Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“Stop,” I whisper.
“No.” He shakes his head. “You need to hear this. You need to understand. Your body isn't something to be ashamed of, lass. It's something men would kill for. It's something I…” He stops himself, his jaw clenching.
“Something you, what?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I want him to admit that he's done something wrong. And I can't stand the intensity of his stare, not for another second.
I've spent years of my life trying to force myself, to hate myself, into being different. Listened to the words my mother said, only confirmed by Marcus.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a heartbeat before he looks back into my eyes. “Something I think about way more than I should. Something I've memorized from a distance and still can't stop imagining up close.”
Good. God.
The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. He's not just protective. He hasn't just stalked me. He's… he's obsessed.
“You're mad,” I whisper.
The ghost of a smile crosses his features. “I told you that last night. We're all mad here, remember?”
He stands up, giving me space again, but the air between us feels charged and dangerous.
“Eat your toast, Bianca. I'm not in the business of force-feeding. But if you're not eating it because you think you need to starve yourself and somehow be little Miss Perfect, I'm telling you again—it's not happening. You already are perfect. I need you healthy and strong, and I'll not have you starving yourself over some nonsense Crowning or your mother put in your fucking head.”
He walks back to his side of the table, stares at me for a moment, then walks over to the counter. He grabs two fresh slices of bread and puts them in the toaster.
I watch. The smell of it toasting fills the air. I do like toast. Who doesn't like toast? It smells delicious. It's good, thick artisan bread. I wonder where he got it from?
A moment later, the toast pops up. I'm nibbling a piece of bacon when he brings two large slices, liberally spread with butter.
“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.