Dominate (Deliver 8)

Was that what Tommy did for all the women he fucked? Blistered their asses then tossed them a tube of aftercare?

Her blood boiled, and she snatched the ointment, hurling it across the bathroom.

She made it through a quick shower without passing out, all the while imagining driving her fist into his handsome face repeatedly. As she dried herself off, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

Four days of stress and starvation had already taken its toll. Her cheekbones sharpened under the dark circles bruising her eyes. Her shoulders and ribs were more pronounced, pressing starkly through the pallor of her skin. She looked gaunt. Almost cadaverous. She felt sick.

Reluctantly, she located the ointment and smeared it on her welted backside. That done, she dressed in jeans and a white tank-top, cleaned her teeth, and left her hair dripping down her back.

Then she opened the door to the overwhelming fragrance of pork grease and coffee. The aroma buckled her knees. Staggering, she followed the scented trail into the kitchen.

Tommy sat at the table, a mug in his hand and his eyes drilling into hers. Shirtless and sprawled with his legs spread, he took up too much room, too much air. He knew it, too, with his brown hair all tousled from sleep and his lips twitching with arrogance.

He knew exactly how women looked at him, including the one he starved.

She tore her gaze away and found Cole standing at the stove, frying eggs and bacon. A basket of colorful fruit sat on the counter, along with cheese, bakery sweets, and milk. He must’ve gone to the store while he was out yesterday.

Salivating and dizzy with hunger, she couldn’t endure this. It was cruel enough to starve her. But to torment her with a goddamn breakfast buffet right under her nose was beyond brutal. It was coldblooded and diabolically evil.

Tommy stood, put his empty plate and mug in the dishwasher, and strode past her without a glance or a word. A second later, the bathroom door shut, and the shower turned on.

“Sit.” Cole pointed a spatula at the table and turned back to the stove.

If she didn’t sit, she would collapse. So she obeyed.

He joined her, holding a heaping plate of food.

Her eyes watered, overflowing with despair. “Would you kill me if I fought you for a bite?”

“No need.” He slid the plate toward her and wrapped her trembling hand around a fork. “Hurry up. You only have about five minutes.”

Shocked elation jolted through her, but she didn’t hesitate. Eggs, bacon, pineapple, glazed donuts—she shoveled it all in, groaning, whimpering, and casting off her manners in lieu of stuffing her face. “He doesn’t know you’re feeding me?”

“No, and if you tell him, this will be the last time I interfere on your behalf.”

Focused on devouring every bite, she didn’t come up for air until she’d licked the plate clean.

Cole held out a glass of water, regarding her too closely.

She drank deeply, washing down barely chewed food. “I’m not complaining, but what are you playing at? Good cop, bad cop?”

“If you think I’m the good one, you’re terrible at your job.”

The bathroom door opened.

Cole reached out and swiped a thumb across her lips, clearing away crumbs. Then he moved the empty plate, setting it in front of him.

Her blood-sugar levels were already rising, surging energy through her system and chasing away the trembling effects of hunger. She was far from feeling like her normal self, but the meal had quickly taken the edge off.

She met Cole’s eyes, and maybe he saw the gratitude in hers. But she wouldn’t thank him. He was an accomplice in her suffering, and she owed him nothing.

With a smirk, he reclined in the chair and ran a finger along his beard.

He wanted her to think he wasn’t a good guy. He could mostly pull it off with that unnerving smirk on his rugged face and the sheer number of tattoos that competed for space on his strapping arms. And maybe his heart was a little jaded and a lot broken. But those bloody, beating scraps still had the capacity for compassion.

As Tommy walked from the bathroom to the bedroom and back to the hall, she pinched the neckline of her tank-top and scrubbed the inside of the material over the surface of her teeth, trying to remove any evidence of that satisfying meal.

Cole arched an eyebrow.

She tipped up hers in return. She’d meant what she told Tommy that first night in the desert. Keeping secrets was a weakness of hers. She did it too well and often lied to protect someone’s feelings.

Tommy emerged, wearing a cowboy hat, black t-shirt, faded denim, and dusty boots. His gaze went to her, the empty plate in front of Cole, and made a pass through the kitchen, taking in every detail.

“We’re going for a ride.” He prowled toward her, reaching into his back pocket.