Maybe one more bite of eggs. Another tiny nibble of bacon—it's fatty, but it's got protein. Anything to avoid those piercing eyes of his.
“Lass, I asked you a question.”
“I'm eating, just like you asked me to,” I snap back. “And I don't answer to you. I'm just not hungry for carbs.”
Why did I say it like that? Like I need to justify myself to him.
The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I don't want to get into this with him.
“Carbs?” He says the word like it offends or confuses him. “The fuck not? You need energy.”
My cheeks heat. This is humiliating.
“I don't need them, alright? I'm already…” I stop myself, but it's too late.
“Already what?” he says, leaning in. I'm pinned by his gaze, steady as silver moonlight.
I bite my lip and stare at my plate. “Plump enough, alright?Fat. I don't need more carbs. I was hungry, and this is fine. This is great. Thank you.”
The words hang in the airbetween us.
When I finally look up, his eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, and he’s gone completely still.
Then he moves.
He's around the table before I can blink, his chair scraping back with a harsh sound. His tattooed hands reach for me, and I freeze, my fork clattering to the plate.
“What are you?—”
“Up.” His voice is low, dangerous. Not angry, but something darker, more intense. When I don't move fast enough, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing at all and carries me back to his chair.
“Ashland—”
He sits, settling me sideways across his lap, one thick arm banding around my waist to keep me there. I'm pressed against all that solid muscle, his chest a wall of heat behind me, and my brain short-circuits.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Language,” he murmurs, reaching across me to drag my plate closer. “You ate less than my cousin’stoddler.I told you if you didn’t eat, I’d feed you myself.”
“I am eating?—”
“Half a strip of bacon and two bites of eggs isn't eating.” He picks up the toast, spreads butter on it with quick, efficient movements, then adds a generous layer of jam. “Nowopen.”
I clamp my mouth shut and glare at him over my shoulder. This close, I can see every detail of his harsh but beautiful face—the scar through his eyebrow, the darker ring around those silver eyes, the scruff along his jaw that's growing in.
“Bianca.” His voice drops lower, and I feel it rumble through his chest against my back. “Don't make me ask twice.”
“You can't just?—”
He takes advantage of me speaking to slip the toast between my lips. I taste butter and strawberry jam, the bread soft and still warm, and my treacherous body hums with pleasure at the flavors.
“There we go,” he says quietly, and I hate the approval in his voice, hate that it makes something warm unfurl in my chest. “Chew and swallow, lass. Good girl. For a minute, I thought I'd have to turn you over my knee before you'd obey me.”
Heat absolutely floods me as my mouth gapes open. He takes advantage of this to slide more toast between my lips again.
I want to spit it out on principle, but I'm so hungry, and it tastes so good, and his arm is still locked around my waist like iron. So I chew. I swallow.
“I don't need you to?—”
