Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I swallow hard. My mouth is watering because it smells so good in here.
The morning light filters through the windows, catching on the Celtic knots tattooed on his forearms. As he cracks eggs into a bowl, his movements are efficient and practiced, his large hands surprisingly deft. He whisks them with a fork, moving with unexpected precision.
The muscles in his shoulders flex beneath his black T-shirt with each motion, and I hate myself a little for noticing. He hasn't fully looked at me yet, or acknowledged my presence, but I know he knows I'm watching.
“Sit,” he says without turning around, nodding toward the table. “Food will be ready in a minute.”
With his back to me, I wonder for a moment whether he actually thinks I could hurt him. He has his back to me, and if he was afraid of me, would that be smart?
He isn't even looking my way, but something tells me that if I so much as moved wrong, his reflexes would be as swift and efficient as a leopard's.
I still don’t trust him. “I told you I'm not hungry.”
“And I told you I'm cooking anyway.” He glances over his shoulder, those silver eyes pinning me in place. “Sit down, lass. You heard what I said. You need to eat. If you don’t, I’ll feed you myself.”
“Fasting is beneficial,” I counter, as my stomach growls with hunger.
“Doing what you’re told is beneficial.” A muscle tics in his jaw. “Sit, lass.”
This time, there's something in his voice, not quite a command, but close enough, that makes my legs move before my brain catches up. I sink into one of the chairs at the table, and Lancelot jumps into my lap. I pull him close to me, run my fingers through his fur, and take great solace in the comforting hum of his purr.
He doesn’t even like cats. Would he bring my cat here, then poison me? It makes no logical sense.
I watch as he pulls packages from the fridge and cupboard, opening each sealed one in front of me. Bacon, butter, bread, and jam. He holds up each item like he's presenting evidence.
“See? Nothing tampered with. Not trying to drug you.”
His voice is quiet, almost tender, as if there's a plea laced in his words, begging me to trust him. It's oddly considerate, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking and what I'm afraid of. He turns back to the stove, and I find myself watching the way his body moves again—all controlled power and lethal grace. The way his shaved head catches the light. The way his tattoos wind down to his scarred knuckles, intricate and threatening but… somehow beautiful.
He's cooking breakfast like I'm his girlfriend who spent the night.
The absurdity of it all makes my head spin.
Why is it so hard to imagine Marcus cooking for me? He'd hire someone, yes, or take me to a restaurant, but I don't know if I've ever seen the man dirty his hands. What if something splattered?
Within minutes, he's plating food. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, buttered toast. My mouth waters, and I swallow hard. I am famished.
He sets it all in front of me with surprising gentleness, his scarred knuckles brushing the edge of the plate.
“Eat, Bianca.”
I stare at the food. It smells incredible, and my stomach growls traitorously. I still don't want to give him the satisfaction.
Except he did open everything in front of me, didn't he? I watched him cook it. And I'm so damn hungry I could cry.
Fine. I'll try a little.
I pick up a fork with shaky hands and take a small bite of the eggs. My mouth instantly waters. They're perfectly fluffy, seasoned with just a hint of butter, black pepper, and salt.
Damn him.
I take another bite, then reach for the bacon. It's thick, crispy, and salty, just the way I like it. I don't touch the toast. I mentally calculate the calories I’ve consumed on autopilot.
He makes his own plate now, loading it with enough food to feed three people, then sits across from me, his eyes watching every move as he cuts into his eggs. There must be six or eight of them on his plate.
“Why aren't you eating the toast?” His voice is casual, but there's an edge to it. “There's jam there if you want something sweet.”
Fuck. I haven't had carbs in god knows how long, and I only allowed myself to have a small bit of bacon.
I shrug and push the bread to the side of my plate. “I'm not hungry for it. I've eaten everything else.”
His jaw clenches, and he gives me a stern look. “Bianca.”
I don't look at him. Why has this stranger I've never met before seen right through me? My mother doesn't second-guess when I skip the potato or refuse toast. Hell, she sometimes asks me why I've eaten as much as I did and reminds me of the wedding dress.