Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“Stop pouting,” he snaps, when the server brings us the first course, salad, followed by pierogi.
I swallow the lump in my throat and try to take a bite of the food, but I’m practically choking it down. I finally put my fork down. My tongue feels too big, my mouth dry.
After a moment of silence, he furrows his brows. “Why aren’t you eating?” His tone makes me stiffen my spine and snap my gaze to his.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, unable to mask the petulance in my voice.
“I don’t care if you’re hungry or not. Eating isn’t an option. You’ll eat a decent meal without question.” He dumps food onto my plate with a scowl.
I cross my arms on my chest and glare at him. I’m aware that I’m acting like a toddler, but I don’t want to eat anything against my will, and he’s being a jerk.
He takes a large forkful of pierogi and makes a low sound of approval.
“Christ, this is good, little detka,” he says. “You made this?”
The lump in my throat softens a little. “I did,” I say. I’m fighting this so hard, but I can’t help but still like his praise. “I made it with assistance, but I did teach them. And I’m glad you like it.”
I take a little bite myself. He’s right. It is good.
Maybe he just needs to eat a little, for after half a dozen enormous bites, his plate is empty, and his gaze has softened a bit. I follow suit and eat.
“Good girl,” he says with approval. “That’s much better.” They bring in the main dish as planned, and now my grumpy bear of a husband actually smiles.
“Is that befstroganov? I haven’t had that in a decade or more. If you can make befstroganov and well, I may have to reward you. I might even overlook the little attitude you gave me earlier.” I had a suspicion a rich meat dish in a creamy sauce over noodles would go over very well with him.
I hide a smile, but when he takes a huge bite and groans out loud with pleasure, I don’t bother hiding my smile anymore.
“You like it, then?”
“This is delicious,” he says. “It’s the best I’ve ever had.” It seems my grumpy husband doles out praise and punishment in equal measure. He’s giving me veritable whiplash. I feel like I need to hold on tight to survive the ride.
After he’s finished his portion, the final dish comes out and we both eat heartily. He pushes himself away from the table after eating literally three times what I do, and I eat a good amount. Wiping his mouth, he looks at me with approval, nodding slowly to himself.
“That was a meal fit for a king, Caroline,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Did you save room for dessert?” I’m so pleased he’s happy, that he enjoyed this meal that I made, my heart feels light as a feather. I wish I wasn’t so sensitive to his approval, so eager for his praise, for my logical mind warns me this places me in danger...in a state of raw vulnerability where I can so easily be hurt.
I wish it didn’t matter to me as much as it does, but I can’t deny the fact that his approval thrills me. Somehow, I feel winning the heart of the beast makes me victorious, empowered. He’s no easy one to love, but I can’t help but want to.
“Dessert will be served in our private rooms,” he says, standing. Reaching a hand out to me, he lifts me to my feet. “We have much to discuss, and I have no more patience left. I want you alone, now.”
I get to my feet, suddenly nervous. What will he do to me when we’re alone? He’s made reference to his tools and the wicked things he wishes to do to me.
Will he make good on that promise?
I get to my feet and take his hand. It’s hard leaving the dishes behind, knowing the staff will care for them. I wasn’t treated like this in my former home. Though kept apart from waitstaff, I was never waited on. I fixed my own meals and kept my own counsel.
It was a lonely life.
“This food was delicious, Caroline,” the man with a shaved head who witnessed my marriage says.
“Thank you.”
The redhead sitting next to him, Yvonne’s husband, nods with approval. “I agree. I haven’t had a meal like that in years.” He smiles up at me. “Maybe you can teach Yvonne?”
I look to Tomas on instinct, and I can tell he approves of my silent request for permission when he gives me a small nod.
“I’m sure we can arrange that.” But his voice is tight, his eyes hard when he looks at them. “Come here.” He offers me his arm. I take it quickly, bow my head and follow him out of the dining room.