“I am trying to tell ye why I am angry.”
“And I am telling ye that ye can speak yer mind with food in yer belly instead of nothing.”
Ava gave an incredulous laugh. “That is yer answer?”
“It is the first thing I meant to do.”
“Ye still think ye can decide the order of everything, do ye nae?”
“Aye,” he said, and the plainness of it almost made her throw the nearest object at his head. “This once, I do.”
He took the bowl and held it out. Ava did not move. He remained there with infuriating patience, his broad hand steady beneath the dish, his face calm in a way that only made her want to strike him harder with words.
He was doing it again. He was offering care in the shape of control.
She should throw the food back at him.Yet the smell of warm bread and broth reached her, and beneath her anger and pride, there was the dull weakness she had been refusing to describe.
“Sit,” he urged.
Her chin lifted. “That sounds very much like another order.”
“Then take it as one and spare us both the argument.”
“There is already an argument.”
“Aye, and ye will have more strength for it after.”
Ava hated that a part of her knew he was right. She hated still more that her body chose that moment to remind her how little she had eaten. Her stomach cramped, and her head felt light.
With a stiff movement, she sat.
He handed her the bowl. She took it because continuing to refuse had begun to feel childish even to her. He passed her the spoon next and stood there waiting like a jailer determined to see a sentence carried out.
“Ye could at least pretendnaeto watch me,” she muttered.
“I could,” he agreed. “But I willnae.”
Ava ate two spoonfuls out of sheer resentment. Then three more because hunger had already outrun her pride. The warmth of the broth hit her empty stomach and made the room feel less sharp around the edges. She hated that, too.
Ciaran remained where he was, one hand braced against the bedpost, the other hanging loose at his side. He looked tired. His shoulder must still ache, though he held himself as if it were nothing.
She saw that and looked down at the bowl again because she did not want any softness cooling her anger yet. When she had eaten enough that the tremors in her hands stopped, he took the bowl from her without comment and set it aside.
The silence afterward was different. She felt it at once.
Ciaran looked at her for a long moment, then swallowed. “I am sorry.”
Ava had prepared herself for an excuse, for an explanation, for some cold, practical answer that would force her back into fury, but his apology hit a place she had not armored quickly enough.
She looked up. “For speaking to me like that?”
“For hurting ye.”
The room went still.
Ava swallowed once. Some of the anger left her then. “I just daenae understand ye.”
He said nothing.
