Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
ROSE
His intense gaze pinned me in place, and I reluctantly returned it.
An involuntary gasp escaped my lips at the sight of his face.
From up close, he was more intimidating than I had expected.
His piercing sky-blue eyes stripped me bare, as if he knew all my secrets.
He wore a stoic expression, while his full lips pressed in a hard line that gave nothing away.
The air felt hotter with every breath I took, and I almost suffocated under the weight of this man’s imposing presence. My palms grew slick with sweat. One look had unsettled me, and I nervously fidgeted, attempting to regain some semblance of composure.
There was a foreboding feeling that our paths had crossed before.
How was that possible? From what I gathered, I was homeless and possibly a drug addict.
This beautiful stranger—Dr. Maxwell—looked nothing like anyone from the streets.
Everything about him was luxurious and posh.
Impeccable clothing clung to his sculpted physique, his giant frame mimicking that of a professional wrestler rather than a physician.
He seemed too young to be a doctor, though the title was somehow fitting.
He had only one thing in common with the folks on the streets—a tolerance for violence. His knuckles were bloody from the scuffle. There were paintings and broken glass on the ground, but he seemed unfazed by the havoc he had wreaked.
I wondered what the doctor planned to do to me. Would he throw me into deep water for sneaking in? I had no idea if I could swim.
I should have been trembling with panic.
Instead, all I felt was undue fascination, and I couldn’t tear my eyes from the man.
It was impossible not to be captivated by him.
Raw masculinity emanated from the man with little effort.
Our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.
He scrutinized me with a calculating gaze, and the tension between us grew palpable with each passing second.
He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, revealing defined veins pulsating beneath his taut skin. Since I couldn’t predict his intentions, I prepared for fight-or-flight mode. But all he did was grab the muffin I had dropped on the table and extend it to me.
“Was this what you wanted?” Dr. Maxwell asked, dropping his voice to a much softer tone.
I didn’t reach for the muffin. Instead, my gaze drifted to where the injured man had escaped. Since the moment I woke up on the street, no one had shown me kindness. It was difficult to accept that a man capable of such violence would be the first.
Silence stretched between us, but he wasn’t perturbed. He seemed practiced with patience. The piece of cake taunted me, and my stomach growled for the hundredth time. I could no longer hold out, even if this kindness was a ploy to seize my hand and drag me out to throw me in the water.
I snatched the muffin from his grasp before he could do such a thing, biting into it savagely.
When he rose, I waited for the other shoe to drop.
My eyes tracked him until he returned with a water bottle, popped the top open, and held it out under the table.
With trepidation, I grabbed the bottle and scrambled away.
I gorged like a wild animal before the morsels could be taken away.
“Drink slowly and only a little at a time,” he instructed. “If you haven’t had fresh water lately, too much at once can cause water intoxication.”
There it was again. The deep timbre in his familiar voice had my heart in a choke hold. I momentarily neglected my stomach and stared at him.
“Same goes for the muffin. Small bites until your stomach adapts. Otherwise, your body will go into shock.”
I forced myself to nod and took a small sip of water.
What I really wanted was to down the entire bottle and violently inhale the muffin.
But something in his tone made me heed the advice.
At this point, I was certain he wasn’t playing a cruel prank.
It was the first dose of generosity I had experienced.
Nonetheless, when he offered his hand, I retreated as far back into the nook as possible. He’d have to crawl under the table to reach me, which seemed beneath him. A man like him preferred to coax his prey out rather than engage in tedious labor.
As I suspected, he grabbed a tray from one of the stands and held it just out of my reach.
A delicious aroma floated into the air when he removed the steel cover, giving me a glimpse of a saucy stack of flat noodles with golden-brown edges.
The sight jogged my memory. It was lasagna, and it had never looked so appetizing.
Rich marinara sauce oozed out of the tender pasta, cradling a harmonious blend of fragrant herbs.
Melted mozzarella blanketed the top with a sprinkle of fresh basil.
The burst of color made it appear more tantalizing.
“I bet you’re hungry for more than a piece of muffin.” His voice was silky, like a seductive dream. “Why don’t you come out of there for a proper meal?”
His offer prompted another memory—a children’s story.
The images were hazy, but I remembered the book from when I was only a little girl.
The story was about two hungry children, Hansel and Gretel.
They were lured into a witch’s lair with food, only to be prepped to become dinner instead. I couldn’t refute the similarities.
When I didn’t move, he lowered another tray, tempting me with a platter stacked high with French fries.
The pain of the fries I had given away was still too fresh.
It seemed fate was rewarding me with a better version.
These fries were covered in melted cheese.
My mouth watered when some of it seeped further into the potatoes.
Everyone had their limits, and I had met mine. The delicious bait had its intended effect. I abandoned the muffin wrapper, inching toward him on all fours. As soon as I was within reach, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to him.
Every part of my body came alive when I crashed against his chest. My heart pounded violently against my rib cage.
Fire erupted from my toes to my fingertips.
Blaring alarms sounded in my ears. I gazed at his airtight hold on my arms. The contact set something in motion for me.
I didn’t know whether it was fear or anticipation. Perhaps it was both.
I tilted my face to see if it had the same effect on him. There was no change in his stoic expression. His eyes lingered on my arms, slowly trailing to my neck, and finally resting on my lips. The extent of his perusal was clinical, whereas I was ready to pass out from the sudden energy shift.
Maybe the effect wasn’t exclusive to him.
No one had held me against their chest. Physical contact with any human could have triggered such a reaction, though it was hard to imagine it would be so intense.
There was something unsettling about his closeness.
I tried to pull away, but his hold tightened with a transparent message: he wouldn’t let me go.
He led me to a booth set for two. “Stay here,” he commanded, helping me shrug off the tattered coat. There was no doubt in his voice, only self-assured confidence. It had an eerie effect, forcing me to obey his command. My butt parked on the seat on its own.
I watched him grab a plate and visit the tray stands for a serving of each food item. When he placed the stacked plate in front of me, I attacked it like a street dog. I ignored the utensils beside me, eating with my hands and without an ounce of class.
“Easy,” he cooed. “Remember what I told you. Eat slowly as you reintroduce food into your system.” He sat on the bench next to me and grabbed my wrists.
Surprised, I dropped the piece of chicken in my hand. Sitting across from me would’ve made more sense. Why would he sit next to a dirty stray dog? I smelled foul.
He didn’t seem to notice and wiped my hands with a linen napkin. Twirling a strand of pasta around a fork, he lifted it to my mouth. Flabbergasted, I parted my lips and let him feed me like a child.
“Chew slowly,” he instructed before removing the lid from another water bottle. Before I could reach for it, he held it against my lips. “Remember, drink only a little at a time.”
I tipped my head back and let him feed me small sips of water. Satisfied, he set the bottle on the table and wrapped another thin strand of pasta around his fork.
The impatient part of me wanted to face-plant into the food. Eat so much that I would never know hunger pains again. The only thing that stopped me was the strange need to appease him. I was extremely conscious of his every move whenever he picked up the fork and brought it to my lips.
His large hand wrapped around my waist to pull me closer until I was practically sitting on his lap. The hold was rigid, as if he feared I’d disappear into thin air. The intimacy should’ve alarmed me, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. I was finally warm and fed. Nothing else seemed to matter.
Instead, I was more concerned about my pungent odor. With our proximity, there was no way for him to miss it. My only hope was that he had a condition where he didn’t have a sense of smell.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he ordered when I sank farther into his arms. My eyes grew heavy the more he filled my belly with food. “You might have a concussion.”
Concussion?
I didn’t know the word. Instead of trying to remember it, I focused on staying upright. Unlike the stench coming from me, his smell was intoxicating. I grabbed on to it like a lifeline to stay alert. I inhaled it hungrily, hoping it’d distract me from the oncoming slumber.
It had the opposite effect.
The heady cologne must have been doused in mind-altering substances. It acted like a hallucinogen when combined with the comfort of his warm arms. It made me give in, and I sighed contentedly, hoping against hope this reprieve wasn’t a cruel joke.
“Open your eyes,” he said huskily when my eyes drooped.
The voice came out of nowhere, and I glanced at him. My head reeled back, startled at how he was watching me. The intensity behind his blue eyes was mesmerizing.
Why was he looking at me that way?
I was nobody. I reeked of garbage, quite literally, since I had been sleeping behind a dumpster with rats.
He looked expensive and smelled so good that it made me dizzy. Yet, he looked at me like I was the prize to be won—like I was already his.
I didn’t understand. Why did he want to feed me, let alone hold me? Everything about me was filthy. I stared at his luxurious shoes and realized my dirty feet had soiled the expensive flooring. Swiftly, I withdrew my feet, tucking them under the bench.
“We’ll get you cleaned up once you finish eating,” he informed me, voice just as rough and certain as before. It gripped my soul and coiled around my spine. Similar to his features, it was angelic with cruel edges—like a fallen angel.
I must be in heaven, then. Angels and an abundance of food only existed there.
Relief flooded me at the thought of not returning to the cruel streets.
There were plenty of opportunities to die behind that lonely dumpster, but my survival instincts never faltered.
Something innate told me I had to stay alive even when there was nothing worth living for, and tonight was my prize for staying alive.
“I’m Rose,” I suddenly declared.
He paused, as did my food supply. Those were the first words I had uttered to him. Perhaps my voice broke the trance, and it dawned on him that he was hand-feeding a homeless person.
“What?” he asked as if he had misheard me.
Over the last few days, I had gathered that I was soft-spoken. It didn’t come as a surprise that he had a hard time hearing me. I cleared my throat.
“My name is Rose,” I tried again, speaking louder this time. When he frowned, I reverted to my innately hushed tone and added, “Though, I can’t remember my last name.”
Strong hands gripped my nape, forcing me to meet his gaze. The darkness in his blue eyes clashed with confusion. “What do you mean you can’t remember your last name?” he barked.
I flinched at the hostility over a simple introduction. “I-I woke up in an alley one day. I had no idea how I got there and couldn’t remember anything other than my first name.”
He grabbed my cheeks, his gloomy eyes searching mine and trying to dissect the truth. I suppose my story sounded fictional to others.
“What’s your name?” I garbled through my duck lips, courtesy of his tight grip.
For several moments, he said nothing, digesting the monumental information. A fleeting expression of something crossed his face once he processed it, something calculative.
He was impossible to read, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he was forming the first drafts of a loose plan. Like he was cooking up something and considering the logistics.
But how would my memory loss benefit him?
He finally let go and picked up the fork. After I had given up on an introduction, he said, “I’m Caledon Maxwell. But call me Caden.”