“There. There's some fresh toast. If you want it, for the love of fucking god, eat it, lass.”
I stare at the toast. My hands are trembling. Slowly, I pick up a piece and take a bite. It’s delectable. Crispy on the outside, warm and tender on the inside, and deliciously buttery.
I can't help the small groan that escapes. Oh god, I'm so hungry, and this tastes so good.
As my appetite's sated, I realize with growing horror—and something else I refuse to examine—that some twisted part of me liked hearing every word he said.
I finish the last bite of toast, hating that it tastes so good—riddled with guilt and mentally tallying the amount of calories and fat I just ate. I wonder if he'd stop me if I tried to somehow… exercise it off or something.
Hating even more that a traitorous part of me still feels warm from his words.
No one's ever said those things to me before.
Fuck, I wish I could believe him.
He watches me, and when I set the toast down, he nods.
“Good girl.”
The words shouldn't affect me the way they do. I look away and focus on Lancelot instead, trying to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.
“I'll get what the cat needs today,” he says, then stands, collecting our plates with an efficiency that speaks of living alone for a long time.
I watch as he brings the dishes over to the sink, takes a can of tuna out of the cabinet, opens it, dumps it on a plate, then carefully breaks it up with a fork. Lancelot quickly leaps off my lap and rushes over to eat the fish.
Of course he does, the damn traitor.
He's fed me, aye. He's praised my curves, I know. But he's a stranger I've never met, and the man's right obsessed with me.
It shouldn't be…flattering.
Ashland rinses the dishes while I find myself cataloging escape routes. I still need to find my way out.
“I have to leave for a bit today,” he says, turning around. “It’ll just be a few hours. Business I can't get out of. It's not safe for me to take you with me, but you're safe here. And I need to trust that you'll not do something foolish.”
Hope surges through my chest. He's leaving. I could escape. A few hours is all I need. All I need to do is figure out where I am, find a road, and flag down help.
“Don't get any ideas, lass.” His voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade. His eyes are watching me too carefully, reading every flicker of emotion. “I'll secure the cabin before I leave. Make sure you can't hurt yourself trying to escape.”
“What does that mean?” I stand up.
He glances my way, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He's so close now, I can see the dark ring around his irises and the faint scar cutting across his eyebrow.
“It means I'm going to lock the doors. It means that I have cameras set up. It means I'll board up anything you might break and make sure you have all that you need, but no way out.” His hand comes up, and I flinch, but he just tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness.
If heismy protective captor, he hasn't broken character yet.
“I know what you're thinking, Bianca, but I'm telling you now—don't try it.”
“You can't keep me prisoner here,” I whisper.
“I can and I will, because out there you're in danger. Here you're safe. I know you don't believe it yet, but you will.” He takes a breath and sits on the sofa, pulling a pairof shoes toward him. “I'll be gone for two, three hours at the most. And when I come back, we'll talk about why you're here, about what's happening.”
“Tell me now.”
“I couldn't. No. Because you'd argue… I'd get angry, and I don't want to leave like that.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Concern? Regret?
