His words were a brand, searing into the frantic beat of my pulse.
He didn’t rub it in. He simply straightened up, the predatory glint in his eyes softening into something unreadable, almost... weary.
He went back to the chair, not with the languid grace of before, but with the crisp efficiency of a man closing a deal. He sat, crossed one leg over the other, and smoothed the crease in his trousers. The storm had passed. The cold front had moved in.
The silence that fell between us was a different kind. It wasn’t charged with unspoken desire anymore; it was heavy with the weight of his victory.
I watched him, expecting him to pick up his phone, to retreat into his world of stocks and mergers, but he didn’t. He just watched me, his gaze steady, waiting. For what, I didn’t know. For me to cry? To apologize? To break?
I would do none of them. I lifted my chin, the gesture costing me more than I wanted to admit.
Just as I was about to speak, to say something cutting that would surely start the war anew, a sharp knock on the door shattered the charged stillness.
"Enter," Adrien said, his voice low but steady.
The door opened—and two men stepped inside. Tall. Broad. Silent. They looked like they’d been carved out of stone and trained to kill without blinking. One of them had a jagged scar slicing through his eyebrow. The other had a neck tattoo that disappeared beneath his collar. Neither smiled. They didn’t look like nurses. They looked like the type of men who disposed of bodies without asking names. They looked... familiar.
My eyes widened, darting between the two hulking figures. They did look like they belonged in a dark alley at 3 AM, not a sterile hospital room. But then my gaze snagged on their attire. Bright clothes? One wore a neon yellow track jacket, the other a vibrant turquoise polo, both so garish they practically hummed with an unsettling energy. It was like a caricature, a grotesque parody of normal visitors. It made them even more unsettling, somehow, this jarring clash of appearance and context.
Each carried paper bags—crisp, white, branded with gold-stamped logos of a restaurant I was pretty sure required a waitlist and an NDA.
They moved in perfect sync, clearing the side table with military efficiency. Within seconds, the space was transformed: linen cloths, silverware, elegant plating. Five star-level delicacies filled the room with warmth and spice—lobster bisque, seared scallops, wagyu beef, lemon soufflé, handmade pasta so delicate it looked like silk and some kind of glazed duck that smelled like heaven and sin.
I looked between the table, the food, and the human weapons who’d set it all up.
And then—Adrien. When the hell did he place an order? He hadn’t picked up his phone once apart from when he threatened me with it. Or was I just not paying attention?
I looked at Adrien again, half-expecting him to explain.
He didn’t. Of course not.
He just sat there, legs crossed like we weren’t in a hospital room and two armed-looking men hadn’t just performed a Michelin-star meal drop-off in under ninety seconds.
One of the men stepped forward, silent and still expressionless. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim metal device—something between a penlight and a testing wand—and hovered it over each dish. A soft beep followed each pass.
The other man waited. Then, in perfect synchronicity, he stepped forward, picked up a piece of lobster with metal tongs, placed it on a plate, and—shockingly—took a bite.
My brows pinched. What the hell—
He chewed slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed on some unseen point beyond my shoulder. After a beat that stretched into an eternity, he swallowed. Then, with a curt nod to Adrien, he set the tongs down, the clink echoing in the sterile silence.
Adrien didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the bizarre ritual. He just watched me, a faint, almost imperceptible curve playing on his lips, as if he found my wide-eyed bewilderment highly amusing.
Adrien waved his hand dismissively and they packed up the empty bags, nodded once more, and disappeared.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Adrien stood and approached the table.
In silence, he reached for the disposable gloves resting by the table. Not latex—more elegant. Restaurant-grade, matte black. Of course.
He slipped them on, flexed his fingers once, and selected one of the lobsters. The shell cracked clean beneath his practiced hands. He pulled the meat out in a perfect curl, dipped it lightly in clarified butter, then turned to me.
"Come eat," he said simply.
I didn’t move.
He looked at me. "You’re going to argue again?"
I met his eyes. "You brought assassins to do room service."
He blinked once. "That’s why I asked them to wear bright colors. So they’d look... less assassin-like."
That did it. The laugh broke out of me—sudden and sharp, like a cork flying off champagne. "Right," I managed, shaking my head. "Because a neon track jacket and a neck tattoo just scream ’friendly caterer’ in my book. And that ’testing wand’... was that to check for poison, or just to make sure the wagyu wasn’t, you know, too delicious?"
Adrien’s faint smirk stretched, just a fraction. He didn’t bother to defend his logic, didn’t elaborate on the bizarre pre-meal ritual. He simply held out the perfect curl of lobster, dipped in butter, as if offering a treat to a stubborn child. His gaze remained steady, patient, and utterly unyielding.
"It’s lunchtime, princess." He said. "Eat."
I turned my head away.
"Not hungry," I muttered, the words clipped, even as my stomach coiled in betrayal at the smell.
He exhaled through his nose, a soft sound of frustration and restraint. The kind that only someone who’d built entire empires could afford to make when his empire refused to eat.
He lowered the lobster gently onto a side plate, then crouched beside the bed, gloves still on, hands braced on the mattress edge.
"Are you still mad at me, little bunny?"
My eyes didn’t meet his. I stared at the blankets, at the pristine plate of food. "You threatened to sedate me."
"You threatened to drive me insane," he countered calmly.
"That’s not the same."
"No. It’s not."
His voice gentled. "But I meant it, Isabella. I would rather you hate me than hurt yourself."
"I wasn’t going to—"
"You were going to tempt me," he interrupted. "And if I gave in, I would’ve pushed you too far. You’re still recovering."
I looked at him.
"You were cruel."
"I was desperate." He huffed a bitter breath and ran one hand through his hair. "You don’t understand, Isabella. When you touch yourself in front of me, knowing I can’t—" He broke off, eyes shutting for one raw second. "I’m not proud of how I handled it. I don’t regret stopping it. But I hate the way I did."
I stayed silent. Watching. Listening.
Then I saw it—his gloved hand rising again, this time offering a fresh bite, the lobster glazed in something golden and rich. My stomach growled, and I cursed it silently.
His voice dipped even lower, laced with something raw. "Will you let me feed you now, bunny?"
I hesitated.
"Just one bite," he said, softer now. "Then you can turn away again if you want."
I glanced at him. Saw the softness in his eyes beneath the steel. The kind of softness he only gave me.
So I leaned forward.
Took the bite.
The flavor exploded on my tongue—warm, buttery, decadent—and I couldn’t help the small, traitorous moan that escaped me.
Adrien’s eyes darkened immediately.
"I knew you’d like that," he said, quiet and intense.
And then he set the fork down and moved to sit beside me on the bed.
His fingers brushed my cheek. Just once.
Then he leaned in.
His lips pressed lightly to the corner of my mouth.