Page 30 of Coerced Kiss

“Fine.” I grin. “I enjoy carrying you.”

That does the trick. She trudges over and plonks down in the chair.

I plate the omelet and put it in front of her. After pouring a glass of orange juice, I take a seat opposite her. “Eat.”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you going to watch?”

“Until you’ve eaten every morsel.”

She scoffs. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” But I have ulterior motives for feeding her. I’m not only keeping my alibi alive and healthy. I can’t stand the thought that she’d starve her baby. Which brings me to my question. “Why is your fridge so empty?”

“It’s not empty,” she says almost defensively. “Not that my fridge and its contents are any of your business.”

“Wrong.” I lean forward, pinning her with a flat smile. “Your kitchen and everything else that concerns your health are every bit my business.”

She purses her lips.

“Answer the question, Anya. Why are your cupboards empty? Are you afraid of the weight you’ll gain with the pregnancy?”

Her eyes flare. “Of course not.” She lowers her gaze and stares at her plate. When she continues, it’s in a soft voice. “I haven’t had time to do the grocery shopping, that’s all.”

The muscles around my eyes tighten in an involuntarily reflex. “Do you always work overtime?”

She looks up. Swallows. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“My job is important to me.”

“More important than your unborn child?”

“No,” she cries out again. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I need to prove myself, okay?” she says with anger sparking in her eyes. “I don’t have a formal qualification. The industry is competitive. Right now, there are fifty people lurking like vultures on the sidelines, waiting for me to screw up so they can take my place.”

“It’s going to stop.”

She gapes at me. “What?”

“Working overtime—it’s finished. Done. You’ll wear yourself out.”

Her jaw drops. A second passes before she shuts her mouth. “Are you dictating my life now?”

“Damn right, I am.”

“You’re…You’re?—”

“A monster?” I drawl.

“Unbelievable,” she finishes, looking at me with a mixture of anger and hatred.

“Eat.” I motion toward her plate. “I’m always happy to feed you.”

Glaring at me, she grabs the fork and jabs it into the omelet.

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