Page 7 of Twins for the Enemy

He grabs the hammer and heads back to the door, grabbing onto it to close it.

"Nailing the windows closed and locking me in is a fire hazard," I say.

His jaw clenches, and I realize my mistake.

"It's ironic for you to care about that," he says.

We both must be thinking about Helena Porter and the reports of her severe burns on her face. He shuts the door quietly, but it would have been less threatening if he'd slammed it. I listen to the faint sliding sound as he locks it.

I sit down on the bed, turning on the stone-base lamp. I try to lift the lamp. It's quite heavy. If I wanted to break something, this would be the right tool for the job.

And I definitely want to break something.

The mattress of the bed is heavier than hell, but I manage to slowly slide it off by switching between heaving it with my arms and bracing myself against the wall and pushing it with my legs.

I plan to struggle through dismantling the bed frame, but it's kept together with simple brackets.

I only need something to loosen the screws.

I search through the bathroom, finding an array of possible items—tweezers, nail clippers with a metal nail file, and a toothbrush. The toothbrush is useless now, but if I keep my prisoner mindset, I can sharpen it like a shank and turn it into something that can twist a screw.

The tweezers are more durable than I expect, but they keep skipping out of the groove in the screw. I switch to the nail file. It skips out as well, but with the grit on it, it grips better. I slowly manage to get each screw out, creating a pile of the rails and slats .

When the door opens, I'm looking down at a small mark where I'd tried to turn the nail clippers too hard, it slipped out of the groove and stabbed the side of my hand. It's small, but I hide my hand under my thigh as Kieran steps in anyway.

He glances at my disassembled bed frame, the mattress haphazardly leaning against the bedside table, and me, looking like I just ran through a humid jungle.

His mouth moves the slightest bit, which could be annoyance or amusement.

He's become much harder to read since our first meeting.

Or maybe I hadn't tried to read him that night.

"It's time for dinner," he says. "Let's go."

"I'm not hungry," I say.

It's the biggest lie I've ever said. I haven't eaten since yesterday, which seems like years ago now. I've gotten used to some hunger, but it's gotten to the point that I’m sure my stomach is consuming its own lining. But I won't let him think I owe him for anything. I'll starve .

"You can choose to not eat for yourself, but you need to eat for the twins."

I flip the lever on the nail clippers, back and forth, like windshield wipers.

The asshole is right. Even when I went to the clinic, I only confirmed that I was pregnant and found out it was twins.

I didn't dive too deep into the details because it all felt like a dream.

It would have been ridiculous to ask how much I needed to eat anyway.

I was already barely eating enough to feed myself.

I can't imagine how much weight I'd lost in the last two months.

Maybe that was it. Maybe Kieran isn't so kind to me anymore because I lost the weight that made my feminine features more noticeable. Maybe he only liked me when he found me attractive.

It shouldn't affect me, but he'd turned me into someone who could feel more than responsibility and regret that night. He'd made me feel like a whole person instead of someone who needed to be molded into someone useful. I could feel joy without any strings attached .

I slowly stand up. I slide the nail clippers in my pocket.

"Leave them," he says. "I'll tell the staff to take them and anything else with a sharp edge."

"Afraid I'll jab it in your neck?" I ask, raising my eyebrows and trying to look innocent.

"I'm worried that you'll injure yourself. I saw the nick on your hand," he says.

I shove my hands into my pocket. Reluctantly, I take out the left one and drop the nail clippers on the floor.

As I pass him, his eyes follow me. Looking for more weapons, I assume.

Part of me feels ugly about it. The other part is secretly pleased.

If I can't be desirable, at least I can be a threat.

The dinner spread is like an offering to a god.

Kieran pulls out a chair for me. As I sit down, it takes a moment to drag my attention away from the steak, glistening with juices under the bright lights as the dollop of butter melts over it. But it's not the only food there.

A bowl filled with fluffy dinner rolls with steam rolling off them.

A small bowl of caramelized carrots.

A plate with a stuffed pepper on it, the melted cheese turning crisp over the edges.

A small bowl of lemon-colored risotto.

A salad with a mix of almonds, bits of bacon, feta, and berries.

With the feast, a glass of water, and a few dishes I don’t recognize. If this is an offering to me, I am more than satisfied.

"Your steak is cooked medium well," Kieran says. "The chef also made sure the truffle butter's fresh. "

"Do you eat like this every night?" I ask, my mouth watering.

"No. I tell the cook what I want, and he cooks it," he says. "I wanted to be sure you'd want something here, so I asked for a variety of dishes."

He has no idea how hungry I am. I'd eat fried ants at this point.

“I didn’t know you were capable of caring,” I say.

He looks at me, impassive. “I knew there was a good chance you’d refuse to eat, so I adjusted the variables to ensure our children were taken care of.”

I should have known he’d claim it was because he’d read me so easily. I swallow the saliva gathering in my mouth. I don't want to appear too eager. I'll wait until he eats.

But as he sits down, I realize there is no plate for him.

"You're not eating?" I ask .

"No."

He's being an asshole, again. And I’m almost too hungry to care.

I can hold out for a second longer.

Two seconds longer.

Three seconds—

I snatch up one of the dinner rolls, biting into it so quickly that my teeth clash against each other.

But the pain doesn't register because the roll melts in my mouth, the salt in the butter triggering shock and comfort to my taste buds.

Before I can register it, I've finished the roll and started on another one.

Kieran stretches out in the chair, all relaxed dominance, his fingers tapping against his thigh while he studies me. I don't notice how intensely he's observing me until after I've cut into the steak and finished two succulent bites.

Why?

Is he mocking the way I'm eating like some kind of starved animal ?

Is he waiting for some kind of poison to knock me out?

Is he trying to intimidate me?

Well, I'm not going to let him unnerve me.

I lean forward to blatantly stare back at him, slowly continuing to sneak food in without breaking eye contact.

He doesn't flinch or back down. I'd gotten used to seeing his eyes as a dark void, but being this close, I don't see the void or the warmth I saw the night he took my virginity.

The dark circle around his iris seems to fade into a shade of mahogany brown, but like the wood, darker lines of brown mix with the lighter shade, creating a vibrancy I've never noticed in anyone else.

The spoon hits my mouth a little too low. Some of the risotto spills on my lap.

"Oh, crap," I mutter, dropping the spoon on my plate.

I search for a napkin, but I can't see any past all of the food.

Kieran plucks one from behind the dinner rolls.

I snatch it out of his hand. If he touches me right now, I may lose all sense of self-respect.

I quickly wipe the risotto off my pants.

"It looks like you'll have to change into the clothes I gave you sooner than later," he says. "It looks like you changed your mind about eating too."

"It's fine," I mumble. "I'd have eaten any kind of food the same way."

"Oh?" he asks. "You must have considered prison food at this point. Do you think you'd have enjoyed it just as much?"

"Sure," I say. "Bread is bread."

"That's good to know. It's still an option for you."

I glare at him. Never mind. His eyes are still a dark void. They look like wood because there is nothing behind them. Unconsciously, I shove another bite into my mouth.

"If you shove any more in your mouth, you're going to choke," he says .

I tear apart the bread, shoving as much as I can in my mouth. It's likely the unsexiest visual he's ever witnessed. It shouldn't bother me that he might see me that way.

"Do you use that mouth on John?"

Heat rushes into my cheeks. "Who's John?"

"The man you claim is the father of your children."

"Oh, um, right, yes," I say. "I mean, no, I don't use my mouth—well, I do, but that's none of your business."

"Very convincing. Award-winning," he says, fixated on my mouth. I swallow.

"Are you going to blackmail me into sleeping with you?" I ask. A darkness eclipses his eyes, taking away any light in them. But he forces on a smirk.

"You must have forgotten that you were the one who pressured me into sleeping with you last time," he says. "So, if you're looking for a predator, it's you."

"Bullshit," I say, setting down the rest of my bread roll. "I didn't pressure you to sleep with me. "

"It wasn't that long ago." He leans back in his chair. "You must remember me telling you that we shouldn't do it. You insisted. You kissed me after I said we should stop."

"You're wrong." I force myself to smile back. "I only slept with you because I wanted to steal from you. It was the quickest way to get your defenses down."

He runs his thumb along the edge of his jaw. "You told me that you sold the compass for fifty dollars. You're lowballing your virginity."

"You're an asshole," I spit out, jerking up to my feet. "I'd rather go to prison than spend one more second here with you."

As I turn, nudging the chair back with my leg, he grabs my wrist.

It's like experiencing touch for the first time. He's keeping his grasp at a firm but not tight grip, and it still feels abrasive—almost like my skin is brand new. But it doesn't scare me. It makes me want to feel brand new on every part of my body .

"If you go to prison," he says, his thumb rubbing along the center of my wrist, "the twins will be at the whim of the prison healthcare system. Then, I'll get full custody of them once they're born. Is that what you want?"

I slowly sit back down. He releases my wrist. I smile at him, the aggravating, sociopathic dark void in my life.

"Thank you," I say. "I'm glad to have someone around who is aware of the state of our prisons. It must be why you're such a good captor."

"If I was acting as your captor, you'd be in a much worse situation." He leans his elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his hand. "I'm acting as a father to our children."

"Funny. You are a lot like my father," I say.

His forehead creases for a moment. My gut clenches. I don't deserve sympathy for my father. He barely ever hit me.

"If your father hurt you—" he starts, his hand clenching into a fist.

I grip onto the bowl of risotto, but it doesn't seem as appealing now. "My father is irrelevant."

"No woman deserves to deal with that."

"Does a woman deserve to be held captive in a house by a stranger?"

His face hardens again. "Does a woman deserve to suffocate on smoke and have her face burned?"

I fling the risotto. It spatters all over Kieran's chest, creating a lemony cascade down his shirt. He looks down at it. When he looks back at me, there's no anger in his face. Just slight surprise.

But I still realize I've made a huge mistake as he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"Do you need to do that?" I ask.

"It has olive oil and butter in it. I may be a man, but I can still get that those two ingredients don't come out."

I’m getting used to seeing him shirtless, but my heart immediately starts thrumming throughout my whole body. It's not just the muscles and tone, but the memory of how it felt against me—the heat, the weight, and the way his body moved with mine, the ocean waves crashing down on the shoreline.

When I look back at his face, the hunger in his eyes makes my appetite look small. But God, do I want to cater to him.

He leans closer to me. My hands are trembling. Hot breath. Dark eyes. Lips slightly parted.

Faint bells chime. As Kieran pulls away, looking around, I realize it’s not in my head.

“Kieran!” a woman’s voice calls out. It sounds like she’s coming from the foyer. “Are you here?”

“Excuse me,” Kieran says, standing up. “Keep eating. I need to deal with this.”

As I watch him walk away, I imagine another woman sinking her nails into his shoulder blades like I did. I imagine her calling his name—actually knowing his name when they have sex—and how it’d echo through this house louder than it does when she’s calling him now.

I take a sip of my water. This doesn’t seem like a feast for a god anymore. It’s a meal to keep the humans placated while the gods take everything from them.

Even the fire they originally gave them.