Her gaze flicks to him, then to the chair. She hesitates for a moment, then moves forward, her steps measured and deliberate. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t falter, even as the men around the table murmur quietly, their eyes following her every move.
She sits without a word, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The dress rides up slightly as she settles, revealing more of her bruised thighs, and I catch the way her hands tighten, like she’s resisting the urge to pull the fabric down.
Silas leans forward, his smirk back in place as he looks at her across the table. “You clean up nicely,” he says, his tone light but teasing. “Almost makes you look like you belong here.”
Paige doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she keeps her gaze focused on the glass of water in front of her, her jaw tight.
The food arrives, but she doesn’t move.
Her eyes flick down to the plate in front of her–a generous portion of food, cooked to perfection. But she doesn’t reach for her fork. She doesn’t so much as twitch.
Instead, her gaze drifts around the table, her movements small, subtle. Suspicious. I can see the way her eyes dart to the men laughing and drinking, their voices growing louder with each sip of whiskey. They’re oblivious to her, absorbed in their own gluttony, their own smugness.
Her wariness is obvious, etched into the line of her jaw, the tight set of her mouth. She doesn’t trust them. Doesn’t trust this.
Good. She shouldn’t.
She finally glances toward me, her green eyes catching mine for the briefest moment. I raise an eyebrow at her, letting the smallest hint of a challenge slip into my expression. I don’t say a word, but the meaning is clear.
Go ahead. Eat.
She doesn’t immediately look away, which surprises me. Most people don’t hold my gaze for long–most people can’t. But she does, her lips pressing into a thin line as if she’s deciding whether or not she wants to defy me.
Then, slowly, she lowers her gaze back to the plate. Her fingers curl around the fork, and she picks it up with deliberate slowness, as though the simple act of holding it is a battle she’s fighting with herself.
I don’t move. I just watch.
She stabs a small piece of meat, her movements stiff, measured. Her eyes flick around the table again, searching for signs of malice, for any subtle confirmation that this is a trick. No one is watching her–not the way I am.
Her hesitation stretches, thickening the air between us. And then, finally, she lifts the fork to her lips.
Good girl.
The thought slips through my mind unbidden, unwanted. I shove it down, burying it deep beneath the cold detachment that’s always kept me sane. I have no reason to care whether she eats or starves. She means nothing to me.
And yet, when she takes that first bite, I feel a faint flicker of satisfaction. She’s cautious, her movements slow, her expression carefully blank as she chews and swallows. She’s waiting for something–poison, mockery, betrayal. She expects this food to betray her as easily as everyone else in this house has.
Her gaze flicks to me again, and I feel it like a spark, sharp and brief. I don’t look away. I let her see me watching her, my expression unreadable, my gaze steady. It unnerves her–I can see it in the way her lips tighten, the way her hand curls slightly around the fork as though it could be a weapon if she needed it.
I lean back in my chair, lifting my whiskey glass lazily, letting a faint smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. It’s not kind. It’s not warm. It’s a dark, quiet challenge, and I can see the frustration flicker across her face before she glances back down at her plate.
She doesn’t like being watched. Doesn’t like that I saw her hesitation.
Good.
