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“Of course,” she said automatically. But she wouldn’t. Because talking meant examining her feelings, it meant letting go of this protective shell and she couldn’t do that because she had a horrible feeling that once she started opening up she was going to fall completely apart.
“Okay, baby.” He gazed around. “What are you doing in here? Can I get something for you?”
She looked around the kitchen. What was she doing in here? She couldn’t quite remember. That happened a lot now. She just blanked out. It was frightening.
“I came to cook you lunch.”
He blanched, and she couldn’t blame him. Savannah was a truly awful cook. In her defense, no one had ever taught her how. The first time she’d tried to cook for her men, well, they’d been lucky the house had two toilets and an outhouse. Poor Logan had pulled the short straw and had ended spending most of the night in the privy.
Oh, that hadn’t been a good night.
“You sit down. I’ll make us something,” he commanded. Everything with Logan came out sounding like an order.
“All right.” She walked over to the dining table. The kitchen and dining room were open plan with the living room across the hallway. She sat, looking out the window.
Four weeks. It had been four weeks since Richard Stanton had kidnapped her. Tortured her. Terrified her.
And she was scared she’d never be the same again.
