“You must be hungry,” he said simply, ignoring the venom in my tone.
I shoved the plate away. “Don’t pretend you care,” I spat and glared at him. “You’re just a cold-blooded murderer.”
He tilted his head at me, and I almost winced. He didn’t say anything even though I was expecting much worse. Then, he leaned forward—just a fraction. It wasn’t dramatic, but the shift made him look dangerous. Instinctively, I leaned back, barely registering it.
“If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be sitting here,” he murmured, so calmly I felt his words touching skin like wildfire. His eyes bored into mine, piercing grey like a storm cloud.
I had no reply.
The silence that followed was suffocating. He leaned back, not taking his eyes off me, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his expression. A crack in the ice.
“Eat,” he repeated, softer this time.
I wanted to disobey him, to throw the plate across the room, and scream in his face. But I could feel the glass pressing against my ribs.
This wasn’t the time. Not yet.
I couldn’t breathe without tasting the bitterness of my own helplessness. I couldn’t think without shattering.
He was a puzzle I couldn’t solve. The fork trembled in my grip.
“Why?” The word slipped out, barely audible, and I knew if I stared at him anymore, I’d definitely lose myself. I blinked back the tears that burned, refusing to let him see. “Why are you doing this?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes were like ice. So damn cold I could feel the frost on my skin. They dissected me and peeled me apart layer by layer until I felt naked, exposed.
How could someone so beautiful, so composed, hold so much cruelty?
Something in me cracked. A sob clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down. He wasn’t going to answer.
“I don’t understand!” I slammed my palms against the table, the pain reverberating up my arms. “You killed him! You took everything from me, and now you sit there, ordering me to eat?” The tears fell down aggressively. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it? Do you want to see me crawl? Because I don’t—I can’t—”
Still, he just stared, wearing that cold mask.
“Say something!” I screamed. “Anything, you fucking psycho!”
He put the glass of wine on the table, unfolded his legs, spreading them wide and leaning back.
“If you’re going to beg, do it properly, Dolcezza. On your knees.”
I sat as if I hadn’t heard him correctly. But the look in his eyes told me I had.
My pride rebelled, screaming at me to stand, to spit in his face, and throw his plate to the ground. But the weight of grief and fear crushed me, dragging me down. And in the next second, I fell to my knees, tears spilling down my face as I pressed my palms to the cold floor.
“There,” he murmured. “Better. Now, pray.”
I blinked through the tears. “What?”
His lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. “Pray. At my feet.”
My chest tightened, my humiliation choking me as I lowered my head.
A deep breath. I had to act. Now. I was close enough to attack him.
Slowly reaching into my dress, my fingers wrapped around the glass. With a yell, I lunged at him, aiming for his throat, so ready to feel his blood on my hands.
Everything happened too fast. His hand shot out, catching my wrist in a vice-like grip. The shard clattered to the floor, my arm wrenched behind my back. Pain shot through my shoulder, as he twisted my other arm and slammed me against the cold surface of the table.
I gasped, struggling against him, his weight pinning me down. My breath came in short, panicked bursts.
