Page 71 of Irish Brute

I wrestle with the serving platters, sliding a fried egg onto my plate. I add a single slice of bacon and a small spoonful of hash. I’ll be able to eat everything with my fingers or just using my fork.

But Braiden isn’t satisfied. “You need some black pudding,” he says. “Get your blood back.”

“I didn’t lose any blood,” I point out.

He merely scowls and crosses to my side, transferring a round of blood sausage to my plate. “You need one of these too,” he says, adding a hefty link sausage. “And don’t forget the tomatoes.”

I stare at my food after he returns to his seat.

“Don’t make this one of your things,” he warns.

“I’mnot making it anything,” I snap.

“Eat,” Braiden says.

“I would, if I could manage a knife and fork.”

The shock on his face couldn’t be more complete if I served him with divorce papers.

He only hesitates a moment before he scoots his chair around the corner of the table. He picks up my silverware and builds a perfect bite of food—tomato and sausage and a tiny bit of potato—all balanced on the back of the fork’s tines. He shifts it to my lips with all the care of a first-time mother.

I rear back. “You’re not going to feed me!”

He steadies his complicated composition before it falls to my plate. “I am, if you can’t feed yourself.”

“I’m a grown woman,” I say. I barely remember to keep my voice down as I glance across the table at Aiofe. She’s staring at both of us like we’re the most fascinating movie ever filmed.

“Do I have to remind you that I’m a grown man?” The danger in his voice tosses something deep inside me. And then hetouches the food to my lower lip with an undeniable insistence. “Eat,” he says, using the tone that can take me to my knees.

I open my mouth. I accept the fork. I chew.

And Braiden’s eyes gleam as he prepares my next bite. He doesn’t stop until my plate is clean.

“Satisfied?” I ask, after I swallow a last bite of jam-laden toast.

“Very.”

He moves back to his own place and starts to eat his ice-cold breakfast. I try to pretend my voice doesn’t quaver. “Will you be working from home today?”

“I will.”

“I thought I might have Liam drive me to the freeport this morning.”

“Over my dead body.” He says it mildly, as if he’s commenting on the bright blue sky or the bare winter trees outside the dining room window.

“I’ll just be sitting there, in the back of the car!”

“I already phoned Prince,” he says. “I told him you’re taking sick leave today. We’ll reevaluate on Monday.”

“You had no right?—”

“I’m your husband,” he says. “It’s my job to make sure you take care of yourself.”

He almost makes his argument sound reasonable.

“I suppose you’re going to take my computer too,” I say.

“I will if you don’t follow the rules. You’ll do no work today. Promise. ”