Page 182 of Modern Romance May 2026 Books 1-4
“This is… Are we expecting an army?”
“Only you and I,” he says.
“Then why…why all this?”
“Because you deserve it,” he says. “And I wanted to give it to you.”
I walk down the length of the table, looking at all of the bounty. And I sit down, unsure of where to start. He picks up a large plate. “What can I serve for you?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
And he begins to pile the plate high. With a bit of everything. He sets it before me, and moves to sit next to me. He tucks my hair behind my ear, and kisses my neck. I don’t know what to do with this. With this side of him. This sweetness and care. Except, something inside of me cautions me. Lucian does not have a reputation for being kind. Not in any capacity. Whatever this is, it’s more of the same. More of him trying to convince me that I am happy in my cage.
I can’t afford to forget that. But I take my first bite of the meal, and it’s so glorious that I do let myself set my worries aside for the moment.
Because they won’t change anything.
I eat ham and mashed potatoes. Pastas with sauces that I can’t identify. Orzo dishes, feta and olives. Roast chicken, steak and the nicest vegetables I’ve ever seen. And then it’s time for desserts.
“Strawberry,” he says. “I owe you a piece of strawberry cake. When you are not mad at me.”
I’m not mad at him now; that is true. Though I do feel lightheaded, and on guard. I’m trying not to feel too satisfied. Or too happy.
Because part of me feels like I have to resist this. Even though I’ve made the choice. Part of me feels like it’s a betrayal of the dreams that I used to have, to allow myself to be happy with him when he’s laid down an edict that I don’t like or accept.
But then, if I’m not a romantic, surely I should be able to separate my feelings from my thoughts. The feelings in my body from emotional feelings. Surely.
Except, he is waging a war, not just on my body, but everything. Because this is nothing if not psychological warfare.
But I eat the strawberry cake anyway, and it’s wonderful.
And then when he leans in close and asks me, “What is your favorite?”
He steals my breath with his beauty. And I let him kiss me, rather than even trying to answer the question. He strokes my face, my hair, kisses my lips, down my neck. Then he parts my robe, cupping my breast, right there in the dining room, like we’re in a locked room, like we don’t have the chance of being interrupted at any moment.
He growls, undoing the belt on my robe and opening it entirely, his chair facing mine, as he looks at me, his eyes feral as he takes in the sight of my naked body. I do have power.
That is the truth.
It wasn’t something that I hallucinated up there in our room.
His desire for me is pushing him; it’s making him act like this.
The one thing I don’t know is if he’s always like this. I need to see a crack in his armor. I need to know.
He overwhelmed me upstairs, his lips, his hands making me forget all of my questions. But I have the advantage of having had three orgasms only recently, and as much as I want him again, I am sustained by the recency of my pleasure.
“I need to know,” I say. “Is this your wedding night routine? Have you brought all of your virgin brides to three sobbing climaxes before bringing them to a feast?”
“No,” he says.
“Did you want them all like you want me?”
“Never,” he says. “I have wanted no woman the way that I want you.”
That doesn’t feel true. It doesn’t feel like it can be. But if he feels that way now, that I’m willing to suspend my disbelief. Because if that’s what he thinks, then what does the truth matter? If he doesn’t remember how strongly he wanted the other women, then that’s just as good, isn’t it? At least, that’s what I want to believe. Even while I’m frustrated with myself that I need it.
But the truth is, the need he creates in me has overtaken me to such a degree, has turned me into such a stranger to my own self, that I need to know he’s suffering from it too. I need to know that I’m not alone.
