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“What?” I asked.
“You will eat with me.” He tugged at me, pulling me closer. The motion twisted me off balance and I fell into his lap.
“I don’t really know how I can eat like this,” I said. I faced the Beast, not the plate. My arms were on my lap, as I refused to put them around his neck.
“You can’t,” he said with trademark laconic dispassion. I looked into his sharp, stolid features for what he meant, but was met instead with impassivity. I shifted slightly, uncomfortable and unbalanced on his lap. What did he mean? Should I just watch him eat?
My gut dropped.
Probably.
I clenched my jaw, swallowing, and focused on the opposite wall. We sat in silence again, rushing and straining until I couldn’t breathe from the quiet. My face got hot with emotion, and I hated myself for it, hated that I’d given so much already, hated that I gave a little more each day. I hated that he could touch me and I crumbled; I hated that he showed me kindness and I caved completely.
Mostly I hated that there was a part of me that hoped, a part that kept giving and giving despite all the other parts yelling not to, because that part hoped he would eventually give back too. No matter how much I hardened myself, if I was honest, I knew part of me would keep giving and keep hoping. It was like trying to cover a leak in a boat when you didn’t know where the leak was. I closed my eyes, trying to crush the avalanche of emotion in my chest.
Wet. Delicious.
My eyes shot to his, wide. Something probed my lips, wet and buttery. He pressed a fork to my lips, filled with a bite of the sauce-covered meat—chicken, maybe.
In silence I let him feed me, too afraid to ruin it.
I stared into his eyes as he brought the silverware up to my lips, eyes locked with mine. He would return the fork to the plate, appearing to pick the pieces carefully. The entire time I kept my eyes locked with his, until he set the fork down, pausing.
“Tell me something about yourself, mio cuore.”
“What do you want to know?
“Anything.”
“Um,” I smacked my lips, unsure of what to say.
He smiled. I focused on that smile. “I had a cat,” I wished I could take the words back immediately. I didn’t want Beast to have this part of me, but I’d focused on his smile, on how warm and unbeastly it was, and it had just slipped out.
“Tell me more,” he urged.
“It wasn’t really my cat.” It was a stray and I wished I could bring him inside, but Papa was completely against it. I would bring food out to him and we would sit together.
“What was its name?”
“Cleary.” Cleary had the biggest purr; it sounded like a truck. The vibrations would reverberate through your entire body and make everything better.
His cheek quirked. “Unusual name.”
“I looked it up in an old baby book,” I explained. “It means ‘to gain knowledge from old books.’” It fit him. Beast smiled but said nothing. I whispered, “People say black cats are unlucky, but he was the only thing that got me through being sick.”
“You were sick?” Beast was staring at me earnestly. There was no twisting in his stare, no will to transform or use what I said against me. Still, I just couldn’t go any further, couldn’t reveal any more of myself. Cleary had been my best friend—my only friend—but one day he never came back and it had absolutely destroyed me.
“I don’t…” I turned back to the plate, half full with food. “I’m still hungry.” I could feel his desire to press, to open me up. I knew if he kept probing, I probably would spill everything, spill what happened to Cleary, all the years I was sick, and Beast would own yet another part of me.
But Beast picked up the fork, and continued to feed me.
It was a ritual.
I opened for him, my lips enveloped the flavor, swallow, repeat, eyes and minds connected the entire time.
“Full?” he asked. I nodded, but I wasn’t even sure. I wasn’t paying attention to my stomach. He placed the silverware down behind me with a clank and shoved the lot of it into the adjacent sink. They landed with a crash and it sounded like something might have broken.
“But you haven’t eaten.” My voice was hardly above a whisper.
