I feel like a fucking idiot. For the second time today. And I only just woke up! I’m a starving substitute teacher with second hand shoes and holes in my socks, and this man is swimming in cash from all his illegal activities.
He clears his throat. My brain snaps back into my skull.
He motions to a chair at the kitchen island. “Sit.”
No room for questions. No room for anything. He turns his back to me like I’m already forgotten and heads for the espresso machine.
Of coursehe has an espresso machine, and I have a filter.
I huff and sit, glaring at his broad back like I can melt it with my eyes.
Moments later, he sets down a cup of coffee in front of me.
Then, orange juice.
Then, a glass of water.
Oh, fuck him. Now he’s turned into Mr. Hydration, after letting me rot in that concrete coffin, begging for a drop of liquid with cracked lips and no dignity.
I say nothing, and just sip the coffee. It’s fucking incredible. Rich. Smooth. Probably roasted by monks on a mountain.
Jealousy claws at my chest with incredible fury.
A beep sounds, and then he places a plate in front of me. It’s overflowing with eggs, bacon, hashbrowns and sausages that glisten like they were cooked in angel tears.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. Waiting… for what? Athank you? Manners are always important, so I’m about to say it, but he speaks first.
“I had to reheat it. You woke up late.”
It’s almost an accusation, like I committed some kind of unforgivable crime. Outrage flares hot under my skin.
“Yeah, well, people tend to sleep in after spending — help me out here — how long was it? In a fucking dungeon?”
I blink at him, wide-eyed, innocent as hell.
“Almost three weeks,” he says, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
…Shit. Longer than I thought. No wonder everything aches like I’ve been hit by a truck.
“Eat.”
His voice is still flat. Still cold. But it doesn’t matter. Not after I’ve been starved like a feral stray. I don’t need a warm voice to justify food.
I dig in.
And holy shit. It’s simple, but it tastes like heaven and decadence had a baby and served it on a plate. I almost moan, but I stop just in time. I do have to set some limits for myself.
I glance at him mid-bite, fork hovering. “You not eating?”
He smirks, a barely-there lift of his lips. “Already did.”
Cool. Works for me.
I shut up and keep eating. Food now, talk later. Talking leads to dungeons, and I’m not doing that again. I clean the plate like it owes me money, until I’m so full he’ll have to roll me out of here with a forklift.
When I finally lean back, it’s with a slow exhale. My stomach is satisfied. My nerves? Not so much.
I look at him, but don’t say a word. I'm just waiting for the axe to fall.
