I slip but manage to catch myself on the counter.
In a second, Soren’s already stood, biceps thick and hard as he clutches the table that could break under his weight.
“What happened?” he asks.
“N-nothing,” I mutter, trying to gather myself.
His hands are still firmly on the table, and I can’t help but focus on his fingers and just how big they are … and how good they would feel on my body.
I almost choke on my own saliva.
Stop it, April! Just stop.
I hold up my hand. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he says, cocking his head in a way that makes him look even more intimidating. Not in a murderous way … but in an “I’m going to rail you against this table” way. And it sets my body on fire.
But it shouldn’t. You’re not supposed to fall for the one who keeps you captive.
“I was just a little shook from the bear attack. That’s all,” I say, waving it off like it’s no big deal.
Even though it is.
Because I am definitely responding to him saying my name.
It makes me feel weak.
Not because it’s my name.
But from the way he says it.
Like he owns it.
Like he owns me.
I shake off the hotness pooling in my belly and stir the pot, watching the food come to a simmer. When it’s finally done, I pour out the water and plate the spaghetti along with the sauce. I bring them to the table, sliding his bowl toward him as I’m too afraid to get near.
I sit down across the table and eat my food in silence, but he refuses to touch it.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.
He merely stares at me, both hands planted on the table. “Not hungry.”
I know he said that, but I don’t believe it. We haven’t had a decent meal in ages. I’m sure he must be starving. Compared to the amount he used to eat at the house, this is a snack to him. I still remember him chomping away at the bread and fruits, shoveling it all into his mouth like it wasn’t ever enough to him. The memory almost makes the food go down the wrong hole, so I cough and laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I quickly grab my glass of water and gulp it down in one go.
“No, you were thinking about something.” He raises a single brow. “Tell me.”
“Oh … I was just … reminiscing.”
“About?”
He refuses to relent. And the way he looks at me is giving me goose bumps all over.
“Food.”
He narrows his eyes, almost like he doesn’t believe me, and it makes me all too self-aware.
“Just eat, or it’ll go cold,” I say. “And that would be rude.”
He continues to stare at me but finally does pick up his fork, jamming it into the spaghetti as though he’s butchering something. Within seconds, he gobbles it all down, slurping it up until his bowl is empty and his stomach is full. Finally, he licks his lips to clean off the tomato juice while mine drips off my fork because I have not been able to look away.
Especially because his beard is still covered in it.
“You’ve got something.” I point at my face, and he looks at me like I’m joking, but I’m not. “Here.”
He frowns and leans back in his chair. “Where?”
“In your beard.”
He locks his hands behind his head and tilts his head provocatively as if he doesn’t believe me or something.
“I don’t have tissues, but there is a towel in the kitchen.” I grab it from the hook and hold it out to him, but he doesn’t get up.
“Bring it to me.”
Now it’s my time to raise a brow. “I’m not your servant.”
His tongue dips out again in that same provocative way, but his eyes have now narrowed, and my eyes travel down toward his pants and the cock that’s still dangling between his legs in a semi-erect state.
He never got soft.
Not since he left the shower.
Which begs the question … what has he been thinking about that still has him hard?
Because it isn’t the food on his plate, that’s for sure.
“April,” he growls. “My eyes are up here.”
There it is again, my name. Said in such a dangerous way that it makes my head spin.
I was caught in the act, and it’s impossible to hide the redness flooding my cheeks.
He scoots his chair back violently. “Come.”
I suck on my lip and bite as my stomach almost flips upside down. Still, I tread closer, clutching the towel tight as if it’s the only protection I have. But protection against what? I don’t understand what I’m so scared of. Nor do I understand why I listen to him. But I can’t stop gravitating toward him until it’s too late, and I’m right in front of him.
I lean against the table with my butt while tipping forward, trying to keep as much distance as possible between us while I tap the towel against his beard to clean him up. Suddenly, he grabs the towel and tears it away, throwing it to the side.