Malcolm dropped the silver spoon back into the plate with a resonant, metallic clack, his jaw aching from the effort of forcing down the foul, pungent slurry. He leaned back against the plush cushion, breathing heavily through his nose as he fixed Dahmer with a stony glare.
"I'm full," Malcolm declared, his baritone cutting sharply through the clinking of glasses at the table. "I'm done touching this garbage. The rest of it can rot."
Dahmer didn't lift his eyes from his own plate immediately. He elegantly sliced through his food, chewed with a slow, maddening composure, and only then turned his gaze toward the Alpha. A faint, razor-thin smirk played at the edge of his lips—a look that instantly made the hairs on Malcolm's neck stand on end.
