“With?” Cassian doesn’t look up, but I can tell all his attention is on me.
“Zira. I want to take her somewhere to recover. Somewhere that isn’t here or close to her home or any of this shit. She needs… space.”
“Is that safe?” he asks, finally looking up at me.
“No. But it’s worth the risk if it brings her back into herself.”
Cassian’s soft smile turns a little sly. “Back to herself or back to you?”
28
ZIRA
Two days ago, Bradley brought me to seemingly the middle of nowhere to take my time, process, and deal with how I’m feeling.
Everything about the journey here and the words that came out of his stupidly handsome face angered me, and I’m still angry.
It’s not the cabin itself. That’s beautiful. There are tall fir trees surrounding the cabin and stretching down the driveway to the dirt track at the bottom, and they line one side of the dirt path at the back of the cabin that leads down to the stunning lake. A lake that’s completely empty of all other people and glitters beautifully in the sun. I’d appreciate it, but the shimmering water just reminds me of the diamonds and everything I’m trying to avoid thinking about comes back in a hot flash.
My room is also beautiful with a large oak bed and pillows so fluffy, it’s like I’m sleeping on a cloud. Valentina and Ivy worked together to buy me a new wardrobe, and it fills the drawers of the oak cabinet next to a full-length mirror on the wall for me to admire my new clothes and the dark, heavy bags under my eyes.The rest of the cabin is as soft and as beautiful, with a fully-fitted kitchen, a fireplace filled with sweet-smelling logs that burn and crackle whenever Bradley lights them, a small study complete with a computer and a library and a few game consoles, and a bathroom that looks right out of some kind of nature catalog.
I should like it.
I should probably love it, but the beauty of the place sickens me and I hate Bradley for bringing me here. I hate him for showing up with his stupid, handsome face and his large, thick muscles that carried me to the bath without struggle. I hate that he wears a blue checkered shirt and reads out on the deck like everything’s alright. I hate how he bathed me and not once did he try to sleep with me, and my thoughts tangle between his being obviously too disgusted by me or he’s biding his time.
And I hate that he’s doing this nice thing to make me feel better because it doesn’t. It makes me feel worse. I don’t deservepeaceand time in nature when Peter’s dead and I’m all alone. I don’t deserve it when Harris is out there somewhere waiting for me to bring him those diamonds and knowing I’ll have no choice to do so.
Before we came here, I told Bradley everything that happened in the house and he told me he would take care of it, but he didn’t tell me how. When I asked, he told me to focus on myself right now, and it’s infuriating.
I spend three whole days just sunbathing and swimming in the lake to work out the pent-up anger inside me, and for the most part, it worked. The water’s beautiful, the sky even more so, and it’s freeing to swim out into the water for as long as I want and as far as I want. I always come back to shore and when I’m lying down, drying in the sun, Bradley’s there.
He’s always there. Hovering. Either on the deck, reading, or fishing in the lake, or hiking through the trees to get more firewood. Or he’s in the kitchen cooking delicious meals or offering me light conversation with polite questions and sweet smiles. Or he’s swimming in the lake when I want to swim so I’m forced to wait and watch as he wades out of the water in tiny trunks that barely hide that thickness between his legs, walking as if he doesn’t know the water rolling off his body is killing me every time I see it.
I hate it.
And I hate him. For what he did and what he’s doing now. For making me want him.
And myself. I hate myself for what I did. For what I didn’t see in my brother or Bradley.
Worst of all, when I tell him all of this, he doesn’t react. He doesn’t lash out, he doesn’t yell at me or give in to the argument I’m craving. He remains kind and quiet like always, and each night, I return to bed utterly pent up and furious at how he’s acting and I can’t pinpoint why.
Until one night when he’s cooking some amazing chicken curry on the stove with light music playing and the fire crackling in the lounge. He whistles softly along to the music and moves around the small kitchen with surprising ease, considering his height and his bulk make the place look minuscule in comparison.
“Do you want rice?” he asks over his shoulder as I walk to the sink and fill my glass. “Or bread. I could make some naan. Might take me a little longer, but it’s no hassle.”
Something about the way he speaks, or the words he says, end up being the last straw and I snap. “Will you just fucking stop?”
Bradley lowers the heat under the curry as he turns to face me. “Excuse me?”
“Rice or naan? Because of fucking course you know how to make naan. Is there nothing you don’t know? Are you just fucking all-knowing and all-seeing?”
Bradley’s brows lift faintly. “I know because I learned.”
“Because I learned,” I mock back. “Like it’s that fucking easy to just go out and learn shit because your rich little life is so fucking easy, well I don’t need your pity or your help or your stupid naan, okay? I don’t need it, and I don’t want it!” My voice climbs until I’m yelling at him and in my anger, I very nearly throw my glass at him but stop myself at the last second.
“Zira.”
“Don’t!” Setting the glass down, I throw my hands up and back away from him into the lounge as he follows. “Don’t do that shit!”
