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The instruction came on the heel of him pulling away, leaving her standing alone in the bathroom.
Confused, she did as he’d asked, dropping the wet clothes to a corner of the floor, before taking a shaky breath and splashing water on her face.
They both sucked at emotions it seemed, her with the excess of it and him with the lack. And she had to bridge the gap, or at least try to, so something like tonight didn’t happen again. Though, it probably would. Dr. Manson had warned her it could, but she had fallen into a sense of security, and it had caught her unaware. But she could hope it wasn’t as often, because she felt raw, her wounds that had been closing torn open again. And every time this happened, she would have to start from the scratch to try to stitch them together, each time making the scar deeper and worse.
Walking out into the bedroom naked, she found herself pulling on the silky bottle-green shorts and camisole set she’d put on the bed for the night before going out. Running her fingers through her hair, noticing the way they were beginning to fall more into their natural waves, she exited into the open living area.
The smell of the pasta she had made, what felt like ages ago, wafted from the kitchen.
Following her nose, she went into the space she had slowly made her own, and found him sitting on the dining table, shirtless in his sweatpants as he liked to be when he lounged around at home, his hair wet and gleaming in the low lights.
The plates she’d put in the oven were on the table, along with two tall glasses of water.
“Sit.”
Suddenly nervous, both because that was a meal she’d made and because of the breakdown she’d had, she quietly took a seat on his right, tucking her chin into her neck.
“What happened tonight?”
His quiet words, spoken low but clear, made her steal a glance at him. She wet her lips, finding the courage to open the door for some honest, real communication. That meant being vulnerable again, but at this point, she didn’t think she had much to lose.
“Seeing her there... with you... it triggered something,” she admitted haltingly.
He took a sip of his water, his plate untouched. She knew he didn’t much like alcohol. She didn’t either, and the glass of water in front of her told her he’d noticed as much.
“What did you feel?” he asked, his hypnotic dual eyes snaring her in its trap. What did she feel? He didn’t experience emotions as she did, and knowing he wanted her account of her feeling things made her heart race.
“I felt—” she stopped, looking at him, her throat working “—angry. So, so angry.”
“Why?” he prodded, leaning slightly toward her.
“Because I thought you’d chosen her,” her voice wavered with her words. “I thought you were keeping me on the side, making a fool out of me, giving me little nothings and giving her everything. I felt angry. I felt hurt. I felt jealous.”
“Why?” he pressed, not letting go.
“Because you’re mine!” She slammed her hands on the table, standing up. “You’re the only person, the only thing in this entire world that is mine!” Her chest heaving, she glared at him. “My killer, my stalker, my lover. The thought of sharing your obsession makes me sick to my stomach. You have power over me. Is that what you wanted to hear? That your claim makes me an idiot because my stupid fucking heart believes you? Is that it?”
She looked down at him as he sat back, a satisfied expression on his face.
“Flamma.”
One word. Just one word and everything felt right in the world for a second. She took a deep breath, calming herself. Taking her seat again, she gulped down the water in her glass, aware of him watching her.
“Your heart isn’t stupid.” His words, again quiet, made her look at him. “Soft, yes. Stupid, no. I think it’s quite smart to believe me when your mind doesn’t.”
She didn’t know what to say to that.
“There’s been no one for six years, Lyla.”
His words made her straighten in her chair, the disbelief evident on her face.
His lips twitched. “Believe me or don’t, fact is fact. I haven’t fucked anyone in six years. I’ve not touched anyone who’s not you in six years. And I’ve never kissed a woman on the mouth in my life. Never saw any point in it.”
Lyla stared at him, dumbfounded. “I don’t understand.”
He simply shrugged. “Any other woman would have been a poor replacement for you, and it didn’t seem worth the effort. Now, tell me, am I lying to you?”
Lyla observed him, his neutral face as he let her weigh her opinion. Her mind told her he could be manipulating her, telling her things she wanted to hear so she’d fall for his traps more easily. But her heart, the stupid beating organ in her chest, it said something else.
