Then he steps back, gives me space.
Why isn’t he gloating? Isn’t this exactly what he wanted?
I drag the dress over my head. It falls perfectly, even if a bit loose, skimming my hips, stopping just above my knees.
His hands settle on my shoulders. Adjusting the seams. Smoothing the fabric into place with light, precise touches.
Heat flares everywhere his fingers land.
He turns me toward the mirror and I watch my own heartbeat pick up in the pulse at my throat.
The woman looking back is a stranger. Clean. Groomed. Dressed in his taste, his colors, his choices. Hair damp and smooth, falling in waves past my shoulders.
I look like someone who belongs in this house.
“Beautiful,” he says.
Not smug. Just quietly satisfied. Like he’s admiring a painting he just acquired.
My stomach flips. A flutter that has no right to exist, that feels horribly like attraction.
“I hate you.” The words come out raw. Honest.
“I know.” He meets my eyes in the mirror. “You can hate me and still let me keep you alive.”
He moves toward the door.
“Wait.”
The word is out before I can stop it. I lurch for the bed, reaching under the pillow, fingers brushing cold metal?—
His hand closes around my wrist. Gentle but firm. Immovable.
“No weapons at the table.” There’s no anger in his voice, no threat. Just a rule being stated.
“It’s not a weapon, it’s?—”
“You’re too weak to use it tonight.” His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling it race beneath his fingers. “And I’m not in the habit of dining with sharp objects pointed at me.”
I could fight him. Try to wrench free, grab the caliper, go for his throat. But I won’t win, and I’ll lose my chance at food.
I let go.
The metal stays hidden under the pillow.
He releases my wrist and steps back then offers his arm like we’re going to a fucking gala.
I don’t take it. But I follow him out the door.
Unarmed. In his clothes. Held upright by the same man I plan to kill.
The dining room is a cathedral of excess. Long table, candles, crystal, porcelain, a frescoed ceiling with some Renaissance scene I’m too hungry to identify. The chandelier alone probably costs more than my childhood home.
One chair at the head. One setting.
I stop. “Where do I sit?”
He walks to the chair. Sits. Looks up at me with those dark eyes and pats his thigh.
