Page 11 of Shadowed Bond

“Ares.”

“I paid for water, Arden; I didn’t carry you across a battlefield.”

My lips press together, and the cashier tries to hide a smile. Ok, fine. I’m not going to cause a scene here.

Ares takes the receipt and steps aside. “You can argue about it once I’ve eaten.”

When our order is ready, Ares collects the tray, which is embarrassingly full, and carries it to the seating area.

“Couldn’t you eat it in the car?” I ask, noticing how his jeans hug his thighs. He’s infuriating, not unappealing.

“No,” comes the grumpy reply.

Fine then, I pick the table before he can argue. I select a table near the corner, with my back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance. Ares doesn’t seem bothered as he puts the tray down unceremoniously, sits down, and begins to open up the wrappers.

The smell of hot food rises at once, sharp with salt and grease, and I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose.

Ares pushes the extra chips towards me.

I look at them, then at him.

“I didn’t ask for those.”

“I know,” he replies, unbothered.

“Then why are they in front of me?”

“Because you’re going to eat them.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he counters.

“You do realise ordering people around does not make them more likely to obey you?” I ask, frowning slightly.

“The quicker you eat, the quicker we get out of here, or is this meal inadequate for the Arden Princess?”

I detest that title. I narrow my eyes. “It’s adequate,” I say through gritted teeth before I pick up one chip.

The faintest flicker of satisfaction crosses his face before he smothers it.

“Happy?” I ask sarcastically.

His mouth tightens, though there is something close to amusement in his eyes. “No. Eat your chips, Princess.”

My gaze lifts sharply.

There it is again.

Princess. Something deliberately chosen to annoy, as if he knows it’ll irk the hell out of me.

I’m tempted to tell him to stop calling me that, but I’m not about to give him ammunition because people like Ares Westwood don’t listen, anyway.

Instead, I eat another chip.

“Careful, Westwood, so much concern about me eating or not, I might begin to think you care,” I remark, trying to irritate him.

He grunts. “You wish.”