Page 94 of These Tears

Not told me. Taught me. He’s sanded the command down until it sounded useful.

Even as he holds a stern look on me, he still allows me a breath or two to settle into the change of pace. Nothing else leaves his mouth. My skin pulls tighter around every moment.

‘Clear the threshold,’ I say quietly. The sharpness eases off his face. ‘Chip the ice with the ice chopper. Use the slope entrance to the shed. Straw on the floor to keep the cold off the chickens’ feet.’

He gives a soft incline of his head, waiting.

My swallow catches halfway down.

What’s next?

‘Crates.’ The word rolls out on a low, pleased rumble.

‘Pack them with straw. Heater on. Solar battery check.’

His head falls back softly against the armrest, but his eyes remain on me. The fire catches the edge of his jaw, casting its glow over his stillness too carefully to let it look like rest.

He observes me soundlessly. Like he used to. As if measuring something invisible on my face. How much fear there is. Or shame. How much pressure before I crack instead of bend.

A short while passes with only the fire crooning beside us.

Does he know I’m damaged enough to be thinking about taking pictures of him like this, instead of worrying what he might do next?

His mouth softens, but what comes out of him next has my spine snapping up straight.

‘My demons need a breather, too.’

I clench my teeth as fear breaks through me like an avalanche.

‘Bring a book,’ he commands. ‘The one with the red covers.’

A book?

The word won’t allow itself to fit itself anywhere near what I’d been bracing for. Then my mind loops on red.

And when it clicks with the memory, heat spreads viciously over my chest, my thighs pressing together on instinct.

Not a book. It’s the book – the filthy, explicit dark romance he once read aloud to me in the visitation room.

I stand on shaky legs and head into the room. My fingers barely close around the paperback as though it might bite.

Then I turn, my eyes taking him in through the doorway. And my body locks up.

He’s stretched on his side a few feet from the fire, gaze fixed on the flames. The white bearskin beneath his heavy frame steals the light and throws it back over the hard slopes of his arms, the long line of his body – turning him into something lifted from a book about ancient heroes and monsters.

I glance sideways at the camera.

Breathe.

No.

Beauty is how I got close enough to be taken.

Abandoning that thought, I make my legs cross the room even though my shutter-finger begins to itch, and I offer him the book. The moment he takes it, I try to pull away – but his hand closes around my wrist and tugs down gently.

‘Read,’ he rumbles. Then, calm as a trap: ‘Sit here.’

He draws his arm back, opens his knees, exposing the space in front of him – an invitation with a clause that has me right between his thighs.