placing the dish in front of me with apossessive sort of pride. He watches as I pick up the fork, as I take a hesitant bite. The flavors burst across my tongue, rich and layered, and I can’t hide my surprise.
He leans in, closer than necessary, his hand brushing against mine as he steadies the plate. “Good?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes intense, unwavering. There’s no malice in his gaze, no mocking smile—just a quiet, possessive satisfaction that sends a shiver through me.
“Better than I expected,” I admit softly, and he smirks, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes as he studies my expression.
“Good,” he says, almost as if he’s pleased with himself for surprising me, for breaking down one more wall. And in that moment, I see it—the care hidden behind his possessiveness, the tenderness masked by his control. It’s a twisted sort of sweetness, wrapped in darkness, but it’s real.
For just a moment, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this meal means something more than the control he wields over me—perhaps it’s a glimpse of the man he might have been, or the man he could become.
Ashton pulls up a stool next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him, his knee brushing against mine. It’s such a simple, casual gesture, but the closeness feels heavy, like every inch between us is charged with something unspoken. He reaches over to pour a glass of wine, sliding it toward me with a small nod, almost… expectant.
I take a sip, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingers on my lips as I do. There’s an intensity in his stare, a quiet but undeniable possessiveness that has my heart hammering even as I tell myself I won’t let him have that kind of power over me.
“So tell me, Dove,” he says, his voice low, velvety, as his fingers brush lightly against the rim of his own glass. “Are you enjoying this?”
I want to say no, to deny him even that small satisfaction. But with the warm meal, the fire crackling nearby, and the way he’s looking at me—as if I’m the only thing in his world right now—I can’t find the words to lie.
“I don’t understand you,” I say, letting a bit of the vulnerability slip out. His expression softens, just a fraction, and he watches me with something that borders on tenderness.
“Maybe you’re not meant to understand me,” he replies, his voice soft but resolute. He leans closer, his hand resting on the counter just inches from mine. “Maybe I’m just here to remind you that you don’t need to run.”
He reaches over, taking my hand in his. His grip is warm, firm, and though it should feel like a trap, there’s an unexpected gentleness there. He lifts my hand, brushing his thumb over the faint bruises from the shackles he put there himself, as if he’s almost… regretful.
“Sometimes, Dove, I wonder if I’ll ever make you see things the way I do.” His voice is barely a whisper, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. It’s like he’s peeling back the layers, trying to see past my defiance, past my fear.
But I can’t let him in. I can’t afford to.
“I’ll never be yours,” I say, the words barely audible, but I know he hears them. He stiffens, his eyes darkening as a hint of a smirk tugs at his lips, though there’s something darker beneath it.
“Oh, Dove,” he murmurs, leaning closer still, his breath warm against my skin. “You already are.” His hand tightens around mine, possessive and unyielding, and his eyes burn with a fierce certainty. “Every time you look at me, every time you refuse to look away… you only remind me how much you belong here, with me.”
His words hang in the air, heavy with a twisted truth thatI’m not ready to accept. But as he holds my hand, the warmth of his touch melting some of the cold fear that lingers inside me, I realize just how close I am to falling into this dark game he’s crafted around me.
Ashton doesn’t release my hand. Instead, he lifts it, bringing it slowly to his lips. I should pull back, should reclaim whatever distance is left between us, but the way he looks at me—a fierce tenderness layered over that raw, possessive edge—makes me feel like I’m pinned under his gaze.
His lips brush over my knuckles, feather-light, but the touch sends a shiver through me that I can’t control.
He holds my gaze, his eyes intent, as if he’s memorizing every reaction, every flicker of resistance or weakness.
“Dove,” he murmurs, my name a low rumble on his lips, barely a breath. “If you only knew how much I’d give to keep you here, right here, with me.”
The way he says it… it feels too close, too real. For the first time, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’s caught in this web he’s woven as much as I am.
