5. Five #2
Her eyes flicked up to mine, challenge sparking in their depths. “I told you, I’m not hungry.”
“And I told you to eat.” I picked up my fork and began cutting into my eggs. “We can do this one of two ways, Harlowe. You can feed yourself, or I can feed you. The choice is yours, but you will eat.”
Thin fingers curled around her fork, knuckles white with tension. I watched as she stabbed at a strawberry, bringing it to her lips with deliberate slowness. She bit into it, juice staining her mouth a deeper red before she licked it away.
“There,” she said. “Satisfied?”
“Not even close.” I continued eating, watching her over the rim of my coffee cup. “Half your plate,” I instructed. “Consider it your first act of obedience.”
“I’m not your dog,” she said.
“No,” I agreed, “dogs are easier to train.”
“Is this what marriage to you will be like? Force-feeding me while you watch?”
“Marriage to me will be whatever I decide it is. Some days that might mean force-feeding you. Other days . . .” I let the sentence hang, my eyes dropping to her neck where the collar had been.
“Why me?” she asked, setting down her fork. “There are a hundred other women who’d spread their legs for you without putting up a fight. Why choose the one who wants you dead?”
I studied her for a long moment, appreciating the way defiance colored her cheeks. Most people averted their eyes when I stared too long. Not Harlowe. She met my gaze with equal intensity, like staring into a mirror darkly.
“Because destruction is boring,” I finally said. “I’ve watched men destroy things my entire life. My father. My uncle. Even yours.” I took another bite, chewed slowly. “Anyone can break something. It takes skill to possess it.”
“I’m not a thing to be possessed.”
“All things exist to be possessed. The only question is who possesses it and how well they maintain it.” I reached across the table and caught her chin between my thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at me. “You’re wasted on self-destruction. Imagine what you could be if properly directed.”
She jerked away from my touch, but not before I felt the tremor that ran through her.
“You think you’re saving me?” She laughed. “From what? My freedom?”
“From mediocrity.” I pushed her plate closer. “Now eat, or I’ll make good on my promise.”
She picked up her fork again, stabbing at the eggs with unnecessary force.
Each bite was an act of rebellion, chewed and swallowed with theatrical reluctance.
I watched her throat work as she drank her water, the delicate column of her neck flexing and swallowing.
Even defiance suited her. Most people looked pathetic in their resistance, like children hurling themselves against the inevitable.
Harlowe made it look like war.
“Drink your water,” I said. “All of it.”
She glared at me over the rim of her glass, then she spat her water onto my face.
“Fuck you, maledetto bastardo.”*
I didn’t flinch as the water hit my face, dripping from my chin onto my pristine shirt.
The dining room fell completely silent. For a moment, I simply sat there, letting the droplets trace paths down my skin while Harlowe’s eyes blazed with triumph.
I reached for my pocket square, dabbed my face with deliberate slowness, and folded the damp silk before placing it beside my plate.
“That was childish,” I said, my voice so quiet it forced her to lean forward to hear me.
Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That was just the beginning.”
I moved faster than she could track, my chair scraping back as I rounded the table. She scrambled to her feet, but I was already there, one hand tangling in her damp hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. Her pulse jumped wildly beneath her skin—a trapped bird beating against my palm.
“Let me make something perfectly clear,” I whispered against her ear. “Your little rebellions amuse me, but they change nothing. Not the wedding. Not your future. Not your place in my bed.”
She tried to twist away, but I tightened my grip, forcing her to still or risk losing a handful of hair. Her breathing came in short, sharp bursts, anger and something darker—something she didn’t want me to see—flashing in her eyes.
“I’ll never stop fighting you,” she hissed.
“Good.”
I released her hair but kept her trapped between my body and the table. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling against mine, eyes wild with hatred.
“You’re disgusting,” she whispered.
I smiled. “And you’re mine.”
Stepping back, I straightened my tie. “Finish your breakfast. We have an appointment.”
“What appointment?” Suspicion narrowed her eyes.
“Wedding rings.” I checked my watch. “The jeweler is expecting us in an hour.”
Her laugh was brittle enough to shatter. “You’re delusional if you think I’m picking out rings with you.”
“I didn’t ask what you thought,” I replied.
She crossed her arms, her stance widening as if preparing for battle. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
I sighed, feigning disappointment. “Then I’ll select them myself. Perhaps something restrictive.” I gestured to her neck where my collar had been. “To match.”
Her nostrils flared. “You’re a monster.”
“So they tell me.” I moved to the door. “You have two minutes to decide, Harlowe. Come willingly, or I’ll have Frank carry you to the car.”
* Fucking Bastard