Page 136 of The Delta's Rogue
“And because I’m not sure how my lycan will react,” he adds. “He’s pretty on edge.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I tuck myself into him more, seeking the warmth emanating from him and the comforting sensations from our bond that still lurks behind a slowly fading wall of fog.
Sebastian brings me to a table and lowers me into a chair. He kneels by my side and links our fingers together, giving mine a squeeze as he lifts them to his lips. “I’ll be right back, okay?” He stays on his knees as he waits for me to acknowledge him, to give him permission to leave my side.
“Okay.” My voice cracks around the word.
He kisses my forehead before leaving me in the chair. I sit upright with my chin dipped, eyes staring into the smooth, polished walnut table. I don’t look at anything else. No other details appear in my line of sight, save for that dark wooden surface.
Sebastian moves around the kitchen behind me, opening drawers and cabinets, preparing food for both of us, and I sit quietly, waiting for him to return. I’m too exhausted to do anything else.
I don’t have to wait too long. He returns after a few short moments and sets a plate in front of me and another next to me. He digs into his food before he even sits down, scarfing down a huge bite of toast topped with fresh avocado.
I remain frozen, hands resting in my lap and eyes staring at the food. I try to grab the spoon and eat a bite of the yogurt with fruit and honey Sebastian dished up for me, but I can’t. My body won’t respond to my mental commands. It won’t let me feed myself. Not without permission.
I glance at Sebastian from the corner of my eye.
He stares at me, his plate already close to empty, a frown creasing the space between his eyebrows. “Why aren’t you eating?”
I lick my lips and wring my hands together beneath the table. “I wasn’t sure if I could. You didn’t tell me to eat.”
His hand curls into a fist on top of the table and he tilts his head towards the ceiling. “Fuck!”
“I’m sorry.” I apologize immediately, my words overlapping his, as I duck my head lower. My shortened strands of hair swing forward, hiding my face and the water lining my lids.
“No.” He takes my face in his hands. “Don’t apologize. You should not apologize to me whenI’mthe one who messed up. You should not apologize for how you’re processing the pain they’ve caused you.” His thumbs swipe beneath my eyelids, taking the pooling tears with them. “Come here.” He scoots his chair back to make room for me.
I climb onto his lap without further prompting.
He wraps his right arm around my waist and slides my plate in front of us. “You need to eat, okay,cariño? I need you to eat.”
My hands rest on the edge of the table, and I continue to stare at it, fighting against the lack of permission, the lack of an order from him.
Sebastian rests his forehead against my shoulder blade and tightens his arm around my waist. His fingers wrap around my hip bone, and he squeezes it gently. “Please eat, Sarina.”
His voice is quiet, but hidden within the softness is an urgency—a need, a desire—to beg me to do this for him.
His words aren’t quite an order. I sense his hesitation to give me an actual command, to treat me like a piece of property.
He’d do it. He’d do it for me if I told him it was the only way. And because he’d do that for me, I know I can do this for him.
I reach for my spoon even as my mind shrieks like a steaming kettle of hot water and my muscles strain like a too tight rubber band. But I do it. I grab the spoon, scoop up a small portion of yogurt and a piece of fruit with it, and lift it to my mouth.
As soon as I start chewing, Sebastian relaxes beneath me, letting out a relieved sigh. He says nothing to me—no words of encouragement, no exclamations of praise—but he lifts his head and rubs my back with his free hand. Up and down his hand slides as I eat, sending heat into my body and easing the tension in my muscles.
I eat slowly, conscious of the reaction my stomach may have from too much food at once, and I revel in the comfort Sebastian gives me by caressing me and supporting me with his presence.
His hand glides down my left arm to my wrist. He lifts it, thumb tracing right above the scars the cuffs left behind. My nose wrinkles as I grit my teeth and force myself not to wince at his touch.
“These should be fading faster,” he says, concern and confusion etched into his voice. “Seven days isn’t long enough for your scars to be this deep or your wolf to be this subdued.”
I glance down, where the layers of scar tissue form a thick band of red and pink around my wrist, created by the constant rubbing of the silver on my skin and the wolfsbane preventing my body from healing itself with its usual, supernatural speed.
I set my fork on my plate and brace my palms on the table. “Sebastián…it was only seven days for you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Para mí…” I swallow and shut my eyes. “For me, it was weeks.”
