When in the world did they start?
Concern sinks deep into his dual-colored eyes. “Hey…” he soothes, tipping my face up to him. “What’s all this now?”
Pathetic. My mother’s jeering,Don’t screw your face up like that, Clara. You look pathetic,rises in my skull, filling my brain with pictures of her disdain and disgust.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, fighting panic and moisture. “It won’t happen again. I-I’ll do better.”
Running the crook of his finger under my eye, Lukas hardens. “Better?”
I can’t breathe. I can’tbreathe. Gripping a hand to my chest, I battle for purchase—air—as a shrill trill fills my ears. Lukas’s lips move, but the words he’s saying don’t reach me. This is it. This is the moment. The other shoe drops now. My brief days of peace are over.I messed up.
I need to calm down and accept my punishment maturely. Like an adult. Don’t I know that I’mtoo oldfor hysterical displays like this?
Idiot.Idiot. Why am Isuchan idiot?
Forceful, Lukas grips my wrist and takes me to my bed. For one horrible minute that seems to last years, I wonder if he’s going to hit me. I’ve never been hit before. I’ve feared being hit. But I’ve always been able to plead and apologize my way out of it. I can’t think clearly enough right now to quell him or grovel for forgiveness, so I just cover my face with my hands and hope it doesn’t hurt too badly.
Moments pass.
Each longer and harder than the last.
No pain comes.
But I continue to drown.
Even though I can’t hear anything beyond the trill ringing in my ears, I know he’s yelling at me. He has to be yelling at me. He’s definitely calling me stupid. Incompetent. A disgrace. He’s explaining how much he’s done for me and how useless I am. He’s—
Force presses on the side of my face, pushing me down, down, down until my head collides with Lukas’s thigh. The distant sensation of his fingers combing through my hair in steady repetitive strokes becomes clearer and clearer. Tears cloud my vision while I continue to fight for air, but—slowly—sounds return.
And those sounds are Lukas’s deep tenor, singing a lullaby.
The tune fills my burning chest, and I whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m so…” A tear slips across my nose, falling on his dark jeans. “…sorry.”
His hand settles on my shoulder, thumb rubbing in firm motions. “Hush…”
I had pasta salad planned. The pasta was already cooling in the fridge. I just needed to mix the ingredients together, set out the chips and fruit. It was soeasy. So, so easy. But I messed it up. Like amoron. Like a useless, worthless, horriblemoron. Biting my lip to stop myself from making excuses, Ihush.
“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, “what are you apologizing for?”
He’s making me take accountability before I’m punished. I can do that. I can force my childish self togrow upand be responsible for once. Throat tight, I say, “I forgot to start lunch.”
He tuts. “Oh, Clara. I brought you lunch. Viktor made grilled cheese and tomato soup. It’s nothing special. He even used a can. But he also used the fresh loaf of rye bread you made last night, so at least the sandwiches are delicious. No one here expects you to cook every meal every single day. Youlivehere. You don’t work here.”
My damp lashes flutter as I carefully lift myself off his lap. Lost, I look at him. “But…isn’t that…my job?” I went through a whole insane hiring process and everything.
“No?” He arches a brow. “But let’s for the moment argue that it is. If it’s your ‘job’ to cook three meals a day, it’s our legal obligation to give you time off, yet you’ve worked two weeks without a single weekend. This break is long overdue. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I…haven’t?”
He smiles—warm, gentle,kind. “No. Not a thing.”
Then why does it feel like I have? My body’s wound tight, ready to snap. I feel like I need to run, but I can’t move, so the next best thing is to beg forgiveness in tears—really make sure my remorse is clear and plead for it to inspire pity, sympathy…ormercy. What’s wrong with me? Why am I shutting down like this? “I’m…sorry.”
Gut-wrenching sorrow settles in Lukas’s eyes moments before he pulls me into a hug.
My struggling heart hits my ribs as the firm planes of him connect with my soft curves. His strength holds me together.
Exhaustion sweeps into me, and my eyelids turn heavy before falling closed. I can’t remember the last time I was hugged. Have hugs always been this…nice?
