Chapter 10 #2
“I know every curve of your body, Bianca.” His voice is rough, intimate. “I've been watching you for years. I know exactly what you look like, and there's not a damn thing wrong with you. Open.”
I do, my heart hammering. This is unbelievable. This whole situation is unreal .
“Marcus wants me thin,” I whisper after I swallow. I don't know why I'm telling him this. “My mother says the dress has to fit perfectly. I can't?—”
The fork clatters onto the plate. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me back harder against his chest. I can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat against my spine.
“Marcus,” he growls, “is a fucking eejit who wouldn't know perfection if it was sitting in his lap. Which you're not anymore, because you're here with me, and I will feed you properly every goddamn day if that's what it takes.”
He picks up the fork again, his movements controlled despite the anger I can feel vibrating through him. “Now eat. All of it. Including the toast.”
“I can feed myself?—”
“You had your chance.” Another bite, this one bigger. “You chose to starve yourself for a man who doesn't deserve you. So now I'll feed you, and you don’t have to eat more than you want to, as long as you’re not starving yourself.”
I should fight this. I should be screaming and clawing and doing everything in my power to get away from him.
But his arm is solid and warm around my waist, the food tastes incredible, and there's something about the way he's holding me—not roughly, but firmly, like I'm precious and breakable and he won't let me hurt myself.
“Why do you care?” I whisper .
He goes still behind me. The fork pauses halfway to my lips.
“Because you're mine now,” he finally says, his rough voice barely above a murmur. “And I protect what's mine. That includes you. Now open, lass. Are you still hungry?”
I nod reluctantly and open my mouth. I am hungry. He feeds me another bite, then another, patient and relentless, until every scrap of food is gone and I'm full in a way I haven't been in months.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my hair, and I hate that the praise makes me shiver. “See? That wasn't so hard, was it?”
I'm trembling in his lap, overwhelmed and confused and terrified by how safe I feel here, caged in the arms of a man who kidnapped me.
“I hate you,” I whisper, but it comes out weaker than before.
“I know, lass.” His thumb traces small circles on my hip through my pajamas. “You can hate me all you want. But you're going to eat, even if I have to feed you, and you're going to stop thinking you need to be smaller to be worth something. Understood?”
I don't answer. I can't. Something’s caught in my throat, and I’m not sure why.
He shifts me in his lap, turning me slightly so he can see my face. His silver eyes search mine, and whatever he sees there makes his expression soften just a fraction.
“We'll work on it,” he says quietly. “But I mean what I said, Bianca. You're perfect the way you are. And anyone who made you think otherwise is a fucking fool.”
“No,” I protest, my eyes watering. He won't take this from me. It's my fucking identity. If I'm not trying to hate myself into a smaller size, who even am I?
“I'm plump enough,” I whisper.
“Say that again,” he says quietly. Dangerously quiet.
“I said… I'm plump enough.” I swallow hard.
“Christ,” he says in a low curse. “If I hear you say one more self-deprecating thing about yourself, Bianca, I swear to Christ…” He cuts himself off, then pauses, his voice husky with a hint of warning in it. “You ought to be spanked for that.”
The words hit me. Heat floods my face, and something low in my stomach tightens in a way that has no business happening right now. Not with him. Not here.
“You said you wouldn't hurt me,” I whisper.
His expression softens just a bit, but his tone stays firm. “I'm not going to hurt you. But I will protect you from this bollocks, even if that means putting you over my knee and reminding you of what you're worth.”
I can't breathe. I can't think .
Who does he think he is, just intruding into my deepest, darkest secrets?
I can't do anything but stare up at this massive, dangerous man who looks at me like I'm something precious.
Turning me to face him, he holds my chin in his hand. “Listen to me, Bianca. You are fucking gorgeous . Do you hear me? Gorgeous in a way that makes men stupid.”
My breath hitches.
He continues. “I've watched you walk down streets, and I’ve seen men trip over their own feet trying to get a second fucking look.
I've seen the way they stare at you in that coffee shop.
The way they lean in closer when you take your hat off.
The way they'd do anything just for a moment of your attention.
But you don't notice, do you? No. Too busy staring at that fucking Crowning prick.
Too busy thinking you're anything but perfect.”
He leans in closer, and I'm trapped between him and the chair… between fear and something I don't want to name.
“Your curves.” His gaze drops for a second, then snaps back to my eyes. “The way your jeans hug your hips. The way you fill out a jumper. The way you move through the world, like you don't know how beautiful you are.”
“Stop,” I whisper.
“No.” He shakes his head. “You need to hear this. You need to understand. Your body isn't something to be ashamed of, lass. It's something men would kill for. It's something I…” He stops himself, his jaw clenching .
“Something you, what?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I want him to admit that he's done something wrong. And I can't stand the intensity of his stare, not for another second.
I've spent years of my life trying to force myself, to hate myself, into being different . Listened to the words my mother said, only confirmed by Marcus.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a heartbeat before he looks back into my eyes. “Something I think about way more than I should. Something I've memorized from a distance and still can't stop imagining up close.”
Good. God .
The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. He's not just protective. He hasn't just stalked me. He's… he's obsessed.
“You're mad,” I whisper.
The ghost of a smile crosses his features. “I told you that last night. We're all mad here, remember?”
He stands up, giving me space again, but the air between us feels charged and dangerous.
“Eat your toast, Bianca. I'm not in the business of force-feeding.
But if you're not eating it because you think you need to starve yourself and somehow be little Miss Perfect, I'm telling you again—it's not happening.
You already are perfect. I need you healthy and strong, and I'll not have you starving yourself over some nonsense Crowning or your mother put in your fucking head. ”
He walks back to his side of the table, stares at me for a moment, then walks over to the counter. He grabs two fresh slices of bread and puts them in the toaster.
I watch. The smell of it toasting fills the air. I do like toast. Who doesn't like toast? It smells delicious. It's good, thick artisan bread. I wonder where he got it from?
A moment later, the toast pops up. I'm nibbling a piece of bacon when he brings two large slices, liberally spread with butter.
“There. There's some fresh toast. If you want it, for the love of fucking god, eat it, lass.”
I stare at the toast. My hands are trembling. Slowly, I pick up a piece and take a bite. It’s delectable. Crispy on the outside, warm and tender on the inside, and deliciously buttery.
I can't help the small groan that escapes. Oh god, I'm so hungry, and this tastes so good.
As my appetite's sated, I realize with growing horror—and something else I refuse to examine—that some twisted part of me liked hearing every word he said.
I finish the last bite of toast, hating that it tastes so good—riddled with guilt and mentally tallying the amount of calories and fat I just ate. I wonder if he'd stop me if I tried to somehow… exercise it off or something.
Hating even more that a traitorous part of me still feels warm from his words .
No one's ever said those things to me before.
Fuck, I wish I could believe him.
He watches me, and when I set the toast down, he nods.
“Good girl.”
The words shouldn't affect me the way they do. I look away and focus on Lancelot instead, trying to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.
“I'll get what the cat needs today,” he says, then stands, collecting our plates with an efficiency that speaks of living alone for a long time.
I watch as he brings the dishes over to the sink, takes a can of tuna out of the cabinet, opens it, dumps it on a plate, then carefully breaks it up with a fork. Lancelot quickly leaps off my lap and rushes over to eat the fish.
Of course he does, the damn traitor.
He's fed me, aye. He's praised my curves, I know. But he's a stranger I've never met, and the man's right obsessed with me.
It shouldn't be… flattering .
Ashland rinses the dishes while I find myself cataloging escape routes. I still need to find my way out.
“I have to leave for a bit today,” he says, turning around. “It’ll just be a few hours. Business I can't get out of. It's not safe for me to take you with me, but you're safe here. And I need to trust that you'll not do something foolish. ”
Hope surges through my chest. He's leaving. I could escape. A few hours is all I need. All I need to do is figure out where I am, find a road, and flag down help.
“Don't get any ideas, lass.” His voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade. His eyes are watching me too carefully, reading every flicker of emotion. “I'll secure the cabin before I leave. Make sure you can't hurt yourself trying to escape.”
“What does that mean?” I stand up.
He glances my way, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He's so close now, I can see the dark ring around his irises and the faint scar cutting across his eyebrow.
“It means I'm going to lock the doors. It means that I have cameras set up. It means I'll board up anything you might break and make sure you have all that you need, but no way out.” His hand comes up, and I flinch, but he just tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness.
If he is my protective captor, he hasn't broken character yet.
“I know what you're thinking, Bianca, but I'm telling you now—don't try it.”
“You can't keep me prisoner here,” I whisper.
“I can and I will, because out there you're in danger.
Here you're safe. I know you don't believe it yet, but you will.” He takes a breath and sits on the sofa, pulling a pair of shoes toward him.
“I'll be gone for two, three hours at the most. And when I come back, we'll talk about why you're here, about what's happening.”
“Tell me now.”
“I couldn't. No. Because you'd argue… I'd get angry, and I don't want to leave like that.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Concern? Regret?
“Ashland.”
He looks up at the sound of his name. I don't even know why I said it. What do I want from him?
“I…” I swallow. “How do I know you'll come back?”
The question surprises me as much as it seems to surprise him. I hate the idea that he took me, but being alone in a place like this indefinitely…
His expression softens. “I'll always come back, Bianca. That's a promise.”
Then he's moving through the cabin, and I'm rooted to the spot, listening to the sounds of him securing the place. He walks over and takes me by the elbow. “Sit down a minute, please.”
I hear the click of locks, the thud of something heavy being moved. He's thorough and methodical, as every exit, every window, every possible escape route is secured.
Finally, he comes back to where I'm sitting .
“There's food in the fridge and books on the shelves. I'll bring back what the cat needs. He's alright for now?”
I nod. “We'll make do for now. He's adaptable, for the time being.”
Kind of like me.
Ashland's eyes darken. “Now you won’t do anything stupid, will you?”
“And if I do?”
Why did I say that?
He winks at me. Actually fucking winks, and my heart tumbles in my chest because why is that so hot ?
“Then you'll answer to me when I get back, won't you? Trust me, I don't know if you want that, do you?”
“But you said?—”
“I won’t hurt you. But you might be pleasantly surprised by your response to a little well-placed discipline.”
He moves to the front door, and I follow him, keeping my distance. I watch as he pulls it open, revealing trees. Morning light filters through, and I can hear birds singing.
Freedom is right there. So close.
But he's blocking the doorway—all six-foot-whatever of him, tattooed and dangerous, watching me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking .
“Behave yourself, sweet girl.”
Then he's gone.
I hear a lock click, then another, then something else—like a bar or bolt sliding into place.
And I'm alone.
For the first time since he took me, I'm completely, utterly alone.
I count to sixty in my head. Once, twice, three times.
Ten minutes pass.
And when I'm positive he's gone, I spring into action.
I am getting out of here.
I go to the back door first. Locked, just like he said. And of course, when I rattle the handle, it doesn't budge.
The windows are small, deep-set in stone walls. I try to open one in the kitchen, but it won't move. I examine it more closely and see fresh screws in the frame.
He screwed them fucking shut.
The front door? Forget that. There's obviously something barricading it from the outside.
Think, Bianca. Think.
I go to the bedroom and look through the closet, finding nothing but a few clothes meant for me. The bathroom window is a tiny pane of frosted glass .
There has to be a way out.
Lancelot winds between my ankles. “You're no help.”
But as I sit there, my mind begins to work through the problem logically. He said he'd be gone two to three hours. Not much time, but it's something. He's thorough, yes, but he's not perfect. Is he?
I just have to find the weakness. The way out.
I stand up, square my shoulders, and start my search again, this time more carefully, knowing there's no rush. I can take my time.
Because I'm not staying here.
When he comes back, he's going to realize that I'm not his to keep.