“Only to get the food,” Jack said, carrying the tray to the seating area and setting it on the low table before the fire. He placed the key beside it, brass glinting against silver, and stepped back.
The tray held a small feast. Crusty bread still warm from the oven. A pot of golden broth steamed as he lifted the lid. Sliced pears arranged in a fan beside a wedge of soft cheese. A carafe of water and a smaller one of wine. And tucked into the corner, a white packet of over-the-counter Paracetamol and a small tin of healing salve.
This wasn’t for him. It was for her. The Volkovs sent their message loud and clear.
Jack straightened and looked at her, waiting for her to sit down, but she remained rooted to the spot, the blanket clutched to her chest, her gaze locked on him.
What did she see?
“Please.” He waved a hand to the feast he’d arranged. “Eat.”
Firelight painted her in shades of gold and shadow, illuminating the curve of her collarbones, the hollow of her throat, the soft swell of flesh where the crimson fabric gaped.
He forced his attention back to her face, the gash at her temple now clean and the bruise on her cheek a deeper shade of plum.
“Only a fool would eat here.”
“You’re not a fool,” he said with unclear certainty.
“How do you know?”
“A fool as beautiful as you wouldn’t have made it this far without getting captured.”
She frowned. “I’m not beautiful.”
“That’s arguable.”
“Arguable or not, I don’t have the privilege to be a beautiful fool. Foolishness is reserved for girls who can afford not to be smart.”
“By morning, you’ll be able to afford whatever you want.”
“At what cost?” She was angry, and rightly so.
He glanced down at the food. “Only a fool would turn away food on an empty stomach. I know you’re hungry.” He met her stare with challenge, then used her fear to force her to eat. “You’ll need your strength.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she slowly crossed the room, each step careful as she favored the parts of her feet that hurt least. When she reached the seating area, she lowered onto the edge of a leather chair, keeping the maximum distance between her body and his.
Jack settled into the opposite chair and watched her silently.
She started with the water, draining half the glass before setting it down with trembling fingers. Then the bread, torn into small pieces and chewed with the mechanical focus of someone who had forgotten the taste of food. She ignored the wine. Ignored the cheese. Reached for the broth and drank it directly from the bowl, propriety abandoned in favor of survival.
He cataloged every detail as she ate. The way her throat moved when she swallowed. The way her fingers curled around the bowl for warmth. The way her eyes kept returning to him, assessing, calculating, searching for the threat she clearly expected—a seed he’d planted in order to get her to eat.
Neither of them looked away as they studied each other, the silence growing thick between them, charged with the particular tension of two people occupying a space too small for the weight of their secrets.
The fire crackled. Music drifted from below. And uncertainty flickered in her unwavering stare.
Beneath Jack’s clothes, below the layers of secrets he kept hidden from the world, ran a current hot and dangerous, fed by her proximity and the unflinching courage that refused to let her look away.
“How did you get all those scars?”
The question landed like a blade between his ribs.
Jack’s jaw locked. Every muscle in his body coiled with the instinct to deflect, to evade, to bury the answer so deep she would never find it.
He rose from the chair without a word and walked to the dressing room, his strides long and deliberate. Anger simmered beneath his skin, though he couldn’t name its target. Her, for asking. Himself, for inviting the question in the first place.
He grabbed a dress shirt from the closet, white cotton soft as silk, and returned to the sitting area. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes tracked his approach with the wariness of prey.
