Page 31 of Never Trust the Living (Battle Crows MC 7)

No one spoke to me once.

Well, no one but Jeremiah.

He spoke to me.

• • •

“Why don’t you ever eat my food?”

I looked up at the gruff biker that honestly scared the crap out of me.

Actually, all of them scared the crap out of me.

That was why I’d battened down the hatches and tried to appear bitchy and aloof. Because if I showed them a single hint of fear, they would pounce on that thread like hungry cats.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

I’d hoped that none of them noticed that I didn’t eat any of the food that I didn’t personally make.

In fact, I didn’t even eat the food that Bram made well.

I could choke it down, but there was a fifty percent chance that I’d puke it back up later.

Mostly because I didn’t trust Bram.

He was my husband, and I didn’t think that he’d ever put me first if push came to shove.

“Umm.” I hesitated, unsure what to say.

I mean, technically, them (them being the Crow family) knowing that I didn’t do well eating their food wasn’t a big deal. I wasn’t sure that they would care whether I ate or not. And knowing that I couldn’t eat it probably wouldn’t be any skin off their noses. But still.

“Come on.” He took a seat next to me.

Nobody had approached me all night.

They’d all eaten the cake that I’d purchased, the alcohol that I’d painstakingly braved the wilds of the liquor store for, and the food that I’d asked Jeremiah to cater—that I’d paid for.

Yet, none of them had said thank you at all.

Not even Bram, who was well on his way to drunk, had said a single ‘thank you.’

It was days like today that really hammered the nail into my proverbial coffin.

I loved a man that would never love me back.

I went out of my way to do everything for him—and his family—and not a single one of them paid me even a single ounce of their attention.

Except for, apparently, Jeremiah.

And, since he was actually acknowledging me—I had a feeling it had to do with the book in my hand and not the fact that I hadn’t eaten—I decided to go for it.

I hadn’t meant to go for it quite so spectacularly as I had, though.

But once I started to talk, the words just kind of vomited out.

“When I was younger, my brother used to do things to my food,” I said. “I was diagnosed with ARFID—avoidance/restrictive food intake disorder. Pretty much, sometimes I just can’t eat. Can’t make myself eat. I try, and then I throw it up. That’s what usually happens when I eat y’all’s food. I try it. Then I spend the next thirty minutes outside puking it up.”

“What did he used to do to your food?” Jeremiah growled, sounding pissed.

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