Oh god, no.
He inhales. Sharply. His grip on my waist turns almost painful for a second before he forces his fingers to loosen. Then deliberately shifts his hips away, putting a fraction of space between us that somehow feels worse than contact. Because now I know. And he knows I know.
He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t acknowledge it. Just reaches for the fork with a hand that’s slightly less steady than before.
“Do you get off on this?” The words scrape out between bites. “On feeding the girl you kidnapped?”
“I get...satisfaction...” He pauses, choosing his words. “From preventing you from slowly killing yourself out of spite.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
His thumb moves. Just once. Along the side seam of my dress at my waist.
Every neuron in my body lights up.
“I enjoy having you here,” he murmurs. “But I am not enjoying your pain.”
I hate that part of me believes him. That the part that believes him is the same part currently melting into his warmth. I want to cut it out of myself.
I eat until my stomach rebels. He stops me before I tip into sickness, somehow knowing the exact moment when one more bite would be too much. Then he holds a glass of water to my lips.
“Drink.”
I do. Cold shock against my throat, spreading through my chest. His knuckles brush my mouth, and I swallow wrong, coughing.
Tears track down my face. Silent. Unstoppable. I’m too tired to hide them anymore.
“Why are you crying?” His voice is soft. Curiousity seeping through.
“Because this is fucked.” The words catch in my throat. “Because I promised I’d rather die.”
His chest rises and falls against my back. Slow and steady.
“You’re allowed to change your mind.”
I didn’t,I think, appalled.My body did.
When I push the plate away, he doesn’t argue.
“Enough for tonight.”
He helps me stand. My legs tremble so badly my knees buckle on the first attempt. I stumble, and his arm slides fully around me, pulling me against his chest.
My body fits against his far too easily.
My pulse kicks up in confused panic. Fight or flight or something else entirely.
He steadies me until I find my feet. Then loosens his hold instead of taking advantage. Before walking me out, he picks up the untouched wine glass meant for me. Lifts it in a silent toast, watching me over the rim. Then drinks, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Soon, you’ll drink with me,” he says quietly. “When you stop fighting yourself.”
The double meaning is a knife. He’s talking about the hunger, but I hear the deeper truth.
At the door to my wing, he takes my hand and lifts it before pressing his mouth to my knuckles. My pulse jumps beneath his lips. He feels it this time, impossible not to. Another sharp inhale. His mouth lingers for just a second longer than necessary.
Still no gloating. No comment.
“Thank you for dinner,tesoro.” He releases my hand. “We’ll do this again tomorrow.”
