She looked fragile.
Breakable.
I hated it.
"Belle," I murmured.
She didn't look at me.
I set the plate on the small side table and crouched in front of her, bringing myself to her eye level. She turned her head away, jaw tight.
"You're going to eat."
Her throat worked. She shook her head—small, defiant.
I didn't force her. Didn't grab her chin or snap at her or use the voice that made grown men on the ice flinch.
I just picked up a triangle of sandwich and held it near her mouth.
"Open your mouth."
Low. Quiet. The tone I almost never used because it revealed too much.
Coercive, yes.
But soft.
An invitation she could refuse if she really wanted to.
Except I knew she wouldn't.
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked to the sandwich, then to my face, then away again.
Her lips parted. Just barely.
I pressed the corner of the sandwich to her mouth, gentle, patient. She took a small bite, chewing mechanically, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
"Good girl," I murmured.
She flinched.
I brought the sandwich back, waited until she opened again. Another bite. Slower this time.
A crumb clung to her lower lip. I brushed it away with my thumb, lingering just long enough to feel her breath hitch.
She turned her head.
"Belle."
She looked at me then—finally—and the rage in her eyes made something in my chest tighten.
She hated this. Hated me. Hated the intimacy of it, the way I was taking care of her like she belonged to me.
Which she did.
But this wasn't about ownership. This was about making sure she didn't shatter completely.
I held the sandwich to her lips again. "Open."
