“I still want you to take a bite.”
He rubs his thumb along his lower lip. “You don’t call the shots, kitty cat.”
I stare at the food again, so hungry I can practically taste it. It could be laced with something. A sedative or poison. I’d probably never know until it was too late.
Like he can hear my thoughts, he adds, “Guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
I was lying when I said I don’t like tomato. But I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted him to eat the damn food so I know it’s not tainted. I don’t trust Andriani as far as I can throw him, and since he’s six-foot-something to my five foot seven and his muscles probably have muscles bigger than mine, that wouldn’t be very far.
We lock eyes. His are blue. A pretty blue. Too pretty for a man. Lush and persuasive, just like his mouth. His jaw is hard, shaded with five-o’clock shadow. He’s unsmiling, might as well be carved from stone.
Into the silence, my stomach protests loudly.
“Dealer’s choice,” he says smoothly, and then he turns and starts to walk out again.
Maybe I have a death wish.
Clearly, I’m an idiot.
Because I lunge across the floor and grab half the sandwich, launching it at Andriani’s back. Like it’s in slow motion, I watch the triangle of toasted bread and gooey cheese go end over end until it pelts him directly between his broad shoulder blades before falling to the floor with a thud.
His head swivels, and he looks over his shoulder, his face an impenetrable mask. “It’s not nice to play with your food, kitty cat.”
Then he just…leaves.
Stalks out the door.
I hear his footsteps falling rhythmically and wait for something to happen. He’s not going to accept that I threw his food offering at him.
Right?
The footsteps get closer again, and he’s back, this time holding a roll of silver duct tape.
Oh shit.But at least it’s not a gun.
He’s on me in three steps, dropping the tape to the floor as he grabs both of my wrists and yanks them behind my back. I struggle, but he overpowers me easily.
“Guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” he mutters, taking my wrists in a punishing grip with one hand while he retrieves the tape with the other.
The tape wraps around my wrists next, sticky and tight.
“You don’t need to tie me up,” I protest, hating that I’m even more helpless now than I was before.
“Apparently, I do.” He winds on another few layers, and then I hear the distinct rip of the tape before he moves away.
I jerk at my new bindings, but they’re strong. “How am I supposed to eat with my hands tied behind my back?”
“I’ll feed you.”
“I’ll bite off your fingers.”
He laughs. “Try it.”
“Why do you care if I eat or not?” I demand.
I haven’t had anything since the smoothie I drank for breakfast. I’m so hungry I might eat Andriani’s fingers after I bite them off. But I’m delaying because he’s the enemy, and I’m a Sidorov. We never stop fighting.
“I don’t,” he says.