Page 38 of Dark Love

“Almost as beautiful as you.”

What? Is he nuts? There’s nothing beautiful about the mess that I am. Ignore the fact that my hair is a rat’s nest and I haven’t showered in who knows how long, my ashen face and raccoon eyes are enough to scare anyone away. The haunted lenses I see the world through make horror movies seem sweet.

“Do you still want the steak? I can get you something else.”

“No. No. The steak looks delicious.” The medium rare ribeye fills up two-thirds of the large black plate—who buys black dishware—and a loaded potato fills the rest. To ‘balance out’ the massive meal, there’s also a salad and a mini loaf of bread with a butter rosette.

Vex stands there silently, waiting.

“Thank you.” How could I have forgotten to say thank you?

He stays right wherehe is.

What is going on? Why isn’t he getting his own food? “Are we going to share this?” There’s more than enough to feed the both of us…though as big as Vex is, I can see him eating this entire thing.

“We can, if that’s what you want.”

Oh. Oh. He’s being considerate again. “There’s no need. I trust you.” I shouldn’t. No sane person would trust this man without some sort of proof. Why do I?

“You shouldn’t.” He stalks out of the room.

Yet I do. The nightmare churning around inside me settles every time he gets close. Maybe all of this is driving me out of my mind. Will I ever get my mind back? My sense of normalcy?

Vex strides back in. Three plates are balanced on one thick arm with a wine goblet in that hand and a tray table in the other.

A tray table!?! “Why do you have a tray table?”

“My interior designer swore I’d need them eventually. Turns out she was right.” He sets the tray table down, opening it in one smooth motion.

“If I tried to do that, everything would be on your pretty floors.” And me.

Vex smiles as he places each plate down precisely on the tray table that faces our movie screen.

“What, no flower?”

A small chuckle escapes him. “Eat before your food gets cold.”

I’d prefer to stare at you, but that isn’t an option. Where do I even start with this amount of food? The logical choice would be to eat the steak before it gets cold, but the fresh bread smells so enticing. Slathered in butter—

“Dahlia—"

How has he already got a hunk of meat cut out of his ribeye?

“—eat your steak.”

Steak it is then. My knife slides through the meat like it’s butter. A moan escapes as the first bite touches my tongue.

“Told you so.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “So you’re one of those types.”

“What types?” He turns to face me.

“The ‘I told you so’ types.”

“If the shoe fits.”

“It’s a good steak.”

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