Page 64 of Stolen By the Don

I count the number of chews it takes to soften up a bite of steak before swallowing while watching Roman from beneath my lashes. He’s focused on his food, cutting it into chunks and chewing them with pleasure.

Everything about tonight—from Leo’s departure, the wine, and now—makes me suspicious.

I could tell he didn’t expect to see Leo when he walked into the kitchen. He was equally surprised to see the wine glasses. And I bet it had something to do with Leo leaving, not the excuse of “having something to do.”

But if he didn’t want Leo hanging around or staying for dinner, why is he here?

He could’ve gone to bed and it would’ve been like any other day.The dots aren’t connecting.Which means something is afoot.

It could be either of two things—he’s found my father and is trying to keep me distracted so I don’t warn Nico that he’s on to them, or…I don’t know. I can’t seem to come up with any other explanation, and it drives me to frustration.

I grip my fork, lifting my head to glare at his oblivious face. His ruggedly handsome, well-defined, utterly infuriating face.

Bastard.

I jab my fork into the table without thinking. The wood doesn’t budge, and the fork springs back, catching the side of my palm and scraping it.

“Shit. Shit,” I mutter, dropping it like it’s burning me.

“Do you need help with the steak?”

My head snaps up. Roman looks at me with calm patience. The kind people use when speaking to small children. He gestures toward my plate, his voice mild. “Do you need some help?”

“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine. I can handle it. Thank you.”

His gaze drops to the fork, still lying crooked on the table. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel the judgment all the same.

I reach for the fork again, this time with purpose, wrapping my hand around the handle like I’ve got something to prove. I aim carefully, steadying myself. Then I bring it down toward the steak?—

And miss it entirely.

Freaking typical. Just freaking typical. Of all the days to lose a battle with food, it just has to be today. “I’m fine,” I hiss as I pick the fork up again. “So you can stop looking at me like I’mclumsy.” But I don’t trust myself to aim right the third time, so I reach for the vegetables instead.

At least I’m being healthy.

I shove the vegetables into my mouth, crunching with a vengeance, too angry to taste the flavors exploding in my mouth. They taste like failure, more failure and frustration.

Roman returns to his plate, cutting up his steak with ease. I chomp down harder on the vegetables, biting my tongue in the process.

Fucking—he reaches for my plate of steak, swapping it with his. “There,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “That should work.”

“Why?” I snap, even though the slices are clean, precise, and way better than I could manage. “I didn’t ask for yours.”

He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You needed it.”

No.

No.

I burn with frustration. His help doesn’t ease the tension—it fuels it. “You don’t know what I need, Roman,” I say through clenched teeth. “And acting like you do just makes you look like a narcissist.”

He doesn’t react like I want, robbing me of a reason to lash out. He tilts his head and calmly asks, “Would burying your fork in my face make you feel better?”

My lips part in shock. I glance down. The fork in my hand is pointed—at his face.I let it drop in horror, staring at the sliver like it’s covered in blood.

Why should I feel terrible about wanting to draw a little blood from the man who kidnapped me? “If I did,” I say, tilting my chin in defense, “then you deserved it, don’t you think?”

“I thought you were against violence?” he replies smoothly, and I can tell he’s mocking me. He’s referring to my father.

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