Chapter 8
ANNIE
My head throbbed like someone was using my skull for drum practice. One solid hour of Valor’s voice, his perfect, utterly insufferable voice, had left me with the kind of headache usually reserved for hangovers and concussions.
“And did you see how they captured my profile?” Valor asked, flipping through the digital proofs on his tablet. “The lighting really accentuates my jawline.”
“Mmhmm,” I managed, which seemed to satisfy him enough to continue his monologue.
I knew I should be helping him select the best shots for the upcoming press release.
I needed to look for brand consistency and heroic appeal.
But the hollow ache in my stomach hurt enough to drown out any professional obligations I had left.
Plus, the task was redundant. Every single photo was infuriatingly flawless. Valor’s natural aura basically guaranteed he never took a bad picture.
My stomach let out a growl. The protein bar I’d wolfed down at lunchtime had long since metabolized into nothing.
Stupid, stupid pride. There had been a delivery around lunchtime, something that smelled suspiciously like my favorite curry from that little place three blocks from the Tower. I’d sent it back unopened, just like I’d sent back every single delivery for the past week.
Because apparently starvation was preferable to accepting anything from Cipher. Even if my treacherous stomach disagreed.
My stomach growled again.
“Was that your stomach?” Valor asked, looking vaguely disgusted. As if basic human functions were beneath him. Maybe they were. For all I knew, he photosynthesized or absorbed admiration directly through his pores.
I nodded and mumbled something about skipping lunch.
God, I was hungry. And tired. And so very done with pretending Valor’s jawline was a matter of national importance.
It had been exactly one week since Cipher had kidnapped me from that party. One week of Havoc’s concerned glances and my stomach staging increasingly vocal rebellions.
For the first three days after the kidnapping, I’d made a point of feeding myself properly. Packed lunches, scheduled dinner breaks, the whole responsible adult routine. A silent middle finger to Cipher and his presumptuous food deliveries.
See? I don’t need you.
Then work started to pile up and somehow eating became that thing I’d get to “in a minute” until suddenly it was midnight and I was surviving on coffee and spite.
The deliveries had shown up like clockwork once I’d started forgetting meals. Breakfast pastries that smelled like heaven. Lunches from my favorite places. Dinners that made my mouth water even through the packaging.
I’d refused every single one.
Because accepting them meant admitting he knew me well enough to predict when I’d forget to eat. It meant acknowledging that somewhere in that twisted, brilliant mind of his, he cared.
And that was infinitely more dangerous than a little hunger.
Valor finally approved the last photo with a magnanimous nod, as if bestowing a royal blessing upon the universe. “This one really captures my essence.”
“Great,” I said, gathering my things before he could discover another angle of his face to worship. “See you tomorrow.”
The trip home was a blur of exhaustion and hunger pangs.
My stomach had given up growling and moved straight to what felt like consuming itself.
I should order something. Anything. But the thought of waiting forty-five minutes for delivery made me want to cry.
It would be microwave mac and cheese again, that sad orange powder reconstituted into something vaguely cheese-adjacent, paired with whatever wine was already open.
The nutritional plan of champions. Or of people whose lives were spiraling into sad, pasta-shaped circles.
I unlocked my apartment door to darkness. No Dawn. Again. The place felt hollow, like someone had taken all the warmth and left only empty space.
“Home sweet home,” I announced to nobody. My voice bounced off the walls, mocking me. Even my echo sounded lonely.
I peeled off my work clothes, trading my pencil skirt for sweatpants with a hole in one knee. Professional Annie Bishop was officially off duty.
The knock at the door made me freeze mid-shirt-change. I knew that knock. It was the sound of another delivery I should absolutely refuse.
My stomach let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like begging.
“Fine,” I muttered to my traitorous digestive system. “But this doesn’t mean he wins.”
I shuffled to the door, already making excuses. I’m only accepting this because it would be wasteful not to. Food insecurity is a real problem. I’m basically being charitable.
I swung the door open, prepared speech dying on my lips.
Because there stood Cipher, in jeans and a dark blue henley, holding a bag that smelled like heaven and looking like he might set the building on fire with the force of his glare.
“You haven’t been eating,” he said, his tone clipped.
Of all the nerve. Of all the boundary-crossing, privacy-invading, completely-missing-the-point nerve.
“Fascinating observation,” I replied. “Did your surveillance equipment tell you that, or did you just assume I’d fall apart without your culinary supervision?” I crossed my arms and planted my feet, blocking the threshold. “I’m not accepting that. You can leave.”
“Close the door in my face, Sparks. I won’t stop you.” His voice dropped, smooth and terrifyingly calm. “But I’m not leaving. I’ll stand right here all night. Then, tomorrow morning, when you finally collapse from exhaustion and hunger on your way to the elevator, I’ll be here to catch you.”
Fighting his brand of stubbornness required a level of energy I simply lacked.
I scowled but stepped back and pulled the door wider. Cipher brushed past me.
“I was going to eat dinner,” I insisted.
He spun toward me, his eyes narrowing. “Right. You were going to eat that sad box of mac and cheese, the one with the neon orange powder that tastes like chemicals and regret. You’d wash it down with whatever half-empty bottle of wine is sitting on your counter from three days ago, while standing at the kitchen island because you can’t be bothered to sit down for a meal you know is pathetic. ”
My cheeks burned. It was like he’d installed cameras in my brain.
He stalked to my dining table and started unpacking containers, each one hitting the surface with a little more force than necessary. “You’ve refused every single delivery this week. Every. Single. One.”
“I told you to stop sending them.”
“And I said fucking no. You don’t get to starve yourself on my watch.”
“I don’t need your help,” I snapped, even as the smell of actual food made my knees weak.
Cipher’s laugh was hollow. “Like fuck you don’t.” He straightened, eyes traveling over me. “You’ve lost nine point four pounds. At this point in time, you’re running a daily deficit of at least twelve hundred calories. You’re metabolizing your own muscle tissue.”
“Have you been weighing me in my sleep?”
“I don’t need a fucking scale.” He closed the distance between us too fast for me to back away and wrapped his fingers around my wrist.
His thumb and middle finger overlapped easily. Too easily.
A muscle in his jaw snapped tight and his controlled expression fractured, like feeling the physical proof of my starvation upset him far more than just calculating it. His grip was gentle, but his eyes burned with a caged panic.
Heat from his fingers seeped into my skin and his gaze dropped to where his hand wrapped around my wrist. He stroked a slow circle over my racing pulse with his thumb and a wave of warmth washed over me.
I was so exhausted. I wanted to step forward and let him hold me.
It would be dangerously easy to stop fighting, to let him pull me against his chest and pretend his betrayal never happened.
My treacherous heart hammered against my ribs.
It begged me to surrender to the man who felt like a lifeline. He was warm. He was right here.
But I had explicitly told him to stay away and yet he was standing in my apartment uninvited to dictate my life again.
“I don’t want your food,” I said, pulling my wrist out of his grip and trying to regain control of the situation and myself. “Leave now, or I’m calling Havoc.”
“Call him,” he said softly. “I’m here as a civilian, Sparks. You can’t divulge my identity without violating about sixteen different Alliance and League rules.”
My blood pressure spiked so high I swore I could hear it rushing in my ears. “I won’t be calling Havoc as a Hero, you arrogant ass. I’ll be calling him as my goddamn dad to kick out a domineering jerk who refuses to leave when asked.”
“You could do that,” he conceded, setting down a container of what I now recognized as spicy tuna rolls, my absolute favorite. “And I’ll explain to him that you haven’t been fucking eating. On top of barely sleeping and working yourself to exhaustion.”
He leaned forward. “Then I’ll let Havoc sort all of it out with you. Probably put you on mandatory leave. Minimum two weeks. With daily check-ins.”
I glared at him. That was exactly what Havoc would do.
“You’d really tattle on me to Havoc?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
“Not unless you accept and eat the goddamn food.” He gestured to the spread he’d laid out. “But if you push this, I swear to god I’m going to fucking hand-feed you every goddamn bite.”
I opened my mouth to argue—
“It’s just fucking food, Annie,” Cipher cut me off. “Just eat.”
But we both knew it wasn’t just food. It was control. It was care. It was all the complicated, messy things that existed between us that neither of us knew how to untangle.
I stalked forward and snatched a tray of sushi. The moment my fingers closed around the container, I heard him exhale. I turned my back on him, marching to the kitchen island instead of the table he’d so carefully arranged. A petty victory, but I’d take what I could get.
“This doesn’t mean you win,” I muttered, picking up a piece of spicy tuna.
Cipher sighed behind me. “This isn’t a goddamn competition.”