Page 50 of Kings Fear No One
I don’t wait for her reaction before striding the rest of the way out of the room. Teysha’s just going to have to understand she’s seeking something I can’t give her.
13
TEYSHA
Sleep no longer comes easy, but I don’t mind when I’m lying in bed beside Logan.
He snores. Not all the time. Only when he rolls onto his back. But it’s become a sound that I can listen to for hours. Along with the sound of him breathing.
Comfort noises like when people listen to those sound machines with the ocean waves or pouring rain.
It’s not the first time I’ve listened for them—in our cabin at the Chosen Saints compound, sometimes it would be so quiet at night, I could hear him then too. Sleep was the only time Believer Logan put his guard down, usually so exhausted by a long day of grueling work, his body gave out.
I watch him now like I watched him then.
Before it was from halfway across the cabin. Now it’s lying beside him in bed.
One night turns into two and then into three.
On the third night, as I sit on his bed and he approaches, still toweling himself off from his shower, he lets out a deep sigh.
“Teysha, it was one time only.”
The three little words he hates almost roll off my tongue—I’m your wife. I catch myself this time and ask instead, “But why?”
“You have your own bed.”
“But I like this bed.”
“Then I’ll take the other room.”
“I don’t want to be in here alone.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Teysha, nothing’s going to happen. The doors are locked. I’m here. I’m strapped. If somebody tries something they’ll have a bullet in their skull.”
I come up empty on my rebuttal. Instead, the ache I’ve grown familiar with in recent times returns. A reminder that no matter what I do, it’ll never be filled. I might as well be searching the desert for water.
Turning my head so he won’t see me blinking away tears, I make a small noise. “Oh.”
Part of me hates that I’m so pitiful. Part of me feels manipulative because it always ends the same.
I sniffle despite myself and get up to head for the door. Logan’s rubbing his brow like he’s pained by a headache. Crying women make him uncomfortable. Another reason why a part of me feels unseemly doing it in front of him.
I know all these things, yet I still let emotion win out. I let tears brim in my eyes, my damaged heart on my sleeve for him to see.
His rejection hurts a little bit more each time.
But then there’s the part of me that relishes how he inevitably stops me. As I make for an exit, he reaches for my hand. He concedes.
“One more night.”
My damaged heart sings.
It beats with hope that it means something. He cares if he’s stopped me. If he doesn’t let me go when I leave.
…he feels sorry for you. That doesn’t mean he cares.
And the toxic cycle begins all over again.
