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He steps back.
It’s so sudden that I stumble forward.
He stares at me, all dark eyes and damage and barely controlled beast. “Sit down, Scarlett,” he growls.
I keep my eyes on him as I reach for the back of my chair and lower myself into it trying to figure out what just happened. What is happening.
He gets the whiskey. He must keep bottles everywhere. He carries it to the table along with two water glasses. Too plain for whiskey, I think. My father would never have done that. For him, whiskey was a ceremony.
Without asking, he pours two fingers into each glass, pushing one toward me before swallowing the contents of his and refilling it. I don’t touch mine. He then takes his spoon and reaches into the Crème Caramel sitting beautifully at the center of the table, the deep golden caramel dripping down the sides of the custard.
He doesn’t cut off a piece and put it on his plate. This whole thing, us sitting here eating dessert after what just happened, it’s insane. It makes no sense. But he dips his spoon in, slicing into the custard. As caramel drips off the spoon and onto the table, he brings it to his mouth and closes his eyes. I watch him. Watch him eat like he’s just placed Holy Communion on his tongue. Like it’s sacred.
When he opens his eyes again, he looks at me, but I can’t read him. He eats another, bigger bite, then another. He gorges himself on it, drops of caramel dotting his chin.
“Eat,” he says in that grunting tone.
I lift my spoon and with a trembling hand I take the tiniest spoonful. My throat has closed up. I won’t be able to swallow it but I’m too afraid not to try.
“My mom used to make this and let us have it for breakfast,” he says. I swear if someone walked in here, they’d think this was the most normal situation. Think he wasn’t unhinged like I know he is.
He wipes the caramel off his chin, pours more of the whiskey into his glass and drinks it like water. Leaning back in his seat, he sets the cup down loudly.
“Eat,” he barks.
I take another small bite, but he shakes his head and sits up. He scoops a spoonful of it using his spoon and brings it to my mouth.
“Eat it.”
I open because I don’t know what else to do. Before I’ve even finished that bite, he makes me eat another and another until I feel like I’ll choke. When he finally stops, I wipe the back of my hand over sticky lips. I watch him stand as I force down the last of it.
I stand too if only to put space between us.
He backs me against the wall again and splays one big hand across my belly. Before I can think or open my mouth to ask what he’s thinking, what he’s doing, he kisses me. With sticky caramel lips, he kisses me.
Our eyes are open at first but then his close. When he draws back, he looks like he did when he ate his first bite of the too-sweet dessert. Like this is sacred.
He opens his eyes, kissing me again, sucking upper and lower lip into his mouth in turn. His mouth is warm, his taste sugary with a shock of whiskey. I feel him against my belly, feel his hardness. His hand slides up and closes over my throat. He’s not hurting though. Not squeezing.
The kiss deepens, sensual and erotic, and I taste his tongue now. And something inside me wants this. Wants him. I don’t know what it is or why. There’s a part of me that’s like the part he just showed me. Deeply damaged. Broken. So broken it can’t ever be fixed. Can’t ever be whole.
And when he draws back my heart flutters, missing a beat. I find myself leaning toward him, feeling the loss of him.
We look at each other for a long moment. I hear how quiet the house is. How completely silent. Even the sea outside, the walls are so thick in here, you can’t hear it.
His eyes fall on his hand at my throat. He caresses it and I wonder if he’s thinking about snapping it. Wondering if this would just be easier if he did snap my neck. I’m sure he can do it in an instant.
But then he drops his forehead to mine, and I realize his breathing is as short and choppy as mine. He mutters something I can’t understand, then straightens, draws his hand back down to my stomach.
I look at it too, see how big it is. How it spans the whole of my belly.
“Did you know that part?” he asks, voice quiet. “Know what he’d done to my mother?”
I don’t want to answer.
