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I falter for a moment, glaring at her empty seat before placing the box and sachet on the empty plate in front of her chair. I haven’t taken a proper dinner in this dining room since middle school, and my back prickles as I look around, the itch so bad that I have to curl my fingers into fists to avoid reaching back there and seeking relief. I learned a long time ago that there isn’t any relief, only open scabs and pain. The restraint has become so ingrained in my mind that I’m probably the only habitual user of Scratch in Forsyth who came out of it without scars from scratching.

I take the seat across from hers–my usual–and wait.

Danner is the first to appear, coming through the swinging door with a platter of food. If he’s surprised to see me, he does a good job of hiding it. “It’s your favorite,” he says, setting the silver dish in the center of the table. I know before he even lifts the lid what it’ll be, the scent wafting out to me through the kitchens.

“Thank you,” I say, looking at the pot roast with all its carrots and potatoes. My stomach burns with acidy emptiness, and for the first time since the whipping, I feel my appetite stir to life. I glance at the empty place setting in front of me. “I’ll be taking dinner with the Princess tonight.”

Danner nods, turning to the china cabinet. Any other night, I’d tell him not to fuss and get the dishes myself, but my back is tender, as if the smallest shift will pull apart the slowly healing slashes. He places the china and utensils in front of me before pausing. “Candles, sir? A vase, perhaps?”

My eyes jerk up to his. “What for?”

He nods toward the gift on Verity’s plate. “For a more romantic ambiance, of course.”

Romantic?

Princesses don’t need romance. They need semen.

“That’s not necessary.” But then I question myself. Tonight is about showing Father I’m taking this seriously, and that means some amount of effort must be made. Stiffly, I ask, “Is it? Necessary?”

Danner laces his fingers behind him. “A young woman such as our Princess might be charmed by such a gesture.”

I’m still agonizing over the decision when the young woman in question shuffles into the room, freezing at the sight of us. She’s wearing leggings and a hideous, oversized sweatshirt with the DKS Bruin on it. The sight of it makes my thoughts flare red. That could be Bruin’s sweater. Perilini’s. Maddox’s.

The disrespect is fucking galling.

The moment her eyes meet mine, they dim, hardening. “Why are you here?”

I give Danner a bored look. “Nix the ambiance for now.”

He still pulls her seat out for her, but she hardly notices, going by the way her eyes are glued to the gifts on her plate. To her credit, she waits until Danner’s excused himself to say, “There weren’t any deposits last night.” Her voice is clipped, but still oddly toneless. She looks paler than usual.

I make a mental note to test her for anemia. “Gifts aren’t only for deposits,” I tell her, reaching for the serving fork. It makes the skin over my shoulder pull taut, and I hiss, snatching my hand back.Fuck. Should have had Danner serve me the food. Instead, I stand, reaching a little more carefully.

I can feel her eyes tracking me–every aborted movement as I hide my wince. “Why are you here?” she asks again.

“To eat dinner.” I slice the roast with controlled movements.

“You eat dinner in your room,” she points out. “And breakfast, too.”

I spoon some carrots and potatoes onto my plate. “Wicker and Pace are out. Maybe I just wanted company.” In truth, they’re downstairs with the Barons, cleaning up the mess formerly known as Bruce. From my periphery, I see her reach for the gifts. “Those are for after dinner.”

Holding my gaze, she plucks up the sachet and completely fucking ignores what she damn well knows is an order. Rolling my eyes, I perch on the edge of my seat and await her reaction. It took a lot of convincing to make it happen.

She pulls out the foil rectangle, glancing up at me. “Is this…?”

“Yes,” I confirm, draping my napkin over my lap. “I’ve cleared it with Father, don’t worry. The covenants allow a little leeway during your cycle.” I drop my eyes pointedly to her drab attire. No Princess would be caught dead in something so pedestrian. “It’s a statistical likelihood that PMS is giving you cravings.”

She unfolds the foil without any hesitation, her green eyes lasering in on the candy. “God, I haven’t had chocolate inweeks.”

It’s obscene and stupid, her taking a huge bite of the chocolate bar as a real dinner sits in front of her, waiting to be consumed. But my frown is decimated by the moan she makes, eyes sliding closed as her face slackens in ecstasy.

This.

This is where my dick would get hard.

I tuck my hand beneath my napkin and give it a squeeze, unsurprised at the lack of hardness, but no less frustrated. The way she eats that chocolate is familiar, the rush of sugar probably not so different from me craving another hit of scratch. I feel the urge all the time, craving the sudden euphoria, the feeling that my brain is wide open and that there’s no stopping me from accomplishing anything I want.

Dusty, my group leader, says that I need to avoid stressors to be successful.