I gasped as my lungs screamed for air. My eyes burned, but I couldn’t get the words out.
The bags Jude was holding hit the floor as he rushed over and cupped my cheeks. “Talk to me. Are you hurt?” He smoothed one palm over my forehead as if he was checking to see if I had a fever. Worried eyes danced across my face as he tried to decipher my panic.
I pressed my hand to my chest in a feeble attempt to calm my racing heart. It didn’t help.
The hand that was still cupping my jaw slid down. Jude pressed his fingers to the side of my neck and glanced at his watch.
That’s when I realized he was checking my pulse. “Scared?”
I nodded.
“What scared you?” he asked, calm, cool, and collected. Like he was simply gathering data.
“You.” The single syllable was the only sound I could eke out of my bone-dry throat.
I could see the hurt warp his expression the moment that word slipped from my mouth.
Guilt settled low in my stomach. I looked down at my hands and the sheets tangled around my waist. “I—I didn’t mean it like that. I just?—”
Slowly, Jude backed away. “Don’t apologize.” He scooped up the bags and carried them to the kitchen counter.
“Jude—”
“It’s fine,” he said, though he didn’t even look over his shoulder as he sorted through the bags, consolidating some of the items into one bag while he emptied the other.
Groceries. He went out for groceries.
Fresh food.
Fruits and vegetables.
Real meat.
Bread, peanut butter, and jelly.
Some rice and pasta, from the looks of it.
A few spices and some oil.
My heart sank. How could someone be so thoughtful, yet so cruel? The image of him beating a bound man outside the casino and then dragging him inside was forever burned in my memory.
It was crystal clear—like a photograph rather than a painting—which was how I knew that the hurt in his eyes when he spotted me watching him torture that man was the same look he bore when I said that he had scared me.
Regret.
It didn’t make sense.
After putting the groceries in the cabinet and refrigerator, Jude carried one of the bags to me and set it on the end of the bed.
It wasn’t lost on me that he didn’t come as close as he had when he thought I was physically hurt.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Clothes,” Jude said as he unpacked the last grocery bag. I realized he had picked up some pieces for himself as well. Boxers, socks, T-shirts, and jeans. All in black.
I pawed through my own bag and found a brand-new pack of underwear, a sports bra, and an assortment of leggings, T-shirts, shorts, socks, and a pair of sneakers.
“I hope you don’t mind secondhand shit,” Jude said without looking at me. “It’s cheaper and it looks less suspicious if we have to go into town. People wearing brand-new clothes stick out like sore thumbs. The underwear and socks are new, though.”
