Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Nevertheless, she needs to rest, and she won’t nap well with sticky cum drying on her skin.
“Go have a shower,” I say, lowering her to her feet in front of the bathroom. “I’ll fix you lunch.”
She finally meets my gaze, defiance sparking in hers. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
She makes to turn, but I wrap my hand around her wrist. When I reach for the hem of her dress, she steps out of reach. I reel her in, keeping my fingers locked around her arm, and lift the skirt to inspect her midriff. I want to be sure the hard edge of the table didn’t hurt her.
Satisfied that there are no marks on her belly, I let her go. She all but runs into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. The click of the lock sounds on the other side. I chuckle to myself. As if a door would stand in my way if I wanted to get to her.
As soon as the water comes on, I walk to the kitchen and go through the fridge. I frown as I scan the contents. Except for the take outs I left last night, there’s not much, and the pasta will be stale. The cream sauce may have gone sour, and the shrimps could be off. The food may smell fine, but that doesn’t mean bacteria haven’t already developed.
I dump everything in the trash, which leaves her fridge empty save for eggs, milk, juice, and a few condiments.
A quick inspection of the cupboards turns up the same finding. The shelves are almost bare. Surely, if she lives in a high-end apartment, she can afford food. Whatever little groceries she stocks—such as oats and a ginger infusion—are high quality, organic brands.
Not having a wide selection to choose from, I settle on an omelet. While it cooks, I set the table. By the time it’s done, Anya steps from the bedroom, wearing a T-shirt, leggings, and socks. Her wet hair is brushed back, the wild curls tamed, and I’m so stunned by the unconventional beauty of her face that I’m tongue-tied for a moment.
“You’re still here,” she says with undisguised disappointment.
I pull out a chair by the table. “Where else would I be?”
She crosses her arms. “Catching a flight?” Adding with a bite in her tone, she continues, “Preferably miles from here.”
“Sit.”
She doesn’t budge.
“Fine.” I grin. “I enjoy carrying you.”
That does the trick. She trudges over and plonks down in the chair.
I plate the omelet and put it in front of her. After pouring a glass of orange juice, I take a seat opposite her. “Eat.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you going to watch?”
“Until you’ve eaten every morsel.”
She scoffs. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know.” But I have ulterior motives for feeding her. I’m not only keeping my alibi alive and healthy. I can’t stand the thought that she’d starve her baby. Which brings me to my question. “Why is your fridge so empty?”
“It’s not empty,” she says almost defensively. “Not that my fridge and its contents are any of your business.”
“Wrong.” I lean forward, pinning her with a flat smile. “Your kitchen and everything else that concerns your health are every bit my business.”
She purses her lips.
“Answer the question, Anya. Why are your cupboards empty? Are you afraid of the weight you’ll gain with the pregnancy?”
Her eyes flare. “Of course not.” She lowers her gaze and stares at her plate. When she continues, it’s in a soft voice. “I haven’t had time to do the grocery shopping, that’s all.”
The muscles around my eyes tighten in an involuntarily reflex. “Do you always work overtime?”
She looks up. Swallows. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“My job is important to me.”
“More important than your unborn child?”
“No,” she cries out again. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I need to prove myself, okay?” she says with anger sparking in her eyes. “I don’t have a formal qualification. The industry is competitive. Right now, there are fifty people lurking like vultures on the sidelines, waiting for me to screw up so they can take my place.”
“It’s going to stop.”
She gapes at me. “What?”
“Working overtime—it’s finished. Done. You’ll wear yourself out.”
Her jaw drops. A second passes before she shuts her mouth. “Are you dictating my life now?”
“Damn right, I am.”
“You’re…You’re—”
“A monster?” I drawl.
“Unbelievable,” she finishes, looking at me with a mixture of anger and hatred.
“Eat.” I motion toward her plate. “I’m always happy to feed you.”
Glaring at me, she grabs the fork and jabs it into the omelet.
For the next few minutes, I watch her murder her food, cutting and stabbing every bite before shoving it into her mouth.
She arranges her knife and fork diagonally in her plate when it’s empty and gives me a saccharine smile. “Happy?”
I point at the glass next to her place setting. “Juice.”
Holding my gaze, she tips back the glass and downs everything in one go before slamming it on the table.