Page 29 of Sweet Doe
“Wrong,” I murmur, leaning in. “I’m inevitable.”
That earns a quiet huff. She looks away. Blush stains her cheeks. She hates how easily I get to her—but I see the way her thighs shift again under the stool. The way she bites the inside of her lip when she thinks I’m not watching.
I take another bite of steak, then say, “You always liked it this way. Garlic potatoes. Extra butter. Carrots, but never peas.”
She goes still.
“I used to see you order the exact same thing when you went out with him,” I add. “Alex would never remember it. But I did.”
She swallows. “Fucking hell, is there anything you don’t know?”
I smirk, tongue wetting my bottom lip. “Not really, if I’m honest.”
“Since when are psychopaths honest?”
“I’m not a psychopath. Maybe a little excentric, but far from a fucking psycho.” I say simply, voice low. “Though, I will say for once it would be nice to have a conversation with you that doesn’t involve you lashing out or giving me a piece of that beautiful mind of yours. One where we, I don’t know, actually just talk. Without you yelling at me or screaming threats. Just…talk. About food. Books. Whatever. I like the sound of your voice when it’s not afraid.”
She stares at me. Fork frozen halfway to her mouth. Like she doesn’t know what to do with that.
“I’m trying here,” I add, sitting back a little. “Trying to give you something real. Something better. You don’t have to say anything. Just… stay. Give it,me, a chance.”
She looks away, but her shoulders relax slightly. The silence feels different now. Not angry. Just thick. Heavy with something unsaid.
“I really never did like peas,” she mutters eventually.
I grin. “I know.”
We eat in silence again for a few minutes. Outside, the snow keeps falling. The windows are fogged from the heat of the fire. The logs pop and hiss behind us. It’s warm in here. Safer than anything outside. A sanctuary carved from frost and obsession.
“I don’t think my mom ever even knew that. She used to make them all the time when I was a kid, no matter how many times I refused to eat them. You really do remember everything, huh?” she says suddenly.
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
I set down my fork and turn toward her. Let her feel the full weight of my stare.
“Because you’re mine,” I say quietly. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
She doesn’t look away this time. Just stares back at me, eyes glassy, lips parted like she’s about to say something—and forgets how.
I want to kiss her. I want to bend her over this counter and remind her exactly how good it felt to belong to me. I want her breathy and shaking again, writhing beneath my hands. But I hold back.
For now.
Instead, I reach for her plate, spear another piece of steak, and offer it to her.
“Open,” I say.
She hesitates.
Then opens her mouth.
I feed her the bite slowly, deliberately, watching her lips close around the fork. Watching her tongue move as she swallows. I bite back a groan.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
She flinches—but doesn’t look away.
