Page 53 of Ruthless Touch

My empty stomach rumbles with unwelcome hunger.

Gun’s already left the doorway, the sound of his retreating footsteps a light thud on the floorboards.

I close my eyes and force myself to take a steadying breath, teeth still clenched so tightly my jaw aches.

This is my situation now, whether I like it or not.

It accomplishes nothing productive to starve myself out of spite, especially when I need to maintain my strength if I’m ever going to find a way out of this.

When I finally emerge from the bedroom, Gun is seated at the small dining table. He’s already dug into the steaming bowl in front of him, his chopsticks poised between his long fingers. He glances up when I take the seat across from him, eyeing the bowl and set of chopsticks he set out for me.

“I can get you a fork if you’d prefer,” he offers.

“Chopsticks are fine.”

He shrugs yet again, casual and indifferent. “Have it your way.”

The japchae in my bowl looks more delicious than I want to admit—glass noodles glistening with oil, perfectly julienned vegetables, and thin strips of marinated beef that look mouthwateringly succulent.

I want to eat every bite I’ve been served.

Gun damn sure is; he eats like a vacuum, shoveling noodles as if he’s in some speed-eating contest.

I’m the opposite, picking at my food, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing how genuinely hungry I am.

But it doesn’t last long. After a couple minutes, natural urges override my pride. I take my first real bite and savor how flavorful it is.

Gun pauses mid-bite, noodles dangling from his chopsticks. “You like it?”

I give a terse nod. “It’s… okay.”

He laughs as if he knows that’s a lie. “It’s okay if you admit you do, you know. I won’t tell anyone the great, fierce assassin Black Silk complimented her mortal enemy’s cooking.”

“Thank you so much for the permission,” I reply, dripping with sarcasm.

He shakes his head in obvious entertainment, still grinning.

I’m reminded that pissing me off is his goal. It’s basically become a hobby of his.

Maybe it’s time to try a different approach.

One that mightactuallyyield some useful information about my captor.

“Did you make this yourself?” I ask, surprising us both with the genuine curiosity in my tone.

“I’m a decent cook. My eomma left when I was young, and I hated the shit the staff that worked for Appa made, so I took matters into my own hands. Started making my own food pretty early.”

I pause with my chopsticks midair, struck by the familiarity of it all. “How young were you when she left?”

“Don’t remember exactly. Probably four or five.”

“Thatisyoung.”

“Yeah… well… she and my father had a very... toxic relationship. According to him, she tricked him into marrying her.”

“Tricked him?”

“They had a very hot fling and she wound up pregnant.” There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken history, before he adds with yet another casual shrug, “She was a parlor girl.”