There's food heaped onto the plate in front of me, turning into a small mountain of breakfast. I was starving, but now the egregious stack of food—enough to feed three people—leaves me nauseated.
"I'm not hungry," I lie, even though I'll regret it later.
"Eat," the overbearing monarch says, his voice so cold I swear there's an icy breeze in my ear.
But who can eat when there's a strange man standing over them, arms crossed, watching with a death glare? Nope. Not happening. My stomach roils and rebels, even though it was begging me for food just a while ago.
I must not move fast enough for his liking, because he takes back the fork he'd given me and stabs a large bite of egg, shoving it at my face like I'm a child. "You haven't eaten. You need to."
He's still waiting, acting as if he can wait all day for me to eat what he's offering. It's awkward—beyond weird, really—but I lean forward and open my mouth. Cold metal clinks against my teeth as I try to manage the massive portion of scrambled eggs. Half of it falls back to the plate while I struggle to chew what made it in, heat rising in my cheeks over the mess I'm making.
His pupils dilate as he watches me, and he spears a thick sausage link next, bringing it toward my lips.
No way. Once was enough.
"Wait." I hold up my hands to fend him off, though the effort feels futile. "I can feed myself."
"Your mouth's too small." His voice comes out rough, yet his face betrays nothing but clinical observation.
My cheeks burn hotter. I grab a napkin and wipe away bits of egg from the corners of my mouth. "It's not that my mouth is small. That bite was just too big."
"You just need practice." He doesn't lower the fork.
The sausage hovers between us. It's spicy, just the way Alpha always liked them. My stomach seems to have decided on hunger over nausea, and rumbles, begging me for sustenance.
"I can feed myself." Snatching the fork out of his hand, I take a defiant bite of sausage, a little flustered when grease spurts out and drips down my chin. It isn't the image of an independent adult woman I wanted to portray, but at least I've successfully gained control of feeding myself.
He shoves a piece of bacon at me. "Try this, too."
I chew as fast as I can, wanting to tell him to back off. The moment my lips part, crispy bacon slides between them. His storm-gray eyes fix on my mouth, intense enough to send warning signals down my spine. The bedroom door stands open behind him, and my stomach drops as I remember we're alone in his suite.
Did he really summon me here to—
"You're making a mess." His voice comes out low and rumbly, almost like a purr.
The rough pad of his thumb swipes across my chin, wiping away grease, and my body betrays me with a jolt of heat. His touch leaves a trail of fire across my skin, and my thighs clench. What is wrong with me? This man murdered Alpha. He's holding me captive. He's dangerous and clearly unhinged and—
I jerk my head away from his touch, face burning. My knees snap together under the table as I try to get myself under control.
A knock echoes through the suite, interrupting the strangely sexual moment. Thank you, God. I think I need to see a priest and confess all my sins, but very few shifter packs allow a church onto their territory.
Surely he'll step back now and give me space to breathe… but he doesn't.
Asher doesn't move an inch. He reaches for a napkin, still looming over me as if the person at the door doesn't exist. His fingers thread through my hair, gripping the back of my head to hold me still while he dabs at my face with meticulous care.
"The Blue Mountain Pack's new Alpha requests an audience," a voice says from the doorway, and I recognize the red-haired Lycan's voice immediately.
"Tell him I'm occupied." Asher squints at my chin before letting go of my hair, apparently satisfied.
"You're the one who called him here." The Lycan Beta's voice sounds distinctly amused, and I wonder if he's smiling or still showing a deadpan face. He'd seemed friendly enough yesterday, before the attacks.
The simple act of holding a fork seems strange to me now, my movements jerky and trembling as I stab at a small, fluffy cloud of egg. A thousand thoughts race through my mind—most of them cursing myself for being some strange style of pervert around dangerous men—and I don't pay attention to what I'm doing, only to be surprised when pain floods through my wrist.
The fork clatters onto my plate in haphazard fashion, and I take a deep breath through the pain radiating from forearm to palm. Nora must have sprained my wrist; it hurt all the way here, but seeing the Lycan King had put my body on high alert, and I'd almost forgotten about it.
"I changed my mind." Asher still doesn't turn around to talk to his beta, frowning instead as his gaze lingers on my hand. I swear the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
A low, grumbly sound vibrates through the air. It takes a second for me to realize he's growling. It isn't a vicious, violent sort of growl, but more… discontent. The Lycan King never once turns around; only the words he grits out show he's listening. "Get. Out."
The door clicks shut without further argument, leaving me alone with a murderer who makes my body wish he was an angel.
I focus on the plate, determined to eat and get out of here as fast as possible. Grabbing the fork only makes the pain worse, and a quiet hiss escapes my lips before I can stop it.
"What's wrong with your hand?" His voice is sharp, demanding answers as if he's entitled to know everything about me.
"Nothing." I switch the fork to my left hand, awkward and clumsy as I try to spear a piece of egg. My right hand finds refuge in my lap, hidden under the edge of the table. "I'm fine."
His hand shoots out, unerring as they dive beneath the table. His fingers wrap around my forearm and I yelp as he draws my injured wrist up for inspection. His touch is surprisingly gentle despite his harsh tone, but that doesn't stop the way my heart pounds against my ribs.
"No one. I fell." I have no idea why I'm lying to protect Nora, but this situation feels dangerous.
His grip tightens a fraction, but I'm pretty sure his fingers won't leave bruises. Is he being gentle with me? The same man who tied me up, left me in a forest, and choked me? Then again, this is the same psycho who stole my pillow. There's no point trying to make sense out of his actions.
"Try again," he says, as my brain scrambles to understand what he's doing.