Not unwillingly, but certainly absent his will, the look she threw him over her shoulder propelled him from the door to the open archway leading into the kitchen. Because of what they'd done to him, his body ran at a very high metabolism; he was always hungry. But, because he never ate unless ordered, he was also conditioned to ignore that hunger. Right now, an altogether different hunger filled him, and he had no conditioning to fight against it. He watched her silently, feeling as if she were pulling at him with invisible hands.
Her hands were delicate and slim. He watched them lift a strawberry to her mouth. A reasonable man would have looked away, at that point, valuing his own sanity. James didn't. A charming man would have found a light-hearted topic of conversation to deflate the rapid tension growing in the kitchen. James wasn't. He wanted.
It was a conflicting thing, wanting. Almost nothing that he wanted was permissible. He could want to complete a mission; that was permitted. He could want to kill; that was permitted. Nothing else. And yet, his skin ached, his stomach twisted, his heart beat harder, and his breath came more shallowly. He may not be able to have, but he could watch.