I can almost forget the infuriation on Liam’s face, or the unconcealed hatred Sebastian aims at Miles every few seconds. If I try hard enough, I’m able to cast aside Elise’s pity, or Landon’s shame upon the sight of his nude half-sister. For a blessed few minutes, the various conversations around the table make this event appear like any other I’ve attended.
As if Lilith isn’t sitting next to my former lady while Sebastian’s child grows in her womb. As if I don’t want to launch myself into his arms, regardless of his betrayal.
“Why haven’t you touched your dinner?” Miles’ question jerks me to awareness, and I realize I have no idea what’s on my plate, nor do I care.
I raise my chin. “You won’t afford me the dignity of clothing tonight, so I won’t eat.”
With a laugh, he sets his fork down. “I’m tiring of these games, Novalee. You haven’t eaten since you entered my house.”
“Whose fault is that?” I cross my arms, further goading him.
“Enough!” His voice thunders through the room.
Out of self-preservation, I shrink away, and Sebastian’s white-knuckled grip on the table draws my focus. He’s on edge, same as me.
A lion with his claws out.
Miles snaps his fingers in front of my face, demanding my attention. “Don’t make me punish you again.” A second later, he shutters his eyes as if he regrets his loss of temper. “I don’t enjoy disciplining you.”
“What are you going to do that hasn’t already been done?” I push my chair back and stand. “The chancellor broke me in.” I glance at Liam before swerving to the man beside him.
“Mr. Bordeaux broke my will.” A shudder goes through me, and unable to face the stoic bastard for another second, I turn to my brother and the doctor. “Landon broke my spirit, while Vance broke my control. And Sebastian—” My voice cracks. “He broke me worst of all.”
Palpable tension spreads among the men, the opposite of a standing ovation in response to such a heartfelt speech, but no less disarming.
Miles clears his throat. “Please sit back down, my queen.” There’s a sadness to his tone, almost an inflection of apology.
I step away from the table and regard him with my head held high. “I will not sit down. You can punish me all you want, but I guarantee it won’t break me.” I turn on my heel and leave the room as the weight of every eye in the room burns into my naked backside.
7
I awake with a start, blankets clutched in trembling hands as I lurch upright in bed. The first hint of daylight streams through the windows, promising another beautiful day free of rain. Like the morning before, the other side of the bed is empty, though his pillow has a noticeable imprint, indicating Miles slept beside me last night.
He must have come in after I fell asleep, and I find it bewildering that he didn’t wake me. The door stands open, as it did yesterday, and I breathe a sigh of relief. After my behavior last night, no matter how justified, I expected him to lock me in for the day.
I hurry through my morning routine in the bathroom, noting the first aid kit on the counter. A glance at the trashcan reveals bloody gauze.
What in the world happened last night?
There’s only one way to find out, and that involves walking through the door and facing Miles. I stare at the sheet with longing but discard the idea, not wanting a repeat of yesterday morning. Somehow, we’ll have to find a slice of common ground for the remainder of the month, and I already took my bold stand at dinner.
Now my protective instincts tell me it’s time for a little diplomacy.
A search of the kitchen, dining room, and shared living areas reveal empty spaces. He’s not in the gym or his study, either. Maybe he went for his morning run. The sky brightens to a baby blue by the time I return to the kitchen to make a quick bite to eat. After warming a skillet on the stove, I crack four eggs open over the pan. They sizzle while I pop bread into the toaster. It’s not the feast Miles made yesterday, but it’s a peace offering, nonetheless, and it’ll go a long way toward easing the dull hunger pangs in my belly.
Ten minutes later, I carry two plates to the dining room and take a seat. I’m halfway through my breakfast when footsteps sound from the other room. Miles appears in the archway, sweat dripping down his temples as he unzips a grey hoodie.
I gape at him, and it’s not his casual appearance that slackens my jaw. His left eye is swollen, horrendous bruising discoloring the bridge of his nose, and that wide mouth—so often home to a spectrum of smiles—turns down at the corners, bottom lip abused like the rest of his face.