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“I plan to live on takeout when I have my own place.”
My waist was hurting so bad when we made it back to the house. I collected the flat bottle, clothed in wool, and went upstairs while Tristan stayed back for dinner. I took a shower and swallowed a pain reliever.
I knew it was still early, but I needed sleep. I turned off the lights and lay on the bed. I placed the bottle on my stomach and closed my eyes.
I didn’t know what time it was when someone entered the room. I could tell it was Tristan when he whispered my name. He climbed into the bed and drew closer.
“Hey,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me to his chest.
“Hey,” I mumbled.
“Are you okay?”
“Just tired from the walk,” I whispered, breathing in his scent.
“Can I keep you company?”
“You’re gonna regret asking that,” I said, smiling in the dark.
“Never,” he said, kissing my neck.
I snuggled closer and went back to sleep.
So far,things had been going well, though I’d had a dream where Mrs. Sanchester was chasing me around the house with a baseball bat for lying to her. I was glad I never had it again.
On Thursday, Morris was away to see his family, so Tristan took over the kitchen. He didn’t allow me to help with anything because of what had happened with the knife last time.
I sat at the island, watching him spice some chicken tenderloin. He looked like a chef, the way his hands moved seamlessly and how focused he was. I didn’t get why he was wearing disposable gloves.
“I’m tired of sitting here and watching you. Please let me help. Last time was an accident. Please allow me. I’m dying here,” I begged.
“You can wash the dishes.”
That was my least favorite task in the kitchen. I’d rather watch a plant grow or mow the lawn. I should have just sat back and enjoyed the show. Tristan cooking was a turn-on. I wished I were those chicken tenders.
I stood up and walked to the sink; only three dishes were in the sink. It was better than nothing. I went to work. Tristan came to rinse his hands. He stood behind me and caged me in his arms as he washed his hands. He placed his chin on my head. I didn’t know why he enjoyed doing that.
I stared at his hands. That was when I saw the fresh bruises. Anger bubbled inside of me. I turned around immediately, making his chin leave my head. He grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands. My eyes didn’t miss the bloodstain.
“You promised,” I said.
He looked down at his knuckles and ignored me. Oh, there was no way I was letting this go.
“You told me you—”
“I told you, I can’t control it!” he snapped, looking at me.
“Of course you can. You just have to try.”
“Don’t act like you know what I’m going through.”
“Well, maybe if you tell me, I could help!”
“I don’t need your help!”
“Are you going to live your whole life like this? Torturing yourself for whatever happened?”
“It’s none of your damn business how I live my life!” His jaw clenched.
