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Wrinkling my nose at the salad, I wait for the sour feeling to form in my stomach, but surprisingly, it doesn’t. I guess anticipating a bad situation is worse than actually being in the situation. My stomach rumbles as if in agreement. Or maybe it’s just complaining because it’s empty of food.
After dousing the romaine lettuce with dressing, I pick up the fork he set beside the plate and stab it into the leafy greens, making sure to spear a sliced cucumber, and bring it to my mouth. The crunch as I chew is loud in my ears, but the taste is divine. A moan slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. Suddenly, I’m starving, and I can’t wait to have the lasagna in front of me.
A clunk sound has me jerking my head up from my plate. Ryker’s still on the other side of the island. The salad gets stuck in my throat when I catch the look in his eyes.
Possession. So intense that it leaves him on the brink of madness.
He’s holding a glass filled with milk so tightly that I expect it to shatter at any moment, and his body is rigid, the muscles in his forearms bulging. There’s a pulse at his temple that’s going a mile a minute.
I slowly lower the fork back to my plate, watching him warily. “Ryker?”
“What?” he grates out.
I lick my lips, and his eyes zero in on the move. “You’re kind of scaring me right now. I feel like a piece of meat, and you’re a starved animal about to pounce.”
“I. Am.”
The way he growls those two words has my core clenching, and I shift in my seat. It feels like it’s gone up twenty degrees in the room.
We stare at each other for several long moments, and the longer we do, the needier I get. The wetter my thong becomes.
I shouldn’t want this man. He threatened to expose my family. He kills people out of jealousy. He’s psychotic and unstable. He got me pregnant, somehow without my knowledge. And he’s forcing me to marry him.
I hate him for everything he’s done.
But I still want him to touch me. To devour me. To take me like the wild animal he looks like at the moment.
“Eat,” he barks.
I blink. And then blink again.
“What?”
“Eat your fucking food, Savina.” Stiffly, he slides the glass of milk across the bar. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to tear inside your body and fuck you bent over this bar. Two years I’ve waited to have you. I’m using the last bit of patience I have left, so don’t provoke me.”
As soon as the last word leaves his lips, he turns around and goes to the microwave, inserting a container inside and aggressively punching a few buttons.
I reclaim my fork and stab another piece of lettuce. This time, when I bring it to my lips, my hand shakes.
I just don’t know if it’s from fear of what’s coming or excited anticipation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HER
The day has been a long one, and my nerves have rattled me for most of it. Exhaustion doesn’t cover the way I feel. I’m tired down to my bones. It’s not just my energy that’s depleted. My brain feels fried as well. The shower I just stepped from helped a little, but I worry nothing will fix what’s wrong with me except getting out of the situation I’m in.
The bathroom I’m in is huge and puts the one attached to my room at home to shame. The shower itself is big enough to hold five people comfortably, and there are multiple showerheads. Two coming from the ceiling and several from the walls. Honestly, who the hell needs water blasting at them from the sides? The tile is checkered black and gray.
The counter I’m standing in front of is twice as long as I am and holds two sinks. The faucets are a brushed black chrome, and the mirror is just as long as the counter. There’s a huge sunken garden tub the size of a Jacuzzi that I have to admit I’mexcited to use. The walls are a cream color and the tiles match the black ones in the shower.
When I step in front of the mirror, the glass isn’t fogged from condensation. I let the towel I’m holding around my middle fall to the floor, and I take in my reflection. I release the clip holding my hair up and let the long strands fall down my back and shoulders. My cheeks are a light pink from the heat of the water, and a few drops still pepper my face.
I slide my eyes down to my breasts. They’re not big, but not small either. An average C cup. Will they get bigger the further along I get in my pregnancy? Will they become more sensitive? I’ve heard of some women going up a cup size and being overly sensitive.
My gaze moves lower. My hips flare out in what people used to call child-bearing hips. My stomach is flat, but that won’t last long. Soon it’ll start to slowly expand, making way for another life to grow. To be so young and pregnant is a scary thing. I would have never wanted it to happen like this, but now that it’s a reality, I’m looking forward to seeing how my body changes. Most women dread stretch marks, but I want those little stretches of skin to mark my body. Having a child is an honor and a rite of passage. Why wouldn’t I want proof of going through something so special?
Something over my shoulder pulls my attention away from my stomach, and I look up. In the reflection of the mirror, Ryker pauses in the doorway. His eyes flare, the gray growing stormier when he sees my naked form. He must have showered in another bathroom because his hair is damp, and he’s wearing a pair of dark-gray sweatpants that hang low on his trim waist. His chest is bare, revealing skin covered in tattoos, and that’s both good and bad. It poses a temptation because it looks so lickable. All dips and valleys of hard muscles. His shoulders are wide, and there’s a light scattering of hair over his defined pecs that traildown his corded abs and dips beneath the waistband of his sweats.