Page 45 of Quinlan

“Quinlan.” Rome’s hand reaches to my neck. Holds on to the side. Squeezes.

“You confuse me,” I whisper low enough for only Rome to hear.

His hand is a collar, gripping me possessively. His eyes are hot. “Tell me something about you. Something that’ll please me.”

He tips my head up. With his other hand, he drags my chair closer. The sound of it dragging on the floor is louder than the song in the background. Chandler Leighton’s “MONSTER.” It’s too hard to listen to the song when I’m being swallowed up by Rome.

My breath hitches. Rex’s phone call isn’t over, that’s for sure. Otherwise, he would’ve been here. Would’ve rescued me. Probably would’ve grounded me for life. Even though he can’t do that, he would’ve found a way.

Except… Do I want to be saved?

“Where should I start?”

He’s so close. Blue eyes are all I see. There’s an underlying anger in them. And lust. “Favorite food?”

A laugh almost bursts from me. He isn’t asking what I do for a living. What my goddamn last name is. He’s asking about—

“Food?”

“Yes.” His grip on my neck becomes painful. Possessive, like he had his hand on my back. Like he owns me. “Tell me.”

“Lasagna.”

“Lasagna,” he repeats. Rome’s voice is rough. More mouthwatering than any meal I’ve ever had. “Why’s that?”

He reads me like an open fucking book.

He’s forced me to remember, and that hurts. Tears prickle in the corners of my eyes, threatening to leak out. The why is a secret. A painful one.

Rome squeezes me tighter. He’s safe. He won’t let anything happen to me, including my memories.

This is so fucked up.

“It’s the first hot, homemade meal I remember making.” I don’t addafter what happened.

My eyes flicker to the side. No Rex. Good. I don’t want him to feel bad about what I’m going to say to Rome. He could never help me cook. Burns everything, he said. He brought groceries over. Told me it’d be better if I learned it from the Food Network on TV.

I understood back then. I do to this day.

“Go on.” Rome forces my gaze back to him, one harsh tug on my neck is all it takes. “When was that?”

“When I was seven. Six and a half?”

There were more meals I made. Cereal, for example. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then Rex said I had to try harder for myself and my parents. So I did.

“My parents weren’t big on eating. Or cooking.” Fuck the tears. I blink them back. Pretend my tattoo doesn’t sear my skin. “I burned it, the first time. When I got it right, it was like I won something. A war against the oven. How silly is that?”

His teeth gnash together. He hauls me closer to him. His minty breath fans on my skin, and his eyebrows lower on his forehead.He’s furious. His anger is barely contained beneath his cold, impenetrable veneer.

“Six and a half.” It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about my age. “You’re the one who cooked for your family? All this time?”

“I still cook for them. Sometimes.” When they let me come over. “Rest of the time, I order in for them.”

“Unacceptable.”

One word, and I’m trembling. Rome says this like a promise.

“What’s unacceptable is you touching my sister.”

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