I stare at him. “You cannot physically force me to eat like I’m a hostage toddler.”
One corner of his mouth tugs. “I can physically force you to sit on my lap while I hand-feed you strawberries until you behave.”
Heat hits my cheeks so fast it pisses me off. “That’s manipulation,” I mutter, standing quickly, throat suddenlytoodry.
He looks pleased. “It’s effective.”
He walks me to the kitchen. Not rushes. Walks. Slow, steady, and calm, with one palm at my back. He doesn’t touch my neck. He doesn’t crowd. He just stays with me at all times, never more than an arm’s reach away.
The kitchen at the manor still doesn’t make sense to me. It’s all stone and ash-dark wood and brushed brass, like an old country estate threw itself at a Michelin-starred restaurant and said “fine, let’s be pretty and lethal at the same time.” There are copper pans hanging over the island and a steam espresso machine that could pay off student loans.
There’s also a second industrial fridge in the back pantry that I think is just for meat.
He leaves me to get settled on a stool at the island and starts moving through the kitchen. Like it’s his. Like he’s done this a hundred times.
He pulls down bowls, reaches into the fridge, sets fruit, cured meat, cheese I couldn’t name if you paid me, olives, thick slices of bread still warm. He brings me water and tea without asking how I take it — and he gets itright, which is maybe the most unsettling part.
The whole time, he keeps his body angled so he’s between me and both doors.
“Wraith,” I try again, softer. “Please.”
He looks up then. The softness in his eyes almost undoes me. “Red,” he says, just as soft, “I’m not keeping you out. I’m holding you together so they can finish what they started. That’s all.”
They.
My stomach drops, all sorts of scenarios running rampantly through my mind.
“Are they okay?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer immediately. That’s when the fear really punches in.
“Ronan,” I say, voice laced with worry.
He exhales, jaw tight. “No one died.”
Something hot and dizzying hits behind my ribs. It takes me a second to realize that’s relief. “No one died,” I echo.
“No one died,” he repeats, firmer. “We’re still in play.”
That… is not a normal breakfast phrase. My voice is thin when I finally manage, “And me?”
His gaze goes hard. “No one touches you.Ever.”
It lands in me like a brand. I probably shouldn’t like that as much as I do.
I also know I’m not getting more than that out of him, not now. His shoulders won’t come down until he can physically put me in a room with all of them and count bodies. And I’m not getting out of this kitchen without that happening first.
So I eat. I eat because he’s watching me with that low intent like if I don’t take care of myself after whatever just happened, he’ll take it personally. Because even pissed off and scared, I know one thing… If I fall apart, they’re going to blame themselves.
I don’t want them blaming themselves for breathing.
We spend hours like this, and he keeps me occupied.
We play chess in the lounge. He pretends to let me win the first game and I call him on it. He grunts and we play again. He beats me the second time. By the third game, I can see his focuscoming back online, pieces settling in his head. He relaxes half an inch.
“Better,” he mutters.
“What,” I say.
