I force myself to hold his gaze. To give him nothing but empty stillness.
“You fucking—” He grabs my chin, wrenching my face toward his, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Look at me.Look at meand tell me it was all fake. Tell me every time you touched me, every time you moaned my name, every time you looked at me like I was something other than a goddamn target—tell me that was all performance.”
His face is inches from mine. I can see the dark grey flecks in his eyes, the way his pulse hammers at his throat. The rage and the hurt and underneath it all, something despairing. Something begging me to give him something to hold onto.
But I can’t.
My silence is its own kind of answer.
His grip tightens. “Saysomething.”
I don’t.
For a long, terrible moment, I think he’s going to hit me. His whole body is vibrating with the effort of holding back, muscles coiled, breathing ragged.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth.
And I feel it—that sick, electric pull between us that hasn’t gone away despite everything. My body responds before mybrain can stop it, heat pulsing between my legs, breath catching in my throat.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
“Jesus Christ.” His voice is thick with some emotion I can’t name. “You still want me. Even now. Even like this.”
I don’t deny it. What would be the point? He can tell.
His thumb drags across my lower lip, rough and slow. Not tender. Possessive. Like he’s reminding both of us who’s in control.
“That’s fucked up, little killer,” he murmurs. “That’s really, really fucked up.”
Then he releases me so abruptly I stumble.
He’s across the room before I can catch my breath, putting distance between us like I’m diseased. He has no idea that I actually am.
“You’re going to eat,” he says, not looking at me. His voice has gone hard again, all that heat packed back down into ice. “And then you’re going to sleep. And tomorrow, we’re going to try this again.”
“And if I refuse?”
He turns. The smile he gives me doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Then I stop asking nicely.”
He brings food an hour later.
Rice, vegetables, and chicken. Healthy and balanced, like a power bowl from Pret-A-Manger, the kind of thing you’d feed someone you wanted to keep functional.
I don’t touch it.
He stands in the doorway, watching me not eat, and I can see the irritation lining his brow.
“Starving yourself isn’t going to help,” he says.
“Neither is eating.”
“Eat the fucking food, Mia.”
I give him a steady look. “No.”
