I shut the water off. By the time I step out, I feel steady again. I pull on jeans, lace my boots and hate how much I like the clothes. I braid my hair, an annoying task. I should cut it. It’s too long.
Too easy to grab.
I find makeup, all new, in the bathroom drawer. I grab the concealer and press it over the fading bruise along my cheek. I tuck the gun Maksim gave me in the waistband under my top.
I adjust it. I feel steadier. I look at myself in the mirror.
Finally.
I look ready. Ready to get back to my normal life. I walk into the kitchen.
He’s there.
Showered. Already changed. Black shirt clinging to broad shoulders. His hair is still damp, red strands combed back but refusing to behave.
He looks clean.
Controlled.
Like his mouth wasn’t between my legs half an hour ago.
His eyes lift. They drag down me slowly. Measuring. There’s a plate on the table. Eggs with toast and fruit. I walk over to the table.
He steps closer without a word. He reaches around me, fingers brushing my hip as he grabs the fork.
He takes a bite of the eggs. Chews. Swallows, sets the fork down.
Grabs my toast, take a bite and puts it back on the plate.
He rounds the table and sits across from me.
Like that gesture was casual.
It wasn’t.
“You showered?” I ask, because that’s easier than asking why he tastes my food for me.
“Upstairs.”
Upstairs.
There’s something in the way he says it. Like it’s a place he owns but doesn’t use.
“Should sleep up there then instead of with me,” I mumble.
His jaw tightens. Just once.
“Sit.”
I hesitate half a second too long.
His eyes flick to my lips.
Then back to my face.
“Sit, Beda.”
I pull out the chair and sit, once I do he starts to shovel food into his mouth.
