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He’s holding a brown paper bag and a bottle of something that looks sugary. There’s a measure of uncertainty as he moves closer to me and thrusts the bag and bottle in my direction.
I don’t move to take them from him. “What’s this?”
“A peace offering. Doc’s on the way, but he said you should eat something in the meantime. I don’t know what you like, so I asked the prospect to get you something plain. The girls said strong smells aren’t a good thing for someone who’s…”
“Pregnant?” I finish for him.
“Yeah.” He seems uncomfortable admitting that.
“I’ll eat anything,” I assure him, taking the stuff from him. I move over to the sofa and sink onto it before I balance the bag on my knee. I make quick work of tearing it open. I’m starving, and my stomach is in knots as it grumbles away.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find inside, but there’s a sandwich. The label says it’s ham, but it looks like good meat, not that cheap processed shit the supermarkets sell. The bread looks good too, light and fluffy. There’s some kind of small pie thing as well and a pot with fresh fruit in it. Another little bag inside hides a chocolate muffin.
“Thanks.” I pull out the muffin first, unwrapping it and picking a chunk off so I can stuff it into my mouth.
The sugar hits my tongue instantly, and I almost groan around my first mouthful. My poor stomach growls loudly in response to getting what it needs.
Rage says nothing as I eat the muffin, not caring if it’s on my face. I don’t come up for air until I’ve finished it. Only then do I uncap the drink and take a long sip. I was right about it being sugary. It’s so sweet, it almost makes my tongue curl, but I’m already starting to feel better.
I slow down as I start on the sandwich, but Rage hasn’t moved or said a word this entire time.
“Are you just going to watch me stuff my face?” I demand, pausing only for a second before I take a huge bite of my sandwich.
“I didn’t want to stop you eating.”
I don’t know if he means that to be sweet but tears prick my eyes anyway. I don’t want to cry, but there are a hundred emotions circling through me, and all of them are so heightened, it’s too much.
“You watching me like some kind of food pervert isn't going to stop me,” I counter.
He moves into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed opposite me. Leaning forwards, he clasps his hands between his parted knees. “You don’t have to eat like this is your last meal. I’ll bring you as much food as you want.”
Bring me.
The implication is that he intends to hold me here for longer. My appetite doesn’t flee, but it certainly isn’t as good as it was. I put down the sandwich, making sure nothing is leaking out of the sides and onto the bag, then I raise my gaze to his.
“How long are you planning on keeping me locked up here?”
“I don’t know,” he admits.
“I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t deserve to be kept like an animal in a cage.”
“No, you don’t, but there are women here, kids too. Until we know your intentions aren’t bad, we have to be careful. The club’s lost too much already.”
“That argument is just going to keep us moving in circles. Your club did bad shit, my father has done worse, but where does it end? When you’re all gone?”
“Whenthey’reall gone,” he amends.
“To what end? To say you won? It won’t bring back the people who are dead.”
He doesn’t respond to that, only a slight tick in his jaw telling me he’s pissed. “You still feel sick?”
The subject change doesn’t surprise me. I don’t know that we’ll ever see eye to eye on this topic. He’s too stubborn to be reasoned with, too wrapped up in his hate and anger.
“No, but the food helps.” I pick the sandwich back up and nibble on the remaining half that’s left. “I really didn’t come here to stir trouble.”
“I believe that,” he says, surprising me. “You said your dad is likely to put a bullet in you if he sees you again. Why?”
Fuck. I don’t want to tell anyone what I did. The shame burns through me, but what choice do I have? I need Rage to trust me, and for that to happen, I may need to give him something to hold on to.
