Page 13 of Sold Bullied Mate

He lingers for a moment, the wood in the hallway creaking under his feet, then I hear him turn and walk away. I wait a few minutes before unlocking and slowly opening the door, my heart thudding in my chest as I look left and right, likeI’m crossing a freeway, before darting into the bathroom across the hall.

I’ve been in Dorian’s custody for nearly a full day now, and I still have no more answers about why he bought me at that auction. At first, I thought it would be for some vicious retribution, some continuation of how he treated me when we were kids.

But last night, Ash was so nice to me. She wouldn’t be nice to me if I was purchased for some nefarious reason, right?

In the bathroom, I find a toothbrush still in the package, along with a grocery sack stretched to the max with various bottles. I pull them out one by one, my incredulity growing with each. A shampoo for curls, for dry hair, for dandruff. Four different body washes, one unscented. Razors, face wash, face cream, lotion—it’s like someone walked into a CVS and picked products at random.

Popping the toothbrush out of the package, I add toothpaste and scrub. When my mouth is clean, I wash under my arms and generally freshen up before choosing the spray deodorant and liberally applying it.

It’s silly, but for some reason, I want to look nice. No matter how much I chastise myself in the mirror, I’m still braiding my hair over one shoulder, sniffing myself to make sure I smell good.

Back in the guest room, I pull on a pair of jeans that hug my curves so thoroughly you’d think they were built right onto my body. One of Ash’s cropped, boxy band tees hangs from my shoulder, and I realize that though this isn’t my personal style, she was right—we have the same body type, and her clothes fit me like a glove.

When I finally walk down into the dining room, Dorian is sitting at the head of the table, his fingers laced together, gaze unfocused. With a start, eyes locking on the serving dish and two plates set at the table, I realize he’s waiting for me.

Something strange filters through my chest, and I move slowly into the room, taking shallow breaths. His head snaps up to me, his pupils dilating wide before normalizing. He clears his throat and pulls the lid from the microwaveable container in front of me.

The smell hits me at once—it’s chili from the can.

If this was a different situation, I’d laugh. Of course, a single guy, living in a house this big, with a beautiful dining room, would eat something as pitiful as canned chili for dinner.

But it’s not a different situation, and all this does is remind me of all the fresh produce in my fridge at home. No, not home. My old house, with my little herb garden and the light twinkling in through the windows, dancing through the crystals I hung from the curtains. The grief and loss hit me all at once, and nausea rises in my throat as I stare at the canned chili, watching Dorian spoon it into the bowl for me.

“Crackers?” he asks, and I shake my head numbly.

He clears his throat again, takes a bite, then glances over at me. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

I blink at the chili, afraid that if I open my mouth, I might not be able to say anything. Dorian shifts in his chair, takes a deep breath like he’s trying to control himself, and says, “Kira, you need to eat.”

“I—” Pressing my lips together, I frown at the bowl, the beans and tiny, sand-like chunks of beef. I could make arealchili—pick the peppers myself, dry them, and powder them likeI did at home. Rehydrate the beans instead of adding them from a can, maybe do a mix of beef and bison for better texture. I’d cook it lovingly, all day long, and serve it with warm cornbread, drizzled with honey.

“You haven’t had anything all day.” When I look up, Dorian is gripping his fork in his hand, the knuckles turning white. “Are you trying to starve yourself?”

Without thinking, I’m standing from my chair, heart thudding, little spots crowding my vision. Memories from high school—him and his friends, commenting on my body, on my weight. Emin is either joining in or standing by and doing nothing about it.

My own mother, serving me at dinner, sliding me a tiny portion compared to everyone else.

“You got your father’s build,” she’d tutted, not caring that he had a beer belly and was asking for seconds. With a little shrug, she acted like nothing could be done. “So we need to cut back on your calories.”

“Kira—” Dorian is standing, something like fury and urgency suspended on his face. “Sit down. We need to talk—”

He takes a step toward me and I shake my head, stepping back so quickly I nearly trip over myself. “Don’ttouch me,” I hiss, which seems to stop him in his tracks, his mouth dropping open, like that reality was never on the table.

Of course it’s not—he rejected me. He’s never going to touch me.

My body is swirling with so many emotions, not helped at all by the confusing, tugging onset of heat deep in my core, so I do the one thing I actually know how to do. I turn, moving quickly, racing up the steps until I’m back in the guest room.

When the door shuts behind me, I reach back and lock it.

I have no idea what Dorian actually wants with me, or what’s going on here. But I do know one thing—I need to get the fuck out of this town.

Chapter 9 - Dorian

I have not seen Kira since dinner last night, when I royally fucked every last thing up. From the moment she sat down, I had the sense that I’d done something wrong, and it was like everything out of my mouth only made her more uncomfortable, until she finally ran from the room.

My body thrums with worry. She hasn’t had anything to eat since I got her from the market. An hour ago, before everyone arrived, I left a plate of food at her door, knocked, and hurried away.

I have no idea what she likes, so I just took my own snacks down from the cabinets—beef jerky, nuts, some dried fruit. My hands clench into fists when I think about it, and I have to stop myself from going up the stairs, checking to see if she’s even brought the tray inside.

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