Lucien’s POV
She hadn’t eaten—three days of Vira hauling trays back untouched, meat going cold, bread stale. “She’s starving herself,” Vira had growled last night, mossy eyes narrow, like it was my damn fault. Maybe it was—snatched her, locked her up, and now she’s pulling this stunt, digging under my skin worse than her damn “Sourface” crack after catching me with Lena. Those green eyes, slicing through me mid-thrust, wouldn’t quit—her scent—blood, flowers, wild—clinging like a burr I couldn’t shake. Revenge was supposed to be clean—use her, break Dean—but she’s a splinter, and I’m the fool itching to yank her out or shove her deeper.
I’d had it—stormed the kitchen, grabbed a steak—rare, bloody, dripping on my hand—no plate, no fuss. She wants to play stubborn? Fine. I’d make her eat, shove it down her smart mouth if I had to. Upstairs, her door loomed—busted window frame still mocking me from Vira’s report—and I kicked it open, hinges groaning. There she was, slumped on the bed,
