Page 36 of Merciless Daddy

“Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate.”

The choices were deliberate. I recognized a tactic when I saw one. Tiny freedoms arranged like bait in a trap.

“Hot chocolate,” I said.

The answer escaped before pride could catch it.

Sal’s face did not change. Not a flicker of triumph. He simply reached for a small saucepan.

“I don’t want you to make a thing of it,” I said.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He poured milk into the pan. His movements were exact, quiet. He added dark chocolate from a tin, then something from a small jar that smelled faintly of cinnamon. I watched his hands despite myself. The controlled strength of them. The way he rested one palm flat on the counter while he stirred.

A plate sat beside the stove. Toast. Eggs. Fruit.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

“I didn’t ask.”

“I’m not eating.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

The kitchen went too quiet.

“I’m angry with you,” I said, because it was safer than saying anything else.

“You know, I was actually pickign up on that.”

“I think you’re arrogant, controlling, and dangerously pleased with yourself.”

“Possible.”

“And I may decide to punish you for what you did.”

His gaze lowered briefly to the closure on his cheek. “You already started.”

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

The question escaped before I could stop it.

His eyes lifted to mine.

“The cheek? The place you skewered me? Gave me a new piercing?”

“What else?”

“Well, I mean, you hit my throat too.”

“You survived.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“It hurts.”