His jaw tick at the name. He exhale, as if calming his nerves. “How are you feeling? Do you hurt anywhere?”
No. I don't feel hurt. Except somewhere around my chest. The way he react last night replays.
“I’m fine.” I take a step away from his space. His brows knot and shoulders tense. “I’m going to make something to eat and head back to the room so I won’t bother you.”
“I’ll do the cooking,” Drogo says gruffly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Sit. You’re still healing.”
“I believe I can do things myself. I made lunch and dinner yesterday. I can surely make my own breakfast.” I don’t wait for him to speak and head to the kitchen.
I hear his rough exhale from behind.
As his footsteps approach, I hold my breath again, quickening to make the cereal, but he is suddenly
