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With him out of the room, I get up and go to the bathroom to wash up. I can hear him talking on the phone, even if I can’t make out the words. I don’t need to make them out to know he’s angry—extremely. This has to be the person who called and told him we were getting married. From what little I heard when he first answered the call, it was clear the voice belonged to a man. His father? Maybe a grandfather. Either way, whoever it is has a lot of power over him.
It’s almost enough to make me wonder what their secret is because I could use a little bit of that power for myself. I’m tired of always being the one fighting for every inch of ground.
Every swipe of the warm washcloth reminds me of how the blood got there. When he ran his hand down my chest. Over my boobs. My neck. It’s enough to tighten my nipples just thinking about it. I’m going to need a load of therapy after this, that much is obvious. It makes me angry, and I finish washing quickly before throwing the cloth into the hamper.
Once I’m dried off, I go downstairs to where Enzo is on the phone in the kitchen. He’s washing his hand, cleaning where he made himself bleed. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, too busy grunting into the phone. “Yes,” he mutters. “I know. I get it—you don’t have to keep explaining it to me.” He’s fighting as hard as he can not to show his temper. There’s no reason I should know that, really, but I can tell. I guess that’s thanks to spending the past few days with him, watching him fight that temper when he’s dealing with me. I sort of wish he’d fight a little harder is all.
Then he begins pacing the room, his hand wrapped in a dish towel while he holds the phone in the other. His knuckles stand out, bone white against his skin because he’s clutching it so hard.
It’s strange, the impulse that washes over me. I want to find a way to comfort him—it’s stupid, but it’s no more stupid than anything going on so far. Considering I’ve already come close to begging this man to take my virginity, this is nothing. Decency, that’s all. Because I sort of feel sorry for him now. He seems a lot more human when he’s on the receiving end of whatever verbal abuse he’s getting from the man on the phone.
My empty stomach reminds me it’s been a while since I’ve eaten anything resembling a meal. Maybe that will help—if I fix us both a little something. I need to establish a relationship with him where we’re on equal footing. It’s probably beyond naïve to think that will ever happen, but I need to do my best. The longer he thinks of me as his captive, the less likely it will ever be for me to get out of this. I have to believe there’s still hope. Just because somebody told Enzo we’re getting married doesn’t mean it needs to happen. He has to have some say in it, doesn’t he? Once he starts looking at me as an actual person with an actual life of my own, it might make him less likely to go through with this.
I need to believe that, even if it’s hopelessly childish. Otherwise, I’m going to lose it.
One problem: I can’t really cook. I start opening the cabinets to look around and see what’s available—maybe cereal? There’s plenty of food in the fridge, but I’m not even very good at cooking eggs. They always end up coming out overdone and rubbery, and I can never seem to get all the bits of shell out. What good is fixing something for him if it’s disgusting? So that’s not going to work.
The only thing I can think to make that’s actually hot and hearty is the instant oatmeal sitting on one of the shelves. It’s sort of pitiful, but it’s the best I can do. There’s a tea kettle on the stove that doesn’t look like it’s ever been used, almost like it’s there for show. I can’t imagine this man making himself a cup of tea. I rinse it out before filling it, put it on a burner, and turn it to high heat. It takes a minute for me to find the bowls, the silverware, all of that—so by the time I have a packet of oatmeal in each bowl, the water is beginning to boil, and a high-pitched squeal fills the air.
Enzo comes back from pacing the living room, scowling at me. I lift the kettle from the burner and shrug, but that seems to satisfy him. He goes back to his pacing, this time walking the kitchen while I pour water into the bowls. He’s still not saying much, and I have to wonder if that’s because the person on the other end never stops talking. Either that, or he knows better than to put up an argument. There I was, imagining him as somebody powerful, the sort of person who doesn’t let anybody tell them what to do. I guess everybody has somebody higher up on the food chain who they need to answer to.
I place the bowls on the table and gesture for him to sit down. He’s either too distracted by his conversation to question me, or he’s genuinely hungry. Either way, he takes a seat, and I slide his bowl a little closer.
And all he does at first is stare at it, open-mouthed. Then he looks at me with plain confusion written all over his face. Okay, so maybe he’s not interested in eating, or just doesn’t care for instant oatmeal. Though I have to wonder why he’d have it in the cabinet if that’s how he feels. Maybe it’s just confusion in general. Why am I trying to take care of him, that kind of thing?
“You should eat,” I whisper, taking a seat across from him and picking up my spoon. When he continues to stare like he’s confused, I very deliberately take a spoonful of oatmeal and raise it to my lips. It’s like I’m trying to teach a child to feed himself.
“I understand,” he mutters, forgetting about me in favor of appeasing the person on the other end. I’m insanely curious now. Who are they? Why do they have this grip on him? How could I even ask that question in a way that would get me an answer? Is it worth trying? Do I really need to satisfy my curiosity?
I think it might be worth it. Until now, we’ve been nothing but adversaries. What if I make it so it seems like we’re in this together? Just two people at the mercy of others, unable to make decisions for ourselves, unable to be free. Like Stockholm Syndrome in reverse, come to think of it. Could I use that to my advantage? I need to try. Otherwise, the alternative is getting closer to him until I end up identifying with him for real, becoming like an accomplice in this insanity. I can’t let that happen. There is a world of difference between this man and me. I refuse to see it any other way.
So I’ll pretend to be friendly. I’ll try to reach the part of him that’s isolated, alone, and maybe even helpless. God knows I understand that feeling. He’s pretty good at hiding it, but when he’s on the phone like this, and it’s obvious he doesn’t have the upper hand, that helplessness is written all over his face.
His eyes snap up from the bowl, locking onto mine, and I have no choice but to avert my gaze. I don’t want him knowing I’m watching so closely. He might get suspicious. I eat slowly, taking my time, hoping to understand something, anything coming from the other side of the call. It’s unnerving knowing they’re talking about me even if Enzo doesn’t refer to me by name. Whoever he’s talking to, they’re making plans for my future while I sit here and stir a bowl of oatmeal, quickly getting clumpy and cold.
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he murmurs. I glance up at him from under my eyelashes and find him smirking. “Yeah, that’s under control.” A nasty little shiver runs up my spine at the tone in his voice. I have to fight the impulse to look up at him. I know he’d be able to read my thoughts since I’ve never been very good at keeping a poker face.
Once he gets off the phone, I’ll have to be sympathetic. Can I pretend that well? He’s so shrewd—it’s almost impossible to get anything past him. Considering my life, my future, everything is hanging in the balance, I have no choice but to pretend. As dangerous as it is to think of him as a human being, it’s what I have to do if I’m going to make this believable.
How does a person end up like him? I’ve seen good things from him. He was kind to me. Gentle. He could have used me in any way he saw fit when I was falling apart in his arms, but he chose instead to calm me down and be kind and wash me up without asking for anything in return. Deep down inside, there’s a grain of decency in him. I need to focus on that.
And the person he’s talking to, the one who gets him so worked up and intense. I’m sure they make him feel small and powerless, and nobody wants to feel that way. He’s just as trapped as I am. What would I want him to say to me in this situation? What would make me feel better?
On second thought, no. He’ll see through that. And he’ll probably be more pissed than ever that I’m patronizing him or something. So I can’t take it too far. Just a little sympathy, a little understanding.
As I sit here plotting, there’s always that little reminder in the back of my head that this could all be over very quickly if I would just tell the truth. It’s still too risky. He could kill me flat out, angry with himself for being fooled. He’s the one who made the assumption that I’m part of this rival family or whoever they are. I’m sure he wouldn’t like finding out how wrong he was. If he even believed me—and it’s still possible he wouldn’t. Would I if I were in his shoes?Gee, how convenient, after all this time, you’re finally going to tell me the truth? Why didn’t you tell me before? Are you only lying yet again to save your hide?
My stomach churns and threatens to send back the oatmeal I’ve shoveled into my mouth. Something tells me things would get ugly. So honesty is out, too.
“Fine.” He shifts in his chair, and I look up in time to find him clenching his jaw. His nostrils are flared, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted in disgust. “I said fine. I heard you. It’s taken care of.” Then he pulls the phone from his ear, smashes his finger against the screen, and slams it onto the table hard enough to make the spoon jump in his bowl. I can’t help but flinch.
He doesn’t say a word for a long time, which of course, doesn’t comfort me very much. I wish he would say something, anything just so I know he’s not going to explode on me. I’m afraid to breathe too loud in case that’s what sets him off. For some reason, every time he has a conversation with this person, all it does is infuriate him. He was almost being normal for a little while there until the phone rang, and his mood swung back to this sullen, unpredictable version of himself.
“Are you okay?” I finally whisper after what feels like an eternity passes in silence.
“Of course I am,” he mutters. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t know. Because you seemed upset. Do you… want to talk about it?”
