A server arrives finally with the food, carefully placing each dish in front of each of them.
Vierva eyes the decadent dish before her, the glistening black caviar speckling the succulent lobster meat like a dark, glittering constellation against the delicate white of the plate. It's a work of culinary art, a testament to the chef's skill and the restaurant's reputation. And yet, as she stares at it, she can't shake the feeling of unease that settles in the pit of her stomach.
He's watching me, Vierva thinks, acutely aware of Dante's gaze upon her, heavy and intent. He's waiting to see my reaction, waiting for me to play the part of the perfect, appreciative companion. But I won't. I can't.
She looks up at him then, her sage green eyes meeting his pale grey-blue ones with a challenge that sends a flicker of something dark and dangerous sparking through their depths. "You find my appreciation amusing?" she asks coolly, arching one brow.
Does he think me so shallow, so easily impressed by such obvious displays of wealth and indulgence? Vierva wonders, a bitter twist to her lips that she quickly suppresses. Does he believe that I can be bought so easily, won over by a fancy meal and a few pretty words?
The thought leaves a hollow ache in Vierva's chest, a sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction that she can't quite shake. He should know better, she thinks bitterly. He should realize that I am worth more than mere material things, more than a fleeting moment of pleasure or a momentary distraction.
But even as the anger rises, Vierva knows she must be cautious, must tread lightly lest she offend or provoke him. I can't let him see how much his opinion matters, she realizes, a fresh surge of unease washing over her. I can't allow him to hold that kind of power over me, that kind of control.
With an effort, Vierva turns her attention back to her plate, carefully cutting into the lobster meat with a delicate silver fork. She brings the morsel to her lips, the rich, heady scent of the caviar filling her nostrils as she parts her lips to take a bite.
Dante watches, amused and intrigued, as Vierva carefully cuts into the lobster, her delicate features set in a thoughtful, almost pensive expression. He can see the wheels turning in her mind, the silent debates and internal struggles playing out behind those striking sage green eyes.
Feisty, he muses, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. That's a word I don't often use to describe the women in my life. But it suits her. It suits her perfectly.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he watches Vierva bring the fork to her lips, her slender fingers trembling slightly as she parts her pretty mouth to take a bite. The sight sends a dark thrill racing down Dante's spine, a flicker of something primal and possessive stirring in his chest.
She's not afraid to think for herself, Dante observes, a note of admiration creeping into his low, velvety voice. She's not content to simply be a passive, obedient little plaything. I like it.