My hand slips under her torso, eliciting an outraged squeal from my unfed companion. She shoots upright, her face cloaked in fury as I step into her, nudging her legs to one side so she’s forced to lean on me if she doesn’t want to fall off the counter. My arm, now fully around her waist, locks.
“I’m going tokillyou,” she hisses. Her nails dig into my back through my shirt, setting my nerves on fire. I ignore them.
“Open up,” I order, snatching her sandwich. I use my teeth to unwrap the plastic around it, tightening my grip on her waist when she tries to pry it off.
“I’m not opening up for you, you freaking buffoon. What do you think you’redoing?”
“Feeding you,” I reply, lifting the sandwich to her face.“Open.”
She, notably, does not, jaw popping as she grits her teeth.
“I gave you options,” I remind her. “You didn’t listen. You need to eat. You’regoingto eat. Open up so I can make that happen, or act like a big girl and feed yourself.”
“You fu—”
I push a corner of the sandwich into her mouth, interrupting her curse, and she bites it off. Rage shimmers in her pale blue eyes.
I’ve always liked her eyes. As blue as a summer sky and as light as a breeze, they suit her. Much like her hair, they’re beautiful and inviting.
Well, normally inviting. When she’s not aiming them at me.
Chewing her food with murder written on her face, she reaches up with her free hand to snatch the sandwich out of mine.
Graciously, I allow this, but don’t adjust my position. When left to her own devices, this is a woman who chooses to starve. Best to keep her inmydevices instead, methinks.
“I amnota child,” she snaps. “And Ido notappreciate you treating me like one. Do you not know how tolisten?”
“I know how to listen,” I assure her. “But I’m not sure you know how to return the favor. I warned you. You needed to eat, and it was happening whichever way you chose. You chose this way.”
“I didn’tchoosefor you to manhandle me and shove food down my throat,” she retorts. “You’re so freaking full of yourself. I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but Roman does not always know best.”
“Today, you ate half a piece of toast for breakfast, two chocolate muffins for lunch, and one blueberry scone after work before you left for class. Essentially, you’ve eaten sugar, flour, and more sugar today. This sandwich adds protein and veggiesto your day’s diet, something you need to make up for the energy spent working a full shift here, then biking who knows how longtwiceto get to your class and back. I understand that you need rest, Sweet, but you also need food if you want to be able to wake up tomorrow not feeling like total garbage.”
I shouldn’t have to explain all of this to a grown woman so insistent that she can take care of herself. If shecantake care of herself, then she very wellshould. And if she won’t? Then she doesn’t get to be a brat about me doing it for her. My arm tightens around her as frustration mounts, swelling with every word I speak, and I have to focus on being careful so I don’t crush her slight frame.
“You’re still notlistening,” she snaps, pushing against my hold. “It doesn’t matter if you’re right, Roman. It matters that I’m a grown woman who gets to make her own decisions, regardless of if they’re good for me or not. If I don’t eat enough today and I feel crap tomorrow because of it, that’s my prerogative and my lesson to learn. It has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me,” I counter, “especially when you’re under my care.”
She sputters. “I’m notunder your care, you idiot. Do you even hear yourself? Do you hear how stupid that sounds?”
“Of course you are,” I reply, unconcerned about whether it sounds stupid or not. It’s the truth.
“Oh?” she sasses, rolling her eyes. “According to who?”
“According to my sister, your brother, and, most importantly, you.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow. “And just when didIput myself underyourcare?”
“Roughly four months ago,” I answer, eyes zeroing in on the sandwich in her hand. “Take another bite.”
“Renting a room from you does not equate toputting myselfunder your care, you freaking moron,” she says, bringing her food no closer to her mouth.
“Take a bite, Sweet,” I try again, half hoping she doesn’t. Hand-feeding her could be…
Well. We don’t need to think aboutthat.
“Are you going to force one on me if I don’t?”
