That comment he made about time running out wasn’t about the wedding. It was about him. He’s failing fast without a source. “Please don’t tell me you expect me to feed you,” I rasp. “It’s all part of the training,” Mikael says, his eyes never leaving my breasts. “You will drink a tea made of lactation-inducing herbs, and I will stimulate the production of milk with a combination of hand expression and suction.” “What?” I whisper, my stomach curdling. “It’s natural,” Erik says. “I won’t do it.” My voice trembles. “If you make me go through the ceremony, I’ll say no when the priest asks if I
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