Page 245 of Hide and Keep

Yeah.

“Probably spit it right back out.”

It’ll be a struggle to keep it in for sure.

“My daughter has better manners than that, don’t you, Never?” my father asks rhetorically.

“Won’t it go to your hips though?”

Crue’s reaching now. I eat fish. I just don’t eat fish prepared in citrus baths.

It’s bad, whatever he did. But if he’s willing to put himself in danger, then so am I. Either both of us eat it, or neither of us do.

I glance up at him. “Cheer season’s over.”

Again, he shakes his head, his eyes a pendulum between mine as he begs silently with them.

I use mine to beg even harder.Don’t do this—whateverthisis. Let them eat it alone. Let them puke and writhe in pain until their insides are desiccated. I don’t give a shit. Please, please, don’t eat it.

I lift a forkful of ceviche.

Or I will, too.

Several moments pass, neither of us blinking, until finally, Crue scoffs and tosses his chip on his plate, pieces of barracuda tumbling off it.

I lower my fork instantly.

“I guess I should’ve expected this. You have been eating everything in sight lately.”

Every man in the room gives my appearance offensive inspections except Edwin, who excuses himself a few steps backward in effort to blend in with the wall.

Newsflash: it doesn’t work.

My stare turns deadly. He’s resorting to weight-shaming me? That’s a very low blow.

“Is this true?” my father questions.

“So what if it is?” I counter. Unless we’re counting my recent intake of cum, I haven’t changed my eating habits whatsoever. But I will not be shamed either way.

“Take it away,” he instructs someone.

I tear my gaze from Crue’s in time to watch Ryan remove my entire plate.

“I didn’t eat!” I shout, my anger bubbling over.

“Apparently, you have. It’s for your own good. I will not have my daughter turn into a pig before she’s even wed.”

Crue’s frown is obvious even out of the corner of my eye.

This is his doing. He said that knowing my father would overreact. He should’ve known I would as well.

Standing quickly enough to knock my chair over, I swing an arm at Crue’s plate, smacking it off the table. It lands on the floor with a clatter.

Neither of us it is.

“Never!” Father booms. “What do you think you’re—”

“How’s that for manners, Father?” With a smile in place, I curtsy, then spin on my heel and leave the dining room a whole lot quieter than it was when I entered.

---