Page 70 of Catalyst


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“Good girl,” he muttered and let go of my face. I immediately dropped my head to stare at my hands again. Leaning back to his side of the table, his gaze was like the brush of a lit candle against my skin as he studied me. “At least now you have more color in your cheeks. I’d hate him to think he was getting a sickly wife.” He paused and looked at the surrounding mess. “Clean this up.”

His gaze left my face, and I quickly rearranged the cutlery and plates; I welcomed the distraction from thoughts of what was to come. Finishing, I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes, wishing I could hide. Be invisible. Non-existent.

“Come in!” he called cheerfully, and I heard his shoes thump against the floor as he walked to the door.

I opened my eyes when I heard the door open with a creak. Mother walked in, a huge smile on her face. Behind her was a tall, broad man. The dim light shrouded his features. All I could see were perfect white teeth in a grin as he greeted my father.

When his gaze met mine, my heart leaped out of my chest.

“And this is Claudia.” I heard my father speak, but it sounded so distant, as though he were whispering in the next room. All I could hear was the roar of blood in my ears and the screams of instinct demanding I run.

I stood, a practiced action which helped me while I continued to struggle with the panic flooding me. My heart continued its strange jumping as though it were literally trying to leave my body to escape.

I reached a hand to our guest, my future husband—although my stomach revolted at that thought—and looked at his chest as he approached. He was well dressed and handsome, but I knew he was a monster like my father. I also knew not to look monsters in the eye.

When his hand picked up mine and his lips kissed the back, a shock of lightning coursed through my veins. I almost pulled away. My body begged me to. My heart cried. Something was tugging on me. On something inside me, which was reticent to leave. A scream bubbled up in my throat at the unknown, frightening feelings stirring panic beyond anything I had ever experienced.

When his gaze rose from my hand to meet my eyes, he smiled, probably feeling the fear leaking through my hands in a cold sweat. His eyes were black. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. He didn’t have one. My hands started shaking.

“Claudia, I’m so very excited to finally meet you. I know you are going to make me an extremely lucky man.”

Bile raced up my throat, and a sheen of sweat glittered on my forehead in my attempt to stop the vomit from spewing onto the table. He let go of my hand, and the awful pulling sensation stopped. A modicum of relief washed through me, but my panic still raged, my heart still desperate for escape.

We sat down, and Mother walked to the kitchen to get the dishes she had prepared. I felt out of my body as Father and Mr. Jenkins made small talk, Father asking about his business and common acquaintances. I heard the words, but they didn’t feel like English. I was a caged animal being traded.

I came back to myself at the succulent smell of freshly cooked food arising from the plates placed along the middle of the table.

“Help yourself.” Mother smiled, took a serving spoon, and began placing food on my father’s plate.

I didn’t move until they had all gotten something on their plates, and then I spooned vegetables and meat and gravy onto mine. I could feel their gaze. Eating so much was going against my father’s ideal behavior. There would be comments, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I hadn’t eaten this well in ages, and my future was bleak; I was going to enjoy my food.

“Claudia. Control yourself,” my mother hissed.

Mr. Jenkins grinned at me. “Let the girl eat, Margaret. I like a woman with an appetite.”

With that, my appetite scattered. Like sand slowly rolling around in my mouth, I swallowed hard and glared at my meal.

Duchess, our cat, wandered into the dining room, having smelled the food. She twirled herself around my father’s legs as he sat at the table, trilling happily. His eyes softened, and somewhere behind them, an ember of the man he used to be flickered, and my chest ached. He couldn’t be that man for me anymore. The war broke him. And the drink remade him into a monster.

Distracted by the cat, I didn’t realize someone had asked me a question. My eyes widened. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Is she hard of hearing?” Mr. Jenkins remarked with an evil smirk.

My father glared. “No. Just stupid.”

Mr. Jenkins grinned and continued to stare at me as he said, “I can work with that.”

I tensed my aching body to resist the shudder trying to wrack me. I looked back at my plate and ate more food.

Mother spoke up. “We asked how soon you’d like the wedding.”

I choked on a spud. My mother squealed as I almost sprayed her with gravy. Humiliation colored my cheeks as I grasped the napkin and covered my mouth, struggling to control my coughing.

Mr. Jenkins’s lip turned up in disgust. “It seems her stupidity translates to her inability to eat, too.”

“I’m so sorry.” My mother flapped, her gaze flitting from him to me. “Claudia, apologize,” she growled.

Having got my coughing under control, I muttered, “I can’t apologize enough,” from behind my napkin, my head bowed.

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