Another bite. He's relentless, holding the toast to my lips, waiting until I open before pressing it forward.
“Fat,” he says, and there's something dangerous in his tone now. “If I ever hear that word come out of your mouth again…”
I swallow hard, and my face burns. “I don't want to talk about this.”
“Too fucking bad.” He sets the toast down and reaches for the fork, spearing eggs and bacon together. “Because we're going to. Open.”
“Ashland—”
He waits, the fork hovering, his eyes boring into the side of my face. I can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles are coiled tight beneath me.
I open my mouth. He slides the fork in, gentle despite the intensity rolling off him in waves.
“You're perfect, Bianca,” he says quietly, loading the fork again. “Absolutely bloody perfect, and I don't know who made you think otherwise, but they're wrong.”
“You don't—” I try to protest, but he's already bringing another bite to my lips.
“I know every curve of your body, Bianca.” His voice is rough, intimate. “I've been watching you for years. I know exactly what you look like, and there's not a damn thing wrong with you. Open.”
I do, my heart hammering. This is unbelievable. This whole situation is unreal.
“Marcus wants me thin,” I whisper after I swallow. I don't know why I'm telling him this. “My mother says the dress has to fit perfectly. I can't?—”
The fork clatters onto the plate. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me back harder against his chest. I can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat against my spine.
“Marcus,” he growls, “is a fuckingeejitwho wouldn't know perfection if it was sitting inhislap. Which you're not anymore, because you're here with me, and I will feed you properly every goddamn day if that's what it takes.”
He picks up the fork again, his movements controlled despite the anger I can feel vibrating through him. “Now eat. All of it. Including the toast.”
“I can feed myself?—”
“You had your chance.” Another bite, this one bigger. “You chose to starve yourself for a man who doesn't deserve you. So now I'll feed you, and you don’t have to eat more than you want to, as long as you’re not starving yourself.”
I should fight this. I should be screaming and clawing and doing everything in my power to get away from him.
But his arm is solid and warm around my waist, the food tastes incredible, and there's something about the way he's holding me—not roughly, but firmly, like I'm precious and breakable and he won't let me hurt myself.
“Why do you care?” I whisper.
He goes still behind me. The fork pauses halfway to my lips.
“Because you're mine now,” he finally says, his rough voice barely above a murmur. “And I protect what's mine. That includes you. Now open, lass. Are you still hungry?”
I nod reluctantly and open my mouth. Iamhungry. He feeds me another bite, then another, patient and relentless, until every scrap of food is gone and I'm full in a way I haven't been in months.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my hair, and I hate that the praise makes me shiver. “See? That wasn't so hard, was it?”
I'm trembling in his lap, overwhelmed and confused and terrified by how safe I feel here, caged in the arms of a man who kidnapped me.
“I hate you,” I whisper, but it comes out weaker than before.
“I know, lass.” His thumb traces small circles on my hip through my pajamas. “You can hate me all you want. But you're going to eat, even if I have to feed you, and you're going to stop thinking you need to be smaller to be worth something. Understood?”
I don't answer. I can't. Something’s caught in my throat, and I’m not sure why.
He shifts me in his lap, turning me slightly so he can seemy face. His silver eyes search mine, and whatever he sees there makes his expression soften just a fraction.
“We'll work on it,” he says quietly. “But I mean what I said, Bianca. You're perfect the way you are. And anyone who made you think otherwise is a fucking fool.”
