Page 9 of Lost Touch

As if he’d needed to be. Because I was what, going to get up and walk out of here? Tell him to fuck off? Where the hell did I have to go? I didn’t have anyone in the world but Drew. I might’ve tried to run if he’d actually violated me, or mated me against my will. Either. Both. Being an alpha werewolf’s sex slave wouldn’t be much better than being in prison, would it?

Then again, the food still simmering away on the stove smelledreallygood, and if sex slavery came with being held by those wonderful arms…

Oh, God, I’d officially lost it, hadn’t I? Stockholm Syndrome. Or something similar.

As if he’d read my mind, Drew said, “Yeah, you’ll probably have to meet them if you stay. But you’re not a prisoner here, okay? Just because my pack thinks we’re mated doesn’t mean you can’t leave if you want to, if you have somewhere to go. Since you remember your first and last name, we can look you up in an online database for missing persons. There is one, I checked. I didn’t look for you yet, though. I thought you might want to do it yourself.”

“We’ll look in a while, okay?” I didn’t think I could handle that yet. The thought of finding a family or friends, someone who’d been grieving for me, when I couldn’t even remember they existed…well, that scared me even more than finding nothing at all. “What did you cook? It smells so good.”

Drew blinked at me, and his mouth dropped open a little. “You’re—just like that, Ash? You’re not going to shout at me? Beat the shit out of me?”

Like a freak, I started to laugh, but I simply couldn’t help it. “Beat the shit out of you? Me and what army?”

His lips quirked in a wry little smile. “I’d let you win? I mean, if you want to hit me, go for it. I deserve it. I heal really fast, but if you want to use a baseball bat or something you could do some damage I’d feel for a while.”

Nothing in the world sounded less appealing to me than beating Drew with a baseball bat. Actually, I wanted to hug him. Or be hugged. Both.

“Food, please. I don’t want to hurt you.” After our captivity, and what sounded like a hellish encounter with his family, when he should’ve been able to have a joyful reunion…yeah. He’d been hurt enough. “I’m not mad at you.”

“You’re too good for me, and we’re not even mated for real.” Drew shook his head. “Seriously. I wouldn’t deserve you. And the food’s probably not that good,” he added, reaching out his hand again. This time I took it, and he carefully boosted me to my feet, slipping his arm around my waist when I stumbled. He smelled as good as whatever he’d cooked, now that I had the chance to notice it. Fresh and clean and warm, a little spicy. I let my head lean on his shoulder for a second so I could soak it in and tried not to be too obvious about sniffing him. “It beats dry peanut butter sandwiches, though.”

I shuddered as he set me back in my seat at the dining table.

We’d had peanut butter every day in there. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to look at peanut butter again without gagging. It hadn’t even tasted like much, mostly dry and awful. Like they’d bought the worst possible peanut butter on purpose.

Drew settled me down with such gentleness it nearly broke me. Afraid of him? He’d begged me not to be. He had no idea how redundant that plea had been. Aside from that one burst of horror, which had passed so quickly it’d made my head spin, I didn’t think I could be afraid of him even if he did decide to chain me to his bed.

Once he’d gotten me situated, he bustled around getting out dishes and spoons and drinks, and I had a bowl of chili, a huge glass of ice water, and a spoon and napkin in front of me in no time at all.

Plus grated cheese, sour cream, and chopped green onions to put on top.

I had to close my mouth in a hurry to keep from drooling all over the table.

“Dig in,” Drew said, dropping into the chair across from me. “I hope it tastes okay. I’m not much of a chef. But no one delivers out here. We’re forty-five minutes outside of the city. At least if you drive safely.”

That explained the trees, anyway. I put some of the toppings on the food, my hand shaking with how much I wanted it, picked up my spoon, and scooped up a bite.

God, it looked good. The steam curling up, and the warmth of it against my lips…and then I put the spoon in my mouth, closing my eyes in anticipation.

I could still smell it, but it tasted like—nothing. Lumpy texture, heat, weight on my tongue.

But no flavor at all.

I choked, forcing myself to chew and swallow even though I wanted to spit it out all over the table. My eyes watered with the effort. At last I got it down.

When I looked up, Drew was staring at me in horror.

“It’s actually that bad? I’m so sorry. I mean, I didn’t think I put too much salt in it. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I have no idea if it has too much salt in it.” I put my spoon down in the bowl, reeling with misery.

Okay, so not feeling pain had the potential to give me a lot of grief if I got clumsy. And not feeling pleasure…well, it wasn’t like Drew meant to chain me to his bed after all, so I wouldn’t be missing much there.

But not being able totaste? Having homemade food, a real hot meal, on the table right there in front of me. And not. Being able. To taste it.

It was absolutely the outer limit of what I could take.

Rage welled up in me, finally overwhelming my apathy and exhaustion, so powerful and searing it felt like my insides were boiling.

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