I grit my teeth. Of course he did. “Right.”
“And the light fixtures need cleaning in the hall,” Clara adds, sliding onto the kitchen stool. I swivel to face her.
“Feel free to get started on that at any point.” My voice is brittle, and she pulls out a fucking nail file as though she’s on holiday, and not at work.
“Silas said—,”
“I don’t give a fuck what Silas said,” I hiss into the stone. Silas can throw himself off a cliff for all I care right now. Not that I’d have the energy to celebrate it.
I’d still manage to wave a little flag though. Even if it killed me.
Fuck, even my fingernails hurt.
How is that possible?
Sighing, I rinse out the cloth in the bucket next to me. The hearth is done.
Now I just have the washing. The beds. The windows.
Oh, and apparently the damn light fittings, too.
Maybe then I can eat. Andsleep.
“Isn’t it time for you to leave?” I ask Clara tartly. Thank fuck she doesn’t live in the house. It’s been dark for hours. She should have left already.
She bats her long fucking eyelashes at me. “Rafe asked me to stay for dinner.”
The words take a minute to process. And then I spin, picking up the washing and walking out, ignoring her words completely.
It doesn’t matter.
Itdoesn’t.
I don’t know why it even hurts, that he would ask her to stay. Not when he makes my life hell in every other way he possibly can.
I’m very aware of just how much these men don’t give a flying fuck about me anymore. The more time I spend here, the more I wonder if they ever did at all. I was clearly a fucking deluded fifteen-year-old girl.
After putting the washing on, I scrub as much of the dirt from my arms and hands as I can before gingerly picking up the clean bedding.
I did not plan this well. But since I don’t care if they get a little filth with their sleeping arrangements, I’m not particularly careful as I make my way upstairs. I have to pause for a rest inthe hallway, and I use it as an excuse to admire the gleaming floors. Courtesy ofme.
Although I have no doubt they’ll be covered in something vile again by the time morning comes. Rafe is very dedicated to his work. Hasn’t missed a day yet.
By the time I make it upstairs to his bedroom, I’m huffing. I’ve had no time to sit and have lunch. Or dinner. Again.
And I’m so focused on the growling in my stomach that I don’t pay any attention before barging in, assuming that he’ll already be downstairs, waiting for his undoubtedly delicious dinner. WithClara.
“Dickhead,” I hiss to myself.
And then I stop, pulling myself up a few steps into the room as the door swings closed behind me. Staring, as Rafe turns around with a jerk, his eyes flaring in surprise.
Water makes its way down his chest as he rubs the towel over his hair, pausing as he takes me in. My eyes drop down without my fucking permission, taking in the golden expanse of skin, lightly dusted with hair. The tattoo winding down his right side.
Lower.
Choking, I slap my hands over my traitorous eyes and spin around as he curses, wrapping the towel around his waist.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” His voice is a snap behind me. Too close.
