I don’t mean to have questions in my eyes, but I can’t help it. It makes the air thick between us. He feels it.
“The penthouse was Peter Grange’s,” he says quietly.
I take that in. I haven’t had time to process everything and put together all the pieces of the past few days, but I have gathered what Andre’s revenge was about.
I ask cautiously, “Is that why you don’t use the bedroom?”
“You could tell?”
I shrug. “It wasn’t lived in. Except for the closet, there was nothing that felt like you.”
Andre’s eyes drift away. “It … bothers me.”
“Why do you even keep this hotel?”
Andre frowns. He looks a little surprised. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t know what else to do. I didn’t have a goal beyond …” He trails off.
I frown too. I don’t like it. He shouldn’t be living and working in a place that was owned by a man who hurt him in ways that I’m not ready to really think about.
A disturbing thought occurs to me. “It wasn’t here, was it? With … What he …” I can’t finish the question. I can’t ask him, directly, if he was abused here.
Andre’s eyes unfocus. He goes still, like he’s not there. I set my coffee on the coffee table. I take his from him where he’s holding it on his knee. He’s starting to scare me.
“Andre—”
“No, it wasn’t here.”
He stands up from the couch. I expect a blowup like when he broke that mirror, but he walks out of the room and goes into the bedroom. There’s no crash or shout, only silence.
I get up from the couch. My heart is racing. My palms are sweating. I walk across the room to the bedroom door. Andre is sitting on the floor in the corner. His eyes are still unfocused. His face is blank. I don’t know if he even sees me.
I don’t know what I should do, but I do know that I’m not leaving him alone like this. I approach cautiously, but nothing flickers in his eyes.
His knees are drawn up. I kneel at his feet and rest my hands on his knees. I’m ready for him to attack me or explode up, but he doesn’t, so I just stay there until he sees me. It takes a long time because he’s a long way off. His awareness flickers in and out, but I just wait. Then he takes a breath and I can see that he sees me. I still wait.
Then, finally, I see an opening. It’s so fucking small. I only see it because I’m watching so closely. No—I see it because I know him. I know him so much better than I realized.
I know his anger when he fucks. I know his predatory stillness. I know his sharp intelligence and tight control and hisability to mask. I know he’s obsessive and possessive but also protective. I know that he’s affectionate when he feels safe.
So when I see that tiny opening, I know what it is. It’s a question:am I safe with you? If I let you into this space, what will you do?
He’s been in my private, intimate, dark spaces many times, but I’ve never been in his. I don’t thinkanyonehas been in his. I don’t think he’s ever trusted anyone enough to allow it.
I don’t rush him. I inch closer to let that space ease open, and it does. He lets me move between his legs. He lets me crawl into his lap. He lets me join him.
TWENTY-SIX
Elias
We sleep a lot of the day. Some in the bed, some on the couch when we start watching a documentary on the evolution and global spread of cats. Normally, I would be glued to the screen for something like that, but I find that I’m really tired. So is Andre, and it feels really fucking good to rest with him.
I wake up leaning against him on the couch with the menu back on the TV screen. He’s texting someone one handed because his other arm is around me. He’s scowling at the screen. I settle my hand on his thigh, but his expression doesn’t soften.
“Is everything okay?” I ask when he puts his phone down.
“Someone’s coming. It’s, uh, the guy who came to help me last night.”
“The older guy?”
