Page 15 of Coerced Kiss

I stop in the middle of crossing the floor. “Why?”

“Go have a shower, Anya. Make it quick. We need to disinfect those cuts on your back, and then you need to rest.”

Too tired to fight him on this too, I go to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I do need a shower. I want to scrub everything away that’s happened today. I can’t even think about Mr. Lewis. Not yet. As long as Saverio is keeping watch in my apartment, I need my wits about me. There will be enough time to break down later.

After a quick shower, I pull my leggings and T-shirt back on. Walking gingerly to the bedroom door, I say a quiet prayer when I open it, but the gods don’t have mercy on me. Saverio sits at the kitchen table, reading something on his phone. A spread of food is laid out in front of him.

He gets to his feet. “Feeling better?”

I look at the boxes on which the name of a famous Italian restaurant in Brooklyn is printed. “What’s this?”

He pulls out a chair. “You need to eat. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got everything on the menu.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. “You must be kidding me.”

“Anya,” he says with a warning in his tone.

“You took me to see a doctor, and now you’re feeding me?”

His eyes tighten. “Sit down.”

The smell of cheese and garlic turns my stomach. I place a hand over my belly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“You’re not.” In two long strides, he’s next to me. “You’re going to take a deep breath, and then you’re going to eat whatever you can stomach. The food is from a good restaurant. The chef is one of the best in the city.”

I don’t get him. I stare at his handsome features as he leads me to a chair. “Why?”

“Why what?” he asks, seating me.

“Why are you doing this?”

He straightens and looks at me with a serious expression. “I’m not a baby killer.”

No, just a cold-blooded murderer. “Oh.” I can’t help but get in a jibe. “And here I was thinking you were just making sure your alibi doesn’t die on you before the police investigation is over.”

I know exactly when he reaches his limit. I see it in the coldness that settles in the bottomless depths of this strikingly blue eyes.

“Careful,tesoro.” His voice is low and menacing as he curls his fingers around my shoulder. “You don’t want to bite the hand that feeds you.”

Heat seeps from his palm through the layers of clothes into my skin. It’s not a soft, comfortable warmth. It’s a scorching inferno. I understand the quiet message only too well.

“That’s better,” he says with a calculated smile when I don’t argue further, not removing his touch as he takes a seat next to me.

His grip is light, but the weight on my shoulder is heavy. He dips a fork into a box and twists spaghetti around it. When he brings the fork to my mouth, I don’t have a choice but to open.

Despite my hunger, I’m queasy. The creamy, peppery sauce with a hint of pesto and parmesan cheese must be scrumptious, but right now, everything tastes like sawdust.

I allow him to feed me bite by bite until the container is empty.

“There,” he says, dabbing at my lips with a paper napkin. “You did well.”

The intimate act makes my cheeks heat. My emotions are all over the place. Terror, exhaustion, and shock are muddled together, blurring the lines of acceptable behavior. It inhibits my reasoning, making it difficult to interpret the non-verbal clues of his body language, because the heat that sparked in his gaze when he wiped that napkin over my lips can’t mean what I think it does.

I rub my eyes, fighting for clarity through the mess in my head.

“Let me have a look at those cuts on your back so that you can get to bed,” he says.

“It’s just a few scratches.”