Page 38 of Last Man Standing

Why?

Emotion warms my blood and stings the backs of my eyes, but I sweep the pile up and toss most of it into my room, then slipping the phone into my pocket, I straighten out and continue into the hall. Into the bathroom.

I close the door and yank my pants down, taking care of business before I make a mess and turn my shitty month into a way shittier month. Finishing up and reversing my actions, I pull my pants up, fix my top, close the lid, flush, then I wander to the sink and pump soap into my palm.

I stare at myself in the mirror while I wash. At my pale cheeks and the dark circles under my eyes. At my thin lips, though they’re usually a little plumper, and the dimples I typically enjoy seeing.

When my life isn’t on fire and stress isn’t trying to kill me, that is.

I scrub my hands clean and ignore the sting of soap on my sensitive fingertips, then slapping the tap off, I bring my wet hands up and tuck my hair behind my ears.

I thought I was past all this. I thought the nightmares had gone away for good, and the anxiety had dulled to barely more than background noise. I thought I could converse with men and not assume they wanted to hurt me, and dammit, I spent three years attending a gym, expanding on and perfecting the things my brother taught me.

I trained with men there. I sparred with them. I even let them practice the very same moves Sebastion attempted yesterday.

Sighing, I turn away from the traitorous mirror and dry my hands. Checking my outfit to make sure isolation didn’t have me forgetting anything important, I gulp down the nerves lodged in my throat and head back to civilization.

For a minute, anyway. Until I can’t take another minute more.

Opening the bathroom door and stepping lightly into the hall, instead of moving left to my bedroom, I go right and tiptoe cautiously toward the kitchen.

Please don’t be in here. Please don’t be in here. Please don’t be in here.

I peek around the corner of the hall and swallow my groan when I discover Sebastion sitting quietly at the counter, exactly where I sat this morning. He hunches over his phone, tapping out a message or something, with his shoulders high and one foot on the floor while the other sits on the stool’s footrest.

Hope swells in my chest that maybe he hasn’t noticed me, especially since he keeps typing, but that hope is dashed as his lips curl on the side and his eyes shift in my direction.

Splat. My pulse comes to a dead standstill.

“Hey, Princess.” He finishes whatever he’s doing, locks his phone, and sets the device on the counter. Then he straightens in his seat and looks me up and down. “You missed lunch. You hungry?”

I shake my head and bring my hand up. Folding the other arm across my belly, I nibble on my nails and slowly wander into the room.

If you act normal, people will believe you’re normal.

Moving to the fridge, I tug the door open and search for something that isn’t food. Something sweet, maybe. A candy bar would be best. But a soda will do, too.

Snagging a can of Pepsi, I turn again, shut the fridge, and use it as a leaning post. “What did you have for lunch?”

He ignores his vibrating phone and stares into my eyes. “About a dozen eggs, chunks of ham, grilled chicken breast, and a protein shake.”

“So, just a snack then?”

Where has that mean man I know as Tank gone? Where are his unkind words? Because this guy grins wide, his lips splitting into an infuriatingly handsome smile. “Only about two thousand calories. I’ll top up in a little bit, and that should get me through till dinner.” He tips his chin to the counter six feet to my left. To the plate I was using this morning, and the half a slice of toast remaining. “You’ve had about forty calories total?” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Strong bodies need more than that, Princess. Didn’t they teach you anything at the palace?”

“Cute.” But he’s not wrong, so instead of opening my soda, I trade it for the protein shaker drying beside the sink. I turn it right-side-up and pull a giant tub of protein powder from the cupboard.

I’m not sure exactly who owns it, but considering the model on the packaging with a 1970s Arnold Schwarzenegger-esque physique, I figure I only need one guess.

“Good choice,” Sebastion rumbles. “That’s a solid four-hundred calories.”

Surprised, I screw the tub open and pick up the little scoop inside. “Only four hundred?”

“And fifty grams of protein. That’s almost your entire daily quota in one drink.”

“The entire day?” I drop the powder into the cup and toss the scoop back into the tub, then I walk to the sink and fill my cup with water. “That’s not a lot.”

“Your total daily needs. Not mine.” He watches me closely, thoughtful as I close the lid and give the whole thing a shake. Water and powder mix until I end up with something a little runnier than mud, then I pop the top open and sniff. He lowers his chin in approval. “Good girl. I can make you some eggs if you want. Or a sandwich.”