Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Bianca
I hover in the doorway between the bedroom and the main room, watching him move around the kitchen like he's done this a thousand times before.
Meanwhile, I’m pretending I'm not so starving I feel faint.
What do I really know about this man? Nothing except his name is Ashland. He’s dangerous; he says he's the one who saved me—though I don't remember many details of that night—and he says he's been watching me for six years.
Oh, and he also thinks kidnapping is an acceptable form of protection.
Of course, the details he rattled off about my life confirm that he has indeed been watching—no, stalking me .
I shiver and rub my hands over my arms. He pauses slightly and turns a bit so I'm visible in his peripheral vision, but then goes back to cooking, as if he doesn't want to frighten me or scare me away.
I am starving… ravenously, dangerously hungry. There are dots in my vision when I look around, and my stomach won't stop growling. Even now, knowing I'm starving, there’s still a part of me that thinks, Good, I can lose a few pounds.
I swallow hard. My mouth is watering because it smells so good in here.
The morning light filters through the windows, catching on the Celtic knots tattooed on his forearms. As he cracks eggs into a bowl, his movements are efficient and practiced, his large hands surprisingly deft. He whisks them with a fork, moving with unexpected precision.
The muscles in his shoulders flex beneath his black T-shirt with each motion, and I hate myself a little for noticing. He hasn't fully looked at me yet, or acknowledged my presence, but I know he knows I'm watching.
“Sit,” he says without turning around, nodding toward the table. “Food will be ready in a minute.”
With his back to me, I wonder for a moment whether he actually thinks I could hurt him. He has his back to me, and if he was afraid of me, would that be smart ?
He isn't even looking my way, but something tells me that if I so much as moved wrong, his reflexes would be as swift and efficient as a leopard's.
I still don’t trust him. “I told you I'm not hungry.”
“And I told you I'm cooking anyway.” He glances over his shoulder, those silver eyes pinning me in place. “Sit down, lass. You heard what I said. You need to eat. If you don’t, I’ll feed you myself.”
“Fasting is beneficial,” I counter, as my stomach growls with hunger.
“Doing what you’re told is beneficial.” A muscle tics in his jaw. “Sit, lass.”
This time, there's something in his voice, not quite a command, but close enough, that makes my legs move before my brain catches up.
I sink into one of the chairs at the table, and Lancelot jumps into my lap.
I pull him close to me, run my fingers through his fur, and take great solace in the comforting hum of his purr.
He doesn’t even like cats. Would he bring my cat here, then poison me? It makes no logical sense.
I watch as he pulls packages from the fridge and cupboard, opening each sealed one in front of me. Bacon, butter, bread, and jam. He holds up each item like he's presenting evidence.
“See? Nothing tampered with. Not trying to drug you. ”
His voice is quiet, almost tender, as if there's a plea laced in his words, begging me to trust him.
It's oddly considerate, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking and what I'm afraid of.
He turns back to the stove, and I find myself watching the way his body moves again—all controlled power and lethal grace.
The way his shaved head catches the light.
The way his tattoos wind down to his scarred knuckles, intricate and threatening but… somehow beautiful.
He's cooking breakfast like I'm his girlfriend who spent the night.
The absurdity of it all makes my head spin.
Why is it so hard to imagine Marcus cooking for me? He'd hire someone, yes, or take me to a restaurant, but I don't know if I've ever seen the man dirty his hands. What if something splattered?
Within minutes, he's plating food. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, buttered toast. My mouth waters, and I swallow hard. I am famished .
He sets it all in front of me with surprising gentleness, his scarred knuckles brushing the edge of the plate.
“Eat, Bianca.”
I stare at the food. It smells incredible, and my stomach growls traitorously. I still don't want to give him the satisfaction.
Except he did open everything in front of me, didn't he? I watched him cook it. And I'm so damn hungry I could cry.
Fine. I'll try a little .
I pick up a fork with shaky hands and take a small bite of the eggs. My mouth instantly waters. They're perfectly fluffy, seasoned with just a hint of butter, black pepper, and salt.
Damn him.
I take another bite, then reach for the bacon. It's thick, crispy, and salty, just the way I like it. I don't touch the toast. I mentally calculate the calories I’ve consumed on autopilot.
He makes his own plate now, loading it with enough food to feed three people, then sits across from me, his eyes watching every move as he cuts into his eggs. There must be six or eight of them on his plate.
“Why aren't you eating the toast?” His voice is casual, but there's an edge to it. “There's jam there if you want something sweet.”
Fuck. I haven't had carbs in god knows how long, and I only allowed myself to have a small bit of bacon.
I shrug and push the bread to the side of my plate. “I'm not hungry for it. I've eaten everything else.”
His jaw clenches, and he gives me a stern look. “Bianca.”
I don't look at him. Why has this stranger I've never met before seen right through me? My mother doesn't second- guess when I skip the potato or refuse toast. Hell, she sometimes asks me why I've eaten as much as I did and reminds me of the wedding dress.
Maybe one more bite of eggs. Another tiny nibble of bacon—it's fatty, but it's got protein. Anything to avoid those piercing eyes of his.
“Lass, I asked you a question.”
“I'm eating, just like you asked me to,” I snap back. “And I don't answer to you. I'm just not hungry for carbs.”
Why did I say it like that? Like I need to justify myself to him.
The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I don't want to get into this with him.
“Carbs?” He says the word like it offends or confuses him. “The fuck not? You need energy.”
My cheeks heat. This is humiliating.
“I don't need them, alright? I'm already…” I stop myself, but it's too late.
“Already what?” he says, leaning in. I'm pinned by his gaze, steady as silver moonlight.
I bite my lip and stare at my plate. “Plump enough, alright? Fat . I don't need more carbs. I was hungry, and this is fine. This is great. Thank you.”
The words hang in the air between us.
When I finally look up, his eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, and he’s gone completely still.
Then he moves.
He's around the table before I can blink, his chair scraping back with a harsh sound. His tattooed hands reach for me, and I freeze, my fork clattering to the plate.
“What are you?—”
“Up.” His voice is low, dangerous. Not angry, but something darker, more intense. When I don't move fast enough, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing at all and carries me back to his chair.
“Ashland—”
He sits, settling me sideways across his lap, one thick arm banding around my waist to keep me there. I'm pressed against all that solid muscle, his chest a wall of heat behind me, and my brain short-circuits.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Language,” he murmurs, reaching across me to drag my plate closer. “You ate less than my cousin’s toddler. I told you if you didn’t eat, I’d feed you myself.”
“I am eating?—”
“Half a strip of bacon and two bites of eggs isn't eating.” He picks up the toast, spreads butter on it with quick, efficient movements, then adds a generous layer of jam. “Now open.”
I clamp my mouth shut and glare at him over my shoulder. This close, I can see every detail of his harsh but beautiful face—the scar through his eyebrow, the darker ring around those silver eyes, the scruff along his jaw that's growing in.
“ Bianca .” His voice drops lower, and I feel it rumble through his chest against my back. “Don't make me ask twice.”
“You can't just?—”
He takes advantage of me speaking to slip the toast between my lips. I taste butter and strawberry jam, the bread soft and still warm, and my treacherous body hums with pleasure at the flavors.
“There we go,” he says quietly, and I hate the approval in his voice, hate that it makes something warm unfurl in my chest. “Chew and swallow, lass. Good girl. For a minute, I thought I'd have to turn you over my knee before you'd obey me.”
Heat absolutely floods me as my mouth gapes open. He takes advantage of this to slide more toast between my lips again.
I want to spit it out on principle, but I'm so hungry, and it tastes so good, and his arm is still locked around my waist like iron. So I chew. I swallow.
“I don't need you to?—”
Another bite. He's relentless, holding the toast to my lips, waiting until I open before pressing it forward .
“Fat,” he says, and there's something dangerous in his tone now. “If I ever hear that word come out of your mouth again…”
I swallow hard, and my face burns. “I don't want to talk about this.”
“Too fucking bad.” He sets the toast down and reaches for the fork, spearing eggs and bacon together. “Because we're going to. Open.”
“Ashland—”
He waits, the fork hovering, his eyes boring into the side of my face. I can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles are coiled tight beneath me.
I open my mouth. He slides the fork in, gentle despite the intensity rolling off him in waves.
“You're perfect, Bianca,” he says quietly, loading the fork again. “Absolutely bloody perfect, and I don't know who made you think otherwise, but they're wrong.”
“You don't—” I try to protest, but he's already bringing another bite to my lips.