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Even if it would be hot as hell.
“Or we could come to some arrangement,” she whispers.
My cock twitches.
I shake my head. I have to admire her tenacity while I dig deep for my self-control.
“Sit. Eat.” I grate out, and without taking my eyes from hers, I tug out the dining room chair, then step away.
Kyra sits, quietly places the napkin on her lap, and begins digging at the food.
I do the same and take a few bites.
Then another one more angrily as I imagine her sitting in my father’s house—the same one I grew up in—dining with him. The same table I sat at night after night, my stomach in knots, waiting for the inevitable torture that would follow. Knowing my body was about to be used by sick white men who knew better but didn’t stop.
I pick up my wine and take a long sip, pushing back the familiar anger as it tries to consume me.
“Will you ever tell me why you’re doing this?” Kyra asks, taking a small bite of carrot.
“No,” I reply. “You do not need to know.”
“I have a right to know. This is my life.”
“Jesus, why do people seem to have so much trouble understanding how this kidnapping thing works?”
“Says the man dining with his prisoner.” She angrily shovels in another mouthful of her meal.
“You will get heartburn. Slow down.”
Her fork bangs down on the plate.
“So, you care if I get a tummy ache, but not that you have taken away my freedoms. Taken me from my life and family and friends.”
I sneer at her. “Yes. I need to return you in good health.”
“So, you are returning me?”
Fuck.
“Maybe,” I mutter. “Eat.”
Kyra is right. I should have sent her food to her room. These questions are tiresome, and I do not want her knowing anything.
“When?”
“Stop!” I slam my fist down on the table and she jumps in her seat. “Stop asking questions and eat.”
The fear in her eyes has me silently cursing.
I don’t want to scare her. I don’t like seeing her cringe away from me. I clench my fist around my fork as a sudden need to go to her and assure her I will protect her.
From what?
From who?
Myself?
My father?