Page 31 of Redeemed

“A little better, I think.”

“Good. Can I—” He pauses when he notices my half-eaten sandwich on my nightstand. “You should finish that.”

“Probably,” I mutter tiredly.

“Definitely,”he says, managing a gentle firmness that my father and Isaiah never could. “Your emotions are directly affected by what you put into your body. If you’re not giving it enough fuel, it’ll be harder for you to clear your mind.”

“Oh.”

“It’s why I’m so careful about what I eat.” He grins. “Well, most of the time, anyway.”

“That… makes sense. My stomach just doesn’t feel that great.”

“Probably because you’re hungry.” As Colton comes closer, he watches me, trying to gauge my reaction. When he’s right next to my bed, he picks up the sandwich. “Sit up.”

Slowly, I do. I really, really don’t want to eat anything, but there’s a determination in Colton’s eyes that makes me think I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.

“Eat your sandwich,” he tells me, holding it out.

“I don’t—”

“Eat it.”

I jump at the harshness in his tone, panic spiraling through me again. He looks so irritated, and I can’t help but wish that Athelia was still here to tell him off.

“God, fuck, I’m sorry.” Rubbing at his face, sighs. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just want you to feel better, all right?”

I nod.

He’s not Isaiah.

Not Isaiah.

Not going to hurt you.

“Now, take a bite.”

I expect Colton to hand me the sandwich, but instead he holds it up to my mouth. Hesitantly, I take a bite, looking up at him with confusion.

“Good.” He pets my hair, watching me chew and swallow. “Again.”

I find myself obeying without a thought, still watching him. Is this normal? I’ve only ever seen adults feed babies. Or our elders, or someone who’s sick. Never someone who could do it themself.

After my second bite, I take the sandwich into my own hands. Something about him feeding me feels too intimate, too dangerous.

He’s being patient with me.

He’s never patient.

It’s a trick. A trap.

But Isaiah was never this gentle with me. Isaiah never would’ve carried me to our bed while I was sobbing and shaking and questioning everything.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” I blurt.

“That’s okay.” He shrugs, his hands in his pockets. “Trust is usually built pretty slowly.”

“How do you know who you can trust?”

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