That’s a little bit of a sudden and inexplicable departure, even by Yasmin’s impulsive standards. It makes me wonder what Bastian said to them while I was showering. But I’m too tired to look this gift horse in the mouth. If the questions can wait until tomorrow, so much the better.
Thus, I find myself standing in front of the pullout couch, trying to convince my exhausted body to tackle the ordeal of actually yanking out the damn thing, when I hear footsteps in the doorway.
“Not there.”
I turn to face Bastian. “Huh?”
“You’re sleeping in my room tonight.”
I do a double-take. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Bastian, I’m too tired for this. Today was a lot, as I’m sure you can imagine, and I just want to go to sleep. Can you please just help me fix the sheets so I can do that?”
He does the exact opposite: He reaches out and plucks the fitted sheet from my hand. “Did I fucking stutter?” he growls.
That hot, familiar prickle of arousal-masquerading-as-irritation flares low in my belly. I spent a lot of time on the floor of the shower wondering who I’m turning into. One of the answers, it seems, is that I’m turning into someone who likes being bossed around.
“Bastian, we had a deal,” I remind him. “One night. That’s what we agreed to. And even though today was—” I swallow hard, trying to find words for the nightmare that was today. I settleon, “—a lot, I can’t just move into your room like we’re playing house.”
He is unmoved. “After what happened today, you really think I’m letting you sleep out here alone?”
“The living room isn’t exactly a war zone, Bastian! The house is secure. I don’t need a bodyguard while I’m unconscious and drooling.”
“You didn’t think you needed one at the clinic, either. Maybe you don’t know everything after all.”
My jaw tightens with hurt. “That’s a low blow and you know it.”
He hems in closer, near enough that I can smell the wintergreen on his breath and the faint bloody undertone that no amount of hand-washing has fully erased. “You almost died today, Eliana. You and our baby.”
“I was trying to establishboundaries,” I snap back. “Something you clearly have no concept of.”
“Boundaries don’t mean shit when you’re dead.”
“And control doesn’t mean shit when the person you’re controlling resents you for it!”
We’re both breathing hard now. My hands are balled into fists at my sides.
“I’m not trying to control you,” he growls. “I’m just trying to keep you alive long enough to resent me for another fifty years.”
“Then maybe start by trusting me to make my own decisions.”
“I did. Look where that got us. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I finally manage to splutter. “You know that? Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m not sleeping in your room, Bastian. End of discussion.”
I lash out my hand, hunting for the fitted sheet he stole from me. My fingers find nothing but air. I hear his footsteps retreat—not toward the bedroom, but toward the kitchen.
Where’s he going now?
Drawers open. Metal clinks against metal. “What are you doing?” I call out, an uneasy tingle crawling up my spine.
His footsteps return, heavier now.
