“Breakfast,” she says quietly.
I take the cart from her, fingers closing over the bar as her hands release it. “Thanks,” I say flatly. I glance down the corridor as I pull it inside. No guards. No men in suits. No earpieces.
Their job is done.
Erica’s money has likely been left for her with a trusted source because they’ve already moved on to a different location to prepare for tonight’s auction.
I shut the door, lock it, and push the cart toward the dining table.
Coffee. Covered plates. Silverware wrapped in linen. A carafe of orange juice. A bowl of fruit. Toast. Eggs. The kind of breakfast meant to feel indulgent and normal at the same time.
Erica shifts behind me.
I hear it—the small hitch in her breath, the soft scrape of a foot on carpet. She’s moving away from the bed, slow and careful as if each step pulls at whatever’s sore. She keeps her eyes down, robe held tight.
That same tug hits my chest again.
Sorrow.
I call it what it is, just for a second, and then I crush it.
Because what rises under it is something darker and more honest: satisfaction. Possession. The knowledge that she’s sore because of me, and that her body will remember me even if her mind tries to file last night away as a mistake.
I don’t let any of it show.
I stop the cart at the table and pull the chair out with one hand, the wood scraping softly.
Erica stands a few feet away, staring at the cart like she doesn’t know what she’s seeing. Like she’s expecting another catch. Another rule. Another humiliation.
Her gaze flicks up to my chest, then away again.
She’s still trying not to look at me. As if looking will make it worse. As if meeting my eyes will mean she has to acknowledge what happened between us.
“Sit,” I say, short.
She flinches.
Not fear, not exactly. More like her body still recognizes the tone. More like her nerves remember last night and react before she can think.
She hesitates, then moves to the chair with careful steps. She lowers herself into it slowly, jaw tight, breath held until she’s down.
I pull the lid off the first plate.
Steam rises. Eggs, bacon, toast. Another plate with fruit and yogurt. Coffee already poured into a cup with cream on the side.
She watches my hands, not my face.
“Eat,” I tell her.
Her brows pinch, confused. Like she doesn’t understand why I’m still giving orders when the night is supposed to be over. Like she doesn’t know what to do with the fact that I’m still here at all.
“I-I should go,” she says quietly. “I have to…”
“Your dad. I know,” I say. “You’re no use to anyone like this.” I set the lid down, then slide the plate closer to her like proximity will solve the problem. “You need to recover.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of the chair like she might stand up again. “I need to get home,” she says, voice thin.
“And do what? Pass out? Curl up in the corner and cry?” I say. “You can leave when you can stand without shaking.”
