Page 83 of Black Sheep

If I was told ten minutes ago that I would have an appetite following our conversation, I would’ve laughed. Instead, my stomach lurches in wild anticipation when aromas hit my nostrils. Tired of my body betraying me, I force myself to stay put in the middle of the bed.

“Let’s see, we have hash browns, eggs Benedict, scrambled eggs, toast, Belgian waffles with whipped cream, coffee, and juice. Or smoked salmon with watercress salad, seared lobster omelet, chicken Caesar salad.” He stops and glances my way, eyebrows raised.

I should be shocked that his mood has morphed too. But just like I was fooled for a long time into believing in a different Axel, so I know that the man in front of me possesses many facets.

Right now, he’s an alpha beast intent on feeding his prey before he devours it. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I say.

Gray eyes scrutinize my face and body for a long moment before he shakes his head. “I doubt that, sweetheart. You’re nowhere near equipped to deal with the magnitude of my appetite.” He pours two cups of coffee, sets the sweetened one on a tray before he starts piling selections of food on a plate. Juice, water and condiments go on the tray before he lifts it and heads my way. He places the tray in my lap, then catches my chin in his hands, tilting my head. “Eat everything on that plate, and we’ll discuss items of clothing.”

I bristle. “I’m not a child to be offered treats for good behavior.”

“No. You’re mine. And I’ll make you jump through as many hoops as I want. Even if some of them are for your own good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you still have a mutinous little streak, when you’re in a mood. Tell me you weren’t dreaming up an excuse not to eat just now?”

A nasty bolt of surprise kicks me. “And how would you know that?”

A bleak look flits over his face, lightning fast and savage, then it’s gone. “Not everything you imagine is altered has altered, Cleo. Now. Eat.”

I stare at his retreating back as he returns to the trolley. I pick up my cutlery, tossing the cryptic remark in my mind then discarding it. Everything I imagined altered. Everything. Wiped out of existence by a twenty-one-minute video that is seared in my mind and plays on an endless loop, awake or asleep.

If it didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here.

Chapter Twenty-Three

CONFESSOR, MY CONFESSOR

I jump at the sound of a champagne cork popping. I look up, certain with every breath in my body that we don’t have a single thing to celebrate. But the Dom Pérignon is being poured into a flute containing orange juice. Shock punches through me. I’m unwilling to attribute the mimosa he’s fixing to the memory that suddenly lances through my mind.

A stolen moment at my sweet sixteen birthday party where he pulls me into a silent corner and produces a bottle of champagne and two glasses. A sip of bubbly and comical choking when it goes down the wrong way. The loss of cool prompts his teasing laughter and my annoyed embarrassment. I declare that I hate champagne. Axel stops laughing, tells me to wait, and sneaks into the kitchen to grab a carton of juice. My first mimosa tastes like ambrosia. I beg for more and I drink until my vision blurs.

It became our drink of celebration.

A drink he’s holding out to me now, his eyes steady and unnervingly direct. I don’t want to take it. But I get the feeling this, more than the breakfast sitting in my lap, holds the power to determine my future.

With a not-quite-steady hand, I take it.

He goes back to fix a plate for himself, which he returns with to sit in the armchair. I barely manage to hold off rolling my eyes at the goodness of the cream-topped waffles. And the melt-in-your-mouth omelets. Everything on my plate tastes gloriously good. Halfway through eating, I risk a glance his way to find his gaze on me, a twisted little smile on his lips. Pursing my own, I go back to eating.

He wolfs his own meal down in silence then goes back for a second helping. “More?”

I look from his raised eyebrow to my plate, shocked that it’s wiped clean. Frowning inwardly at my runaway appetite, I shake my head. He returns with the last waffle heaped with cream but, instead of the armchair, he sits on the bed, tantalizingly close.

He takes his time to arrange the perfect mouthful of waffle, cream, and strawberry and holds it against my lips. I shake my head. Piercing eyes narrow. “It’s fucking okay to enjoy it, baby. There are many things I hold against you. Food isn’t one of them.”

Another remark to puzzle over as I open up and take the food.

When we’re done, he disposes of the trolley and returns to bed. Stretching out next to me, he tucks his hands under his head. The action rucks up his T-shirt, and I swallow at the mouth-watering inches of sleekly muscled, tattooed skin on display. He catches me watching, a slow, heavy gleam entering his eyes.

“Now, let’s discuss the next item on the agenda.” His tone is casual, but a hard knot threads through his words.

“I need clothes, including underwear.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. His finger slides across the screen, and he hits dial, then speaker.

“Good afternoon, Axel,” B’s smooth voice greets him.

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