He staggers back, clutching his nose as blood seeps through his fingers. Disturbingly he doesn’t look at Wren, but looks over his shoulder at me. “You’ll fucking regret this.” He hisses, before turning on his heel and stumbles out of sight.
Silence stretches until it becomes awkward, but Wren finally turns around slowly. The devastation in his eyes is heartbreaking. He looks down at his knuckles which already look sore, and he flexes it with a flinch.
“Fuck–Robin, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just, I really hate that guy, so much.”
The look in his eyes pleads for me to understand and I’m nodding. Do I condone violence? No, but Corbin was pinning me against the wall when I had repeatedly told him to get off me. How can I scold him when I’m certain he just saved me from a very dangerous situation?
“Wren, I don’t want you to feel bad about this. You were only protecting me and well, I don’t think he would have left if it wasn’t for you.” I’m fresh out of tears from this evening so instead my eyelids just burn. I have to blink through the realisation that things could have gotten a lot worse, if he hadn't come at the right time.
Sensing my discomfort, he stalks forward and places his hands gently on my face, brushing a loose curl behind my ear. We just stare at each other as I get my breathing under control.
“I don’t like him being near you.”
“You’re such a territorial husband.” I joke, momentarily forgetting I’m meant to be mad at him.
He lets out a hollow laugh. “You’re funny, but this isn’t the time for jokes. He doesn’t look at you…nicely. He’s so angry, I don’t want that anywhere near you.”
My brows rise at his honesty. “You’re very observant.”
“He’s transparent,” He says with a shrug. “You…you're a mystery.” His tattooed thumb rubs along my jaw and I watch as his eyes track the movement. It trails over my bottle lip and I’m so transfixed in how his eyes darken. I want to open up to him, ask what makes me a mystery. He could come in, ask me questions and I could make us a cup of tea.
He could explain what happened to Phin.
What if when I answer his questions, he’s no longer intrigued? What if he decides actually, I’m very boring and not worth the bruise nestling now on his knuckle?
The self doubt has me not inviting him in. “Why were you outside my room?”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “I needed the bathroom and my room doesn’t have one…I was with Phin. Merle finally let him into their room, but he wanted me there for support. They’re talking alone, but I don’t think it’s going to be an overnight fix.”
I reign in my bitterness. “Of course it won’t be. He lied to us all. He didn’t let us help him.”
His hands fall from my face, touching my shoulders before he takes one step back. “I’m not saying what he did was right or wrong, but he was so scared. When I found him…” his eyes went blank for a brief moment. “He knows he’s fucked up royally. It took weeks to clean him up, and I think he would have told you all, after this weekend. But he wasn’t alone, he had me. I won’t ever let anything bad happen to him.”
“I believe you.” I say just above a whisper, a slight waver in my voice because I can still be a little mad.
Placing his hands in his pockets, he gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You should get some sleep. Seeyou in the morning.” Not giving me a chance to reply, he spins and makes his way down the corridor, disappearing around the corner.
IT’S not until I get into bed that it dawns on me. The room I know is Wren’s for the weekend, does have its own bathroom. It has a really nice bathtub actually, a vintage piece with gold sprayed dancing foxes as legs. I think he wanted to see me.
Hours have passed and I’m still staring up at the vaulted ceiling, counting tiny cracks in the paint work. I barely made a dent in my book because I kept reading the same paragraph over and over, my thoughts automatically tumbled back to Wren whenever my mind tried to settle for the night. I thought about the way he pleaded for me to not be upset with Phin, but also the sad little glint in his eyes. I replay the confrontation over too, thankful he came to my rescue. He'd kind of punched him in my honour, and all I’d done is replace his usually easy smile with sadness. I didn't want to even think about what Corbin had planned to do.
Rubbing at my tired eyes, I know I won’t be able to drift with my mind swimming like this. Where one thought ends, another dives in to take its place, like a never ending loop of synchronised swimmers. Sighing, I sit up and twist so that my feet hover above the dark wooden floor. I didn’t pack any slippers, but I know I brought fluffy socks, so I hunt for them in my suitcase, hopping as I slide them onto my feet and head for the door. I picture the first floor room layouts and scan the doors to find the one I think will be Wrens. Maybe if I thank him and explain myself, I’ll be able to finally get some sleep.
Fear fills me, my throat tightening, as my fluffy feet slow to a halt when I see his hotel door is open, but it instantly dissipates when his curly head of hair comes into view. He’s sitting on the floor reading. Completely engrossed, Wren is propping againstthe thick wood, keeping it open with his body. He wears grey sweats and a loose baggy t-shirt, the complete opposite vibe of his underworld lord look. He’s ditched all of his rings except a dainty silver band on his pinky finger, worn on the bruised hand that he has loosely wrapped in a wet cloth.
They say a mother can always hear the cry of their child, well, the same could be said about an author spotting their own novel out in the wild. Even without peering at the front cover, I just know that the book in his hands is my first instalment of Detective Featherton. He’s over half way through, so either he’s been sitting here all night consuming the words, or he found it earlier today from the rows of publications in the library.
“What do you think?”
His head snaps up to where I lean against his door frame, placing both hands behind my back to prevent nervously picking my fingernails.
Like he’s been caught doing something naughty, the cutest pink tint spreads on his cheeks and he attempts to slowly move the book behind his back. “I don’t know what you mean, Love.”
“Oh, so Thistle hasn’t completely stolen your heart with her crude slogans stitched on pillows, or how she’s holding her neighbours cat hostage until she does her homework?”
He throws his hands up, “She embroidered‘Your flower beds look shit’and then gave it to Sandra atthesummer gala, in front of the entire judging committee,” he shakes his head “She’s brutal. I love her so much.”
A laugh bubbles out of me and I sit down, crossing my legs but making sure we’re not touching. Resting my head against the door, I can’t help but beam with joy at someone’s happiness that I delivered through my writing. “I really wanted to create characters that didn’t need to rely on Detective Featherton to thrive. Thistle is a storm he can’t keep up with.”
