Page 19 of Prince of Wrath

“Hungry?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Not really?”

“You have to eat.” His gaze runs over me, my obvious loss of weight appalling and difficult to look at.

“I’m not hungry. It’s just…gone.”

“Ella, I’ll feed you myself if need be.” He frowns, and I want to chuckle, because him turning all protective over me eating makes him even more handsome, but then I get hit by the memory of the moldy porridge they fed me on the floor, and I want to vomit.

“Okay, I’ll…I’ll try. I promise.”

“What if I cook you something?”

“You can…cook?”

“I can, um, reheat stuff? Not sure if that’s called cooking, but…” He shrugs. “I can make you an omelet.” I nod, not having the heart to tell him I am not sure I can stomach any food right now, even though I know how urgent it is for me to eat, get stronger, and recover. Turning slightly, I observe him in his kitchen, in his fancy suit, his hair brushed like a world leader, his hands opening all sorts of cabinets, looking for plates and groaning at the sight of the glasses instead. Tristan Ashford, not quite the domestic man.

On my end, I am wearing the fitted denim and white tee his assistant, or whoever is in charge of this, bought for me. It had been a while since I had, well, new clothes. Mine were either worn out and stretched from my sisters, or secondhand from the cheapest thrift shops I could find. My skin has gone pale. I cannot tell if it is the days without sunlight or if whatever I endured simply drained the life out of me. Mirrors will have to be avoided in the foreseeable future. Usually, my skin carries a warm golden-brown tone inherited from my mother, but now it looks washed out, almost translucent. Just…off. I brushed my hair this morning while standing over the sink, expecting to fight through a nest of knots. There had been far fewer than I anticipated. Tristan must have worked through most of them yesterday when he washed my hair. I shut my eyes for a second. Thick, large hands. Running circles on my nape, scalp, temple, untangling the mess of everything, cleaning and washing away the hurt. Only the hurt runs too deep, and the wound is too fresh to be sewn yet.

Nibbling at my fingers, I bite my cuticle too hard, gasping. “Don’t bite your nails,” Tristan calls me out from the kitchen with a serious frown that I have missed.

Talkative, moving around, anxious Tristan is not familiar to me, even if that is a side of him. I would much rather his stern emotional composure that he only opens up to me. Like a vault, I am the only one with the key. Ruthless, cold Tristan is familiar. More predictable. I want to swim back to him. I want to tell him to wait for me on the shore, that I'll be there soon, but that I need to swim on my own. Rolling my eyes as I hear him tsk me, he finally sets a plate on the dark gray counter, forming a sort of rectangular bridge with no bottom.

“Just a heads-up, my cooking skills aren’t…” He tilts his face sideways, then winces a little. “I’m better at other things.” I rest my face over my hand, above the sofa headrest, watching him silently as he busies himself in the kitchen. Removing his hand quickly from the heater, he shakes it above it, as if he has burned himself.

“Son of a…” I hear him mutter while I repress a smile. A road made of flowers opens in a street of my heart. I can see it, even try to smile at it, but I cannot access it. Each time I try to step onto the cushy grass, an invisible force drags me back to a black forest, where the dark keeps getting darker, and I cannot differentiate fear from horror and night from day. Despite not being able to touch him, I need to be close. Close to Tristan means close to the man shielding me, holding a massive iron, shield as hundreds of arrows fly, protecting me from them. Walking to him, I stop by the sink, playing invisible piano on its edge.

“Sit, sweetheart. It’s done.” He nods, crossing his arms at the plate, giving it a not-so-modest shrug. I wait, for what, God knows. A miracle? A TV host coming out of nowhere with confetti screaming, surprise, it was just a prank; you’re not shattered; please go back to your life.

“What is it?” He frowns, taking me in, his forest gaze mapping my face, searching for answers I do not have. “If you don’t want the food, I can order something.”

I shake my head, signing, “Was it your first time using the kitchen?”

“Was it so obvious?” One corner of my lip tries to lift as I look down. He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his intoxicating masculine scent and that aftershave that should not even be legal to wear. “Sit, Ella,” he repeats with difficulty, eyes on my lips, an invisible thread pulling us together like magnets. “Please.” The air turns thicker, impossibly thick. And I inhale deeply, almost seeing the oxygen as he exhales, his jaw flexing, a tightness in his throat, a vein flexing, unflexing, his lips inviting, calling me back to the shore, begging perhaps even as I debate between trying to reach out and the fear of experiencing horrific visions of Cole again. Closer, we get. Closer, closer. His lips, his jaw, his chin, his perfectly shaved skin, his scent, his white collar biting at his throat, a low, masculine rumble under his chest.

Closer.

Closer.

Little birdy.

I step back, shaking my head, eyes wide. Cole’s mad eyes stapled in my brain. Haunting me.

“Shit.” Tristan runs a palm over his face, rolling it into a fist above his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again…” He shakes his head, and I can see the hate he has for himself, as if he is lacking discipline and virtue when, on the contrary, he is the picture of both. His phone rings again as he looks back and forth at me. Tearing him away from his work, I am also making him feel guilty for it. And that is something I never want him to feel. As if he has to choose. Because that is his life’s work, and it is a package deal with him. I point at his phone.

“You’re sure?” I nod again. He comes closer to me as if to press a kiss on my forehead, but instead, he just says, “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.” And my heart, forgotten at the bottom of a deep, hollow well, jumps again, like the first reaction after a heart attack. Eating his delicious omelet, I shut my eyes, small bite by small bite, listening to my cues, trying to get back to normal, to eating, signing, living, loving. In the entryway, out of my sight, I can hear Tristan command harsh orders and use this voice, the one he never uses with me. One of a disciplinarian and commander, one of someone who could cut your vitals with a snap of his fingers. Of someone who could use his mind to work his way out of any situation, one I know we both need to recover from the major cataclysm our lives have been impacted by.

My plate is empty before I know it. I was hungry even if my appetite told me the opposite. I am grateful for the man who brought me here, angry at the world for our circumstances, but still, nothing feels real. And I can still hear the drip of the faucet in the sink, the rustle of branches outside, Tristan’s pacing in the entryway, and how the morning light brushes against my skin.

Light, neon, burning, bright, make it stop, please, please, make it stop.

No matter how nice everything is at this exact moment.

It seems that everywhere I go, I’m still there.

Under.

Tristan