Kian
I’m expecting to be impressed.
I’m not expecting to be completely and utterly floored by the vision that approaches me from the boardwalk.
Renata is clearly unsteady in her new shoes, but she still manages to look graceful. The dress I picked out for her fits like a dream, wrapping itself around her athletic frame and highlighting her breasts to perfection. Her brown hair flutters softly in the ocean breeze as she pointedly ignores my eyes.
Aisling hasn’t followed her onto the boardwalk. In fact, I can see the maid already starting to make her way back into the house.
When Renata finally makes it to the table, she pauses in front of it, and her eyes finally meet mine.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands.
I smile. “You look lovely.”
“Do you expect a thank you or something?” she snaps. “Just because you buy me an expensive dress doesn’t mean I’ll forgive the fact that I’m still your prisoner.”
“Why don’t you sit down?”
Despite her words, I don’t sense the kind of anger I expected from her. In fact, I get the feeling that she’s trying to work herself up to it and failing.
That or the lack of food is starting to weigh on her, blunting the edge of her razor-sharp emotions.
“I’ll sit,” she says. “But only because I want to.”
I suppress a laugh. “As you wish.”
The table is relatively empty, apart from cutlery and side plates. But there is a small silver cloche in the center of the table between the two of us. The moment she’s seated, I pull it open, revealing the assortment of fresh bread underneath.
The smell blossoms between us instantly. She stiffens and leans as far away from it as she can.
“How about a bread roll?” I ask innocently. “Hot from the oven? There’s garlic butter and herb butter to go with it, too.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “If this is your attempt to get me to eat, you can go fuck yourself.”
I sigh. “Hmph. More for me, I suppose.”
I take a bread roll, split it, and lather it with butter. She watches me with a trancelike expression on her face, and I know it’s killing her not to cave into her hunger. Nevertheless, she persists.
Fine with me. We have three courses of this left to go. I refuse to be dissuaded.
I take a bite and sigh with contentment. “Delicious.”
“Asshole.”
I smirk. “I hate eating alone. Won’t you join me?”
“No.”
“Shame,” I say, with a shrug. “Leona is the best chef this side of the Atlantic. And speak of the devil, here comes the first course.”
A pair of servers come from the main house to set plates in front of each of us. The first course is a crispy seared salmon on a bed of buttered potatoes. Renata leans back in her seat and turns her face to the ocean.
“You sure you don’t want a bite?” I ask, spearing a potato wedge and pointing it at her.
She crosses her arms over her chest and avoids even glancing toward my fork. I can’t help but be impressed by her iron will. “Just curious, how much longer are you going to do this for?” I inquire.
“Until you give me back my freedom,” she replies immediately.