Page 71 of Cruel Cravings

I’ve never seen anyone eat like he eats before. Not in person. Not without an ounce of shyness or shame. He couldn’t give less of a fuck about what anyone thinks and it’s… refreshing.

“So you’ll cook for me, bathe me, tend to my wounds…” I list off. “You’re not angry with me when you could be.”

He stops between tearing off more garlic bread. His gaze snaps back to mine, steady and unwavering.

“I was scared,” I confess, purging more guilt. It gnaws away at me, begging to be heard. “That’s why I behaved like I have. You’ve terrified me for so long. You stalked me and made me feel crazy. After everything that’s happened—all the ways people have used me and hurt me—I just… I took it out on you.”

Silence.

The spaghetti noodles slip between his fingers. The scars and misshapen features do little to disguise the expression on his face—his wide brow ridge is creased as if in concern, his jaw set. He’s listening to every word, absorbing everything I say.

“You stalked me for years… why?”

When no answer comes, I clutch the fork tighter in my grip. Frustration mounts, familiar and quick.

“Ow!”

I wince and drop the fork, turning over my palm. I’ve clutched the fork so hard I’ve reopened the gash on the inside of my hand.

Blood dribbles to the surface and drips onto the table.

Before I can even react, Brontë’s moving. One second he’s in his chair, the next he’s crossed the kitchen and snatched a towel from the handle on the stove. He’s at my side, taking my hand in his and pressing down on the open gash.

It’s one of several nasty cuts I sustained after running blind in the woods. I hadn’t even realized how scraped up I wasuntilhe had bandaged me up last night.

My breath stalls in my throat.

His touch elicits a strange sensation inside me. A tingling warmth spreads, pooling low in my stomach.

He’s so close, I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. I can practically hear the drumbeat of his heart through the thick cavern of his chest.

His hands are so rough and calloused yet so perplexingly gentle as he handles me.

Attentive.

If there was one word to describe him, it would be attentive. For better or worse, he’s watched me for years. He’s paid me more attention than anyone else ever has in my life.

He releases my hand once he’s determined the bleeding has stopped and then tosses the bloody towel in the sink, where it joins the pile of dishes I had left behind.

My cheeks are flushed as he reclaims his seat across from me.

“Um… thanks,” I mutter. “It’s going to take me time to adjust. Some time to learn not to get so frustrated by your silence. I just wish… I’d like to know more about you.”

He tilts his head as if considering what I’ve said.

An idea comes to me and I use his silence to my advantage, taking it as permission to continue.

“How old are you? Over thirty?”

Pause.

And then… he nods.

“But under forty?”

Another nod.

I chew on my lip. My focus falls to the scars decorating his neck, chest, and shoulders and every other part of him. He still hasn’t put on a shirt to replace the one I’d cut off him.

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