I’m left trembling in the space where he stood.
My mind struggles to make sense of the storm in his eyes.A war between the raw hunger that pulled me closer and the deep pain that pushed me away.A battle between the steel of his control and the memory of a tenderness that had completely undone me.
Exposed.
Out of place.
The feelings send me scrambling back up the basement stairs.I cross the foyer, my footsteps the only sound in the vast, empty space.I take the main staircase one feverish step at a time.
It’s on the landing that I hear it.
The unmistakable sound of running water coming from the room at the end of the hall.
His room.
His shower.
My cheeks burn.A strange mix of longing and panic explodes in my chest.
I take a step back, then another, my hand reaching out to grip the banister for support.
Turning sharply, I flee back down the stairs, my feet making soft thuds on the carpet.
I need space.I need air.I need…
Something to do.
Something normal.
The kitchen.
That’s where I’ll go.
Coffee.
I’ll make coffee.
I reach the main floor and head to the open archway.Sunlight streams through the large windows, illuminating the kitchen with a bright, almost harsh, clarity.Stainless steel appliances gleam, the countertops are spotless, and everything is in its place.The French press sits waiting on the counter behind the island.
My hands search for a familiar rhythm in an unfamiliar kitchen.
His kettle.His grinder.His French press.
My actions are nothing more than a temporary shield against the swirling chaos inside.
The roar of the grinder is a welcome violence in the otherwise pristine silence, momentarily drowning out my own thoughts.Soon, the rich aroma of coffee will fill the air.A small, solid thing to hold on to.But the quiet moments between actions are treacherous.An image slams into me, unbidden:
The intensity in his eyes, inches from my own… his knuckles caressing my cheek…
I push the thoughts away fiercely, trying to concentrate on anything but him.
A glint of metal in the sink catches my eye.My hands jerk a little at the sight.
The knife.
The one pressed to Roger’s neck, his sinister face vivid in my mind.Matthew’s chilling accusation, “You killed her,” echoes alongside his own raw vulnerability.His broken confession under the shower’s spray…
The turbulent memories play on a loop as my body moves on autopilot.
