Then, pawing through the ridiculously large walk-in closet to find my clothes that were so rudely hijacked from my apartment. My sad little stash was neatly hung up in one little corner, with my knickers and bras folded and put away in one of the mahogany dressers. Pulling on some ratty-looking running shorts and a sweatshirt from Uni, I ponder the pile of glossy gold and black bags and boxes, creating their own mini Mt. Everest on the sofa in the sitting area of the master bedroom.
The sheer flagrancy of the stash offends me. Who buys one of everything in my size inan entire store?I guess I should be grateful that it was a tiny boutique and not the House of Fraser department store downtown.
I should really get on the treadmill in the gym and try to work off the approximately eighteen thousand calories of dessert I’d just gorged. Maybe try to get some sleep?
The shiny lingerie bags glitter at me.
“Fine.Stop looking at me with your judgy little faces!”
Bras draped over the big leather couch and two armchairs by the time I’m done. Knickers with far too many variations to count cover every inch of Logan’s king-sized bed. Lace and satin corsets hang on the top of every door, and the sexy little babydoll nighties and rompers decorate the bathroom counter tops.
Logan’s bedroom/sitting area is bigger than my entire apartment and I still haven’t figured out where to put all the robes. Satin ones, silk ones, lacy robes and some that are a delicate, weblike material that looks pretty but cling to my skin like spiderwebs.
Ugh.
“Those definitely are going back,” I mumble.
I talk to myself all the time. The sound of my voice is important. I need it to sound exactly the way it always did, before I started losing my hearing. I carefully modulate the tone, making sure it varies properly, and that the volume is correct for the conversation. My articulation is precise. It’s a point of pride, I guess. Fate and shitty auditory nerves might take my hearing, but I’m keeping my voice.
“How can there bemore?”
There’s a long, flat box that I missed in the corner, filled to bursting with swimsuits. “Really? I could lurk in the ocean like a mermaid for the rest of my life and still not need this many!” Bikinis, some scandalous and barely covering my nipples. Others with thong bottoms, leaving my entire arse hanging out. Deep-V one-piece suits that would instantly let a breast pop loose if I took so much as a deep breath.
Hands on hips, pacing the room, I scowl at the explosion of colors and fabrics and horrifyingly high price tags. “It’s not like I haven’t dated rich guys before, but this is unspeakable,” I grumble. “Is this how the one percent really lives?”
It’s close to midnight by the time I finish carefully folding the lingerie back in their little nests of tissue paper and shopping bags. I reluctantly held on to fifteen items that were just too pretty to part with. I’m spiteful enough to want to throw all this back in Logan’s face, just to prove I canna be bought, but… That bra and undie set in midnight blue and the silk robe printed with Japanese cherry blossoms are just so lovely. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful, it almost seems a shame to cover them up.
“Now, what to wear to bed?”
This is a dilemma. That slinky red chemise held together by delicate ribbons definitely sends the wrong message: “I’ll happily have sex with ye, husband for all the goodies.” Wearing what I’ve got on now seems… churlish. Settling for a silver silk cami and short set, I crawl into Logan’s bed.
It is big enough to count as an island, and itsparadise. The mattress is an exquisite balance of firm while still letting me sink into it like a cloud. The sheets are Egyptian cotton and I am sure I canna calculate a number high enough to measure the thread count. Oh, these pillows… Big fluffy ones. Square ones. Round ones and a couple that are shaped like wedges. I puzzle over these until I spot some cleverly placed hooks in the bed frame.
Oh. I pile all thesexpillows at the foot of the bed, keeping an innocent-looking rectangular one for sleep.
It dinnae come. Images keep parading through my mind. The glass room collapsing with an almost human scream of distress. Logan shooting all those guards in the time it took me to register the first one down. Oh, god…
The sharp arrowhead between my fingers, sweeping awkwardly across Anselm’s hand, slashing a crimson line across his throat. The spray of blood I’d blocked out until now. How did I forget the blood?
The noise he made, a gurgling, glugging sort of sound like he was trying to speak through the ruin I’d made of him. It’s the only sound I’ve ever heard that I wish I could forget. I wish I could unhear it, even with the terror of losing my hearing I almost wish I had been deaf so I wouldn’t remember the sound of killing another human being.
Logan tried to protect me by claiming it was his bullet that killed Anselm, but…
It was me.
“Bella, what’s wrong?”
Logan’s back, and he runs his hands over my arms and shoulders, his face worried. “Are ye hurt?”
“No, I’m okay,” I blubber.
“It’s hitting ye all at once, aye?” He turns on the bedside table lamp, the soft glow surrounding us. “Vivid, full color like you’re watching it on a big screen?”
“How did ye know?” I’m wiping my wet cheeks with the hem of my fancy new chemise.
“We all go through it,” he says, producing a box of tissues from somewhere and wiping my face. “Ye canna be immune to violence unless you’re truly a psychopath. We all find ways to process it.”
“H- h- how do ye handle it?”
