Trey - Shandi Boyes Page 0,25
with a grunt. Trey’s jeans wear as much of the stew as mine when my shove knocks the bowl out of his hand.
When his back slams into the six-burner stovetop opposite the counter I’m sitting on, I leap off it with a soundless grunt, confident I’ll have the speed needed to reach the open screen door before him.
I’ll come back for Ana the instant I find help.
I’ll save her once I’ve saved myself.
My plan goes to shit when my bare feet slip on the mess I made on the floor. I fumble like a newborn giraffe, my campaign for freedom undone in a matter of seconds.
Trey’s earlier clutch on my wrist has nothing on the one he wraps around my waist. He pulls me into his fit body before he drops our weird, tangled mess to the floor with a thud.
“Stop it!” he demands when my nails digging into his tattooed arms agitate him more than my wish to escape. “I’m not going to hurt you. I am trying to fucking help you.”
When his roared words reach the ears of his crew, we’re joined in the kitchen by three of his men. I thought their humored faces would end Trey’s charade in an instant. It couldn’t be further from the truth. With one of his legs wrapped around my waist, and his arm pinning my back to his thrusting chest, Trey demands a dark-haired man to bring over the pot of stew simmering on the stovetop.
Once he has a generous helping sloppily served into the bowl I kicked out of his hand, he fishes out a large chunk of meat before steering it toward my face. I clamp my lips together as firmly as I can, but they’re no match for the strength and girth of Trey’s fingers. He strains the chunk of beef through my lips, and then my teeth in a matter of seconds before adding a warning to the deadly gleam in his eyes.
“If so much as a drop of stew spills from your lips, I’ll feed you like this every fucking day for the rest of your life. Do you hear me, K? I’m not fucking playing. I’ve got all the time in the world to force you to eat, so there won’t be any skin off my back if moments like this are added to my daily routine.”
With my shock higher than my belief my food is tainted with drugs, my lips part to accept the next chunk of the food Trey fishes out of the bowl. Its texture and starchiness tells me it’s a piece of potato. It is tastier than the chunk of steak, although my body will never admit that. It is shut down in shock, muted and confused as to why this rough, rugged, and pierced man is so pedantic about me eating. It’s not like he’d be upset if I starved to death. No one cares about me, not even people I classed as family, so why does a stranger feel the need to take up the campaign?
I peer at Trey through a different set of eyes when he mutters, “Good girl. Keep eating.” He feeds me like a father would their sick child. His hold is anything but gentle, but his eyes are brimming with unusual tenderness.
By the time I realize Trey’s Adam’s apple matches the bobs of my throat when I swallow his offerings into my stomach, I’ve consumed half a bowl of stew. It feels good to have food in my tummy, but no amount of heaviness stops its flips. I feel out of my element here, even more than I did when I ‘entertained’ my first lot of guests.
After wiping away the meaty dribbles running down my chin with his hand, Trey lifts his eyes to something above us. When I follow the direction of his gaze, I’m anticipating to see three humored faces peering back at me, so you can imagine my surprise when I discover the kitchen is empty. It’s just Trey and me, alone, and in a lighted room.
With no concerns about waste, Trey uncurls the leg wrapped around my midsection to knock down a bowl of bread from the counter. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about his worry I’ll attempt to escape the instant he releases me, so I smile instead. It’s not a big smile. I don’t think I’m showing any of the teeth that were hard to keep clean with a lack of accessories, but Trey notices