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Chapter 18
Zephyr
TosayZephyrwas confused would be an understatement. She had no idea what the hell had happened.
For the last two weeks, her husband had gone back on his ‘no sexual contact’ policy, their relationship going from roommates to fuck buddies in the blink of an eye, with terms and conditions applied that she had no idea about.
After the very thrilling and mildly scandalizing way he’d taken her in his office while casually chatting with his men like she’d not been a hair-trigger away from a massive orgasm, he'd taken her home. He’d greeted the dogs, they’d had dinner, and then while she'd been putting the dishes away, he’d bent her over the kitchen counter, fisted her hair, and growled, “Yes or no?”
She’d said yes, and she’d gotten fucked. Slowly, deliberately, in a manner so controlled it made her want to break whatever leash he was putting on his pace, try to get the beast out to play. She’d tried to talk, and he’d just pulled her hair back, craning her neck and hitting somewhere so deep inside her she’d lost all rational thought. After she’d been lax, he’d picked her up and put her in her bed, leaving her alone in the aftermath.
And since then he’d fucked her all over the house—in her bed, on the couch, over his balcony, bent over his hammock, pushed against her shower stall. Everywhere. And not that she was sorry, but it left her confused and mildly unsatisfied. Because while he took her everywhere he could, whenever he wanted, he kept himself distant. It was always controlled, always slow-paced, and left her cold afterward. He also never came inside her. In the beginning, she’d thought it had been for protection and he’d simply forgotten condoms in the heat of passion, so she’d told him it was okay and she was on the pill. It hadn’t changed anything. He didn’t come inside her, he didn’t cuddle her, he didn’t kiss her, and though they were more physically intimate than they’d ever been, she’d never felt as far away from him as she did then.
They’d stopped talking the way they used to. Every time she began a conversation, deciding she was going to succumb and tell him the truth, he would bend her over. Always from the back. Always slow and steady. Always distant.
It made her want to cry.
She hated when he did that—slowly fuck her brains out and then leave her unfulfilled, wanting more. And over the two weeks, he did it a lot. She was unable to say no every time he asked, both because she enjoyed the feeling of his body pressed into her and because she carried the hope that this time would be better, that this time he would hold her.
And he never did.
She’d become moodier in the last week, more withdrawn, and she hated that. The more she reached out to hold him, the farther he slipped away. The more she wanted to talk to him and communicate, the higher his walls went. She didn’t even know what she could do anymore.
Zephyr leaned on the side of the pool, looking out at the vista that had lost its beauty for her. It was a weekend, her day off, and she was spending the morning in the pool under the sun before she had to go to SLF. The dogs lazed around on the deck, and while Zephyr had never been much of a swimmer, she liked the pool and liked being in the water. Floating on her back, looking up at the blue sky and listening to the sounds of nature, she could almost forget herself for a few minutes, escape into a world inside her head.
A loud splash on the other side of the pool had her opening her eyes, shattering her fantasy.
Her husband cut through the water smoothly, going under before coming up, slicking water back with his large hand, his gold eye light in the sun.
She hated how her heart still fluttered every time he was close.
Little sucker.
Zephyr put her elbows on the sides, leaning against the wall of the pool, and watched him cut through to her in powerful strokes. He stopped before her, their faces level, and Zephyr kept watching him, trying to understand where his head was at. He was probably doing the same.
Quietly, she raised her hand and touched her fingers to the scar on the side of his face, running it to the corner of his mouth, trying one more time.
“How did you get this?” she asked softly, feeling the deep groove of the marred flesh.
“I don’t know.” His voice was gruff, his arms coming to her sides to cage her in.
Just as she'd thought. The possibility of his memory being permanently gone or warped was becoming more and more real. And if he didn’t remember the reason for his scarring in the last decade, and didn’t remember her after the last months of being together, she doubted he ever would, and she had to make peace with that.
And that was one of the reasons that held her back from telling him the truth about their past no matter how much she'd wanted to let it slip—there was a reason his brain had forgotten her. What if she triggered something in his memory that his brain was clearly trying to protect him from? What if she unleashed some heavy trauma that his mind had suppressed? She couldn’t risk that, not after seeing how far he’d come, how much he’d trained to overcome his disadvantage, how at ease he’d become with his missing eye.
She slowly let her fingers drift, up to his eye patch, feeling the texture in the leather. He stayed still, letting her explore.
Hesitating, she looked at him for permission. “May I?”
His arms tightened as he gripped the side of the pool. Zephyr was aware of his breathing escalating as her finger stayed on his eye patch. Something was happening right there, in that pool of water, in the broad daylight. As his single eye stayed on her, as he gave a perceptible nod, something was happening, shifting, realigning. Heart pounding, she lifted the flap up, slowly, until it was on his head.
And her heart broke.
His eyelids were healed shut. The skin was most probably sown together back when he’d had the injury, the scar that began from his scalp a vertical, ugly line that went over the flesh of the lids. Once, there had been a powerful, beautiful golden orb there that had looked at her with love. She’d seen it light up in amusement, in heat, in affection.
Something had taken that from him, ripped it from his being, and left him with nothing but the scar.
Her eyes burning, she gently touched the slash over his eyelid, letting her finger feel the raised flesh. He tensed when her fingers made the contact, watching her with keen alertness with his other eye. Zephyr studied the scar he hid under the leather patch, and leaned forward, placing a soft kiss over it.
