Page 11 of North’s Claim

My jaw clenches so tight it aches.

I swallow the curse building in my throat and just watch her shoulders rise and fall, shaky, uneven. She could be in the bed. She should be in the fucking bed. But instead, she picked the hardest, coldest corner of the room like she didn’t deserve anything softer.

Rage flares behind my ribs, thick and hot. I clear my throat to keep it from spilling out. “Did you eat anything?”

She jolts like I just fired a gun beside her head. Jumps up so fast the chair shrieks across the floor.

The way she flinches from my voice makes my stomach twist. Because I’ve seen that exact reaction before. In dogs left too long in chains.

I pull out my phone, thumbs stabbing the screen.

Add food to that list. Now.

Few minutes later, there’s a knock. Rook stands there, smug as hell like he just watched a damn soap opera through the door.

I rip the bags from his hand and slam the door shut.

Inside, I drop a bag on the table and the other one on the chair, pull out two bottles of water, two Gatorades, and a bunch of wrapped food. But I don’t touch the food yet.

I grab the glass with the black sludge and set it in front of her.

“Drink it. Now.”

She looks at the glass like it’s death in a cup. Then up at me. Eyes wide. Red.

“It’ll flush that shit out before it settles in your blood,” I say, tone clipped.

She doesn’t argue or speak. Just nods once, jerky.

She takes the glass in both hands and tips it back. The moment it hits her tongue, her face twists. She chokes it down more than half.

Her breathing stutters. Then spikes. I can see she tries to resist.

One second she’s still, the next she bolts for the bathroom. This time I follow. She hits the toilet just in time, retching charcoal and bile like her body’s trying to purge every bad choice she’s ever made. I kneel behind her. Pull her hair back. My hand trembles, but I keep it steady. She shakes. Fuck, she’s ice cold. I flush the toilet, press a palm gently to her spine. Her breath hitches.

“You’re okay,” I murmur. “Just breathe.”

She tries. Inhales too fast, then slower. I help her up but her knees wobble. The second she’s standing, she tenses all over like I’m going to hit her for being weak. I back away and give her space.

“Come on,” I say, quieter. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

She nods, hollow. We shuffle back into the room. I grab a bottle of water, twist the cap, and hand it to her.

She takes it with both hands like it might break. “Thank you,” she whispers. Her voice is fragile but it cuts deeper than any scream ever could. And I hate how fucking much it wrecks me.

I grab one of the wrapped sandwiches, turkey or chicken or some other shit I didn’t care enough to check, and rip it open. I toss the other toward her side of the bed. She flinches again. Like I just threw a damn brick at her. I swallow the growl climbing my throat. Sit down in the chair across from her.

“Eat,” I order. “All of it.”

She hesitates, fingers trembling as they unwrap the sandwich. She glances up at me like she’s waiting for permission, or a slap. Maybe both. I force my voice to soften. Barely.

“You don’t get to starve. Not in my fucking care.”

She brings it to her mouth slowly, takes a bite. It’s small. Careful. Like she’s trying not to wake something feral inside herself. I watch her chew. Swallow. She closes her eyes like she’s trying not to cry.

I look away. Give her the privacy of silence for a moment but my hands curl into fists on my knees. Because watching her eat like she’s scared I’ll punish her for it makes something in my chest coil tight. I lean forward, elbows to thighs, and rake my fingers through my hair. “No one should’ve ever made you scared to eat.”

She doesn’t respond. Just keeps chewing slowly, eyes focused on the corner of the room.