a R

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d around me feels hazy, and I can't find the strength to fight back. I should protest, I know, but my heart still a

moving before I do something we'll both regret," he says, his voice low

ergy to argue. So, I relent, finally resting my head on his chest, my body exhausted, my mind foggy. "Thank you

cking palace before I let them lock you up," he murmurs, his voice thick with protectiveness. His thum

on my chest. I'm too tired to question him, too worn out to try and understand why

focus solely on me. "You're hungry?" he asks quietly, his thumb still tracing my lips gently. The scent of expensive cigars and

akly, my voice barely audible as I sit in his

bonara and tiramisu immediately." His deep voice commands the kitchen staff before hanging up. His hands automatically s

s churn inside me. I squirm slightly, trying to adjust myself

and commanding. "You're making me crazy with all this movement. Just sit still for five fucking minutes unt

again, trying to get comfortable, but something hard presses

p my hips firmly, pressing me down harder onto him. "You're not helping the situation," he mutters, h

ght, and there's a knock on the door. The staf

"Leave it on the table," he commands, his voice unwavering. "And get out." T

p," I whisper weakly, unable to ignore the sudden dizziness that swirls in

tle but firm. I sip slowly, letting the cool liquid settle in my stomach. He

bed, standing up and grabs a plate of pasta. "Eat," he orders, his tone fir

to grip the pasta. The effort feels exhausting, my

s the fork from my trembling hand. Without a word, he begins feeding me, forcing me to eat slowly, careful

ing me, but it doesn't feel right. I whimper slightly, the discomfor

o my mouth. "Drink some more juice," he orders, handing me the glass, his gaze steady, unwav

of tiramisu. It's rich and sweet, and to my surp

easing. He leans in, his eyes dark. "See? I told you it would make you feel better." He reaches forwa