Mated To Valentine
The maid returns swiftly with a grand spread—roast lamb, bread still steaming, fruits glistening under candlelight.
Achilles doesn’t hesitate this time.
He practically devours the meal, barely pausing to breathe. His hands move fast, stuffing his mouth with reckless abandon.
There’s no grace, no pretense—just pure, desperate hunger.
I lean back, watching with mild amusement.
“You eat like a man who has never seen a proper meal,” I observe dryly.
He swallows thickly. “Haven’t.”
I tilt my head. “Haven’t?”
His jaw tenses, but then he sighs. “Not in fourteen years.”