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“Why are you shaking? Are you cold or hurt?” Alaric turns me in his hold to inspect my face. “What’s wrong?”
Is he fucking kidding?
He runs his hand over my arms and shoulders, almost like he is making sure I’m not injured. I’m so confused about everything, which is probably the reason I bury my face in his chest and wrap my arms around his torso, hugging him like he is my savior and not my executioner.
I fully expect him to push me away, to shove me to the ground or hit me. Instead, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer. I don’t understand why he’s doing it, but for the moment being, I simply let him hold me while I cry.
“I don’t want to die,” I tell him, my voice sounding just as shaky as I feel.
“I’m not going to kill you, Monroe. But if you try to run again, I will kill someone, and it will be your fault. You don’t want that, do you? You don’t want a death on your conscience.”
“No, please. I won’t run again.” Releasing my hold on him, I put enough distance between us so I can look at him. Blinking my tears away, I study his face.
“Good. If you don’t plan on running again, you have nothing to worry about. Now, go sit on the couch while I finish cooking breakfast.”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
“No. Though after we eat, I’m going to make you hold an ice pack to my head.”
Not sure if he is joking or not, I do as I’m told and take a seat on the couch while Alaric finishes cooking us breakfast as if nothing happened. He cleans up the blood on the floor between flipping the bacon, and suddenly, I feel ashamed of what I did, no matter how justified it was.
Alaric brings me a plate, and we eat on the couch in silence. It isn’t until I’m done with my food that the bottom of my foot aches. Lifting up my leg, I drape it over my knee to examine my foot. Blood has seeped through the sock right at my heel.
“Let me see.” Alaric sets his plate on the coffee table and grabs my ankle. He pulls my leg into his lap and carefully slips off the sock to examine my heel. “I don’t think anything is stuck in the wound. You probably just stepped on a rock. We’ll clean it out and wrap it up. You should be fine.”
“It didn’t even hurt until now.”
“Adrenaline numbs you up. If it hurts too bad, I can give you a painkiller.” He cradles my foot like it’s made of glass. My head spins with confusion. How can he be so sweet and caring one minute, and the next, he ties me to the bed while he goes off to kill people?
I don’t think I will ever be able to figure him out. But one thing is clear—getting away is looking more and more bleak.
