I stepped back once, giving her more space.
“If I touch you,” I said, “it will be because you ask me to, Nadia. You can hate every other choice I made tonight and still trust that one.”
Her eyes stayed on mine.
The penthouse held around us, warm and silent.
Then her stomach made a small, hollow sound.
Her face flushed with instant fury.
I looked at the tray. “Eat.”
Her gaze sharpened.
I corrected myself before she could cut me. “Please eat something. You nearly fainted in the car.”
“I hate soup.”
“It’s chicken and rice.”
“I hate being managed.”
“I noticed.”
The corner of her mouth twitched and vanished.
I went to the tray, poured tea, and set a cup at the far end of the table. Then I lifted the bowl and held it out.
She stared at it like it had betrayed her.
“It isn’t a contract,” I said.
“No, just soup from the man who kidnapped me.”
“That is a fair description.”
She took the bowl.
Her hands were steadier now, but only barely. She sat on the edge of the sofa and brought the spoon to her mouth. One bite. A pause. Another.
I stayed standing by the windows, because sitting across from her felt like watching, and standing too close felt worse.
Nadia ate six spoonfuls before she set the bowl down. “I need clothes.”
“Irina put options in the guest room.”
“I don’t want lingerie.”
“Then don’t wear lingerie.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have an answer for everything.”
“No. Only for clothes and soup so far.”
This time the sound she made almost became a laugh.
It cut off too quickly, but I saw it.
