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Chapter. 43

I follow him inside. The table sports two plates of saucy mince surrounded by silver cutlery. I grab a piece of bread from the kitchen cabinet and take a seat across from him. Breaking the stiff bread in two reveals no mold. Whoever was living here was forced out not long ago.

My eyes land on the saucy mince on my plate. One of his potions must preserve meat, as there was no time to slaughter an animal this morning.

The salty sauce calls out to my empty stomach. Meat was usually reserved for Saturday dinners, requiring hours of preparation. This is a treat.

I scoop up the mince with the bread.

Rahlan snatches my arm, yanking my hand away from my mouth. The saucy bread lands back on my plate.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. Did he spot something in the bread with his vampire senses?

He releases his grip. “No human of mine will dine like a barbarian.”

A barbarian? Despite what he believes, he does not own me. I am my own person, regardless of if I’m free to roam the land or stuck in a prison cell.

“I am no human of yours,” I hiss.

“My pet will not embarrass me with poor table etiquette. You will use the utensils provided.” He gestures to the silver knife and fork.

“I am not your pet, and I will eat as I always have.” I pick the bread out of the mince and take a bite.

He shoves my arm flat on the table. The bread flies from my hand and rolls across the stainwood, leaving a trail of sauce in its wake.

“You will dine with manners,” he says.

I jump to my feet, my chair screeching against the stone floor. His grip on my arm prevents me from standing straight.

“You will remain in your seat.” His stone hand keeps me trapped.

“Bite me.”

“Later.” He rises to his feet, and his red eyes darken. “Sit.”

I gulp and take my place back on the chair. He releases my arm and circles behind me. I watch him from the corner of my eye, keeping my neck stiff.

He steps into the bedroom, leaving me in peace for the moment.

I tear off a new piece of bread, scoop up some mince and quickly munch it down.

The bedroom door slams shut with a bang, making me flinch. I jump upright at the sight of the rope, but his heavy hands land on my shoulders and force me back down onto the chair.

His cold maroon eyes meet mine, and I avert my gaze.

Realizing that I’ve resigned to sitting, his hands retract. He picks up the torn bread and brings it up to his face for inspection.

I thought we were done with this – him tying me up. I hate having my arms restricted. He’s already twice my strength. Bindings aren’t necessary for him to overpower me, but he chooses to tie me up regardless, almost as an insult.

“I was going to award you one more opportunity,” he begins, “but it seems you squandered it the moment I left the room.” The rope snaps straight between his hands like a whip.

Why should I sit here and endure his power trip? I try stand again, but his hand presses my back flush against the chair, applying some pressure to dissuade me from trying a third time.

He wraps the rope around my middle, making extra loops around my limbs to secure them to the chair’s frame.

Satisfied that I’m immobilized, he returns to his seat and enjoys another forkful of mince.

I glare daggers at him.

“You will remain in your seat until you’ve mastered proper table etiquette,” he says without looking up.

The knife in his right hand scoops the meat onto the fork in his left. He doesn’t pay any attention to me or my death stare. I’m hungry, and my meal is sitting just a foot away from me, so close I can smell it, but completely out of reach.

He finishes his food and takes his plate to the kitchen to wash. I hope it slips out of his hands and shatters on the floor.

He returns and takes a seat on the table beside my untouched plate.

“Ready to try again?” he says.

I hold his stare. He can go make love to a cow.

“Suit yourself.” He hops off the table and heads outside.

I wiggle my shoulders from side to side to try get free, but the rope just allows my hands to slide up and down the backrest without loosening at all. It’s wrapped around each of my wrists and the chair’s frame, allowing me to bend my arms as much as I want but keeping my hands functionally useless.

My ankles are tied to the chair legs in the same way. I can bend my knees up to my chest, but the rope just slides up and down the wood, keeping my ankles rooted to its frame. A strut between the legs makes slipping my feet under the posts impossible.

The stupid pigheaded narcissistic vampire has me trapped.

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