She wants to be obedient, but not without a fucking fight.
“I suggest we keep the snarky comments to a minimum.” I threaten lowly. “You’re going to sit there and eat your breakfast. When we’re done, you're going to thank me. Do you understand?”
Her throat bobs. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not calling you sir.”
I blink, realizing what I'm insinuating. Fucking muscle memory at its greatest. I release her, drawing my hand back before picking up my coffee cup and taking a sip. I let the bitter taste drown out everything as Addison stares at me.
“Are we just going to ignore that?” She asks.
The space between us is charged and alive with something neither of us should speak on. I’ve already fucked up today, and we have eight more hours of this. I need to chill out before I do something I’ll regret.
I ignore her question, filling the atmosphere with silence.
“Whatever,” she mutters, taking another sip of her coffee. Our food arrives shortly, and I’m so focused on getting a grip that I almost don't hear her meek ‘Thank you’ before she takes her first bite.
It seems we’re done playing twenty questions as both of us fall quiet. I miss our game, but I know that's the part of me that begs to know more about her. This istorture.
I reach across the table for the hot sauce at the same time she does. Our fingers graze, electricity sizzling between us as she yanks her hand back quickly.
“Sorry,” she apologizes.
I shake my head before offering it to her. “Take it.”
She hesitates before grabbing it and coating the top of her omelet in an ungodly amount. “Thanks.”
“Do you like spicy foods?” I ask, taking it back before doing the same.
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Yeah. It’s something I got from my dad.” Her eyes turn thoughtful, and I want to keep this going.
“What’s he like?”
She stops, blinking rapidly as if my question caught her off guard. “Um, he’s dead. He died when I was young.” She shakes herself out of it before pursing her lips. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Is it weird that I know nothing about him?” She lifts her fingers to her lip, and I know she's about to start picking at it. It’s a nervous habit of hers that I picked up on over the week of knowing her.
I reach across and lower her hand back to the table. I rest mine atop hers as they flatten over the surface. Tingles dance across my palm, and I find I can't pull away. Even if I wanted to, Ican't.
Her eyes, wide with an emotion I can't place and intelligence, find mine, and it’s like the world stops. All I can focus on is her, and I finally allow myself to soak her in. The delicate features I've been dreaming of for weeks. Her hair falls over her shoulder, and a stray strand shifts closer to her eyes. If I were just to reach up, I could tuck it behind her ear—
“Rowan?” Her voice is quiet and full of trepidation.
I pull my hand back. “No. That’s not bad.”
She frowns at her plate. “What about your dad? What’s he like?”
My shoulders tense subtly, and I feel phantom pains all over my body. The bones that never set properly, the scars and burns that rest just under my clothes, and the long days of unending hunger hit me like a truck, but my trauma isn't her issue. “He’s dead too.”
Her eyes widen, and she reaches across until her hand rests atop mine. We’re so contrastingly different that it’s mesmerizing to see her thin fingers slide over my larger ones.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I manage.
“And I’m sorry for yours—”
