Page 49 of Souls and Sorrows

“You think this is about fucking?” he taunts, his breath ghosting over my face, caressing my bare skin with its warmth. “It’s aboutowning, Little Nightmare. You are my goddamn wife, and every part of you is mine to do with as I please. Not anyone else’s.”

“But you don’twantto do anything to me. You want me to sit around all fucking day and wait for you to come home, like a little trophy. We share a bed at night, but you won’t even touch me in it, and you barely speak to me. What else am I supposed to do with my time?”

Cash works his jaw, nostrils flaring. He looks two breaths away from throttling me, and part of me wants him to.Needshim to even, because that physical pain would cut less deep than the betrayal on his face.

I know from experience how much easier physical pain is to get over than the emotional sort. It bruises and scabs like a ballerina’s feet, and what heals in its place is stronger. Tougher and better to weather other storms.

Emotional pain, the stuff you can’t see, never seems to go back the way it was created. Like every memory imprints itself on your brain, scarring where you can’t reach to erase.

Cash releases me, stepping away quickly. Cold air sweeps over me, and I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to keep it at bay.

After a moment, he blinks, the rage in his eyes dissolving into that stoic, unbothered state from before. He returns to the stove, adjusting the heat level on the burner, and clears his throat.

“Chicken noodle soup,” he offers, nodding at the pot. “If you’re hungry.”

I glance at the pot, then up at him again, trying to meet his eyes. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Who do you think has been making your meals all this time?”

“A housekeeper, to be honest.”

He huffs out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it at all. “I have one, but she’s not a great chef. I’ve been cooking since I was a kid.”

Tears burn behind my eyes at his detached tone, and I wish I knew why. Wish I could comprehend what it is about this virtual stranger that makes me feel so emotionally unhinged, even when he isn’t actually doing anything to me.

In fact, offering me food—food he’s cooking—is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me, and yet I’m still uncertain. My palms shake as I press them into my legs, watching him add spices and stir with his back once again to me.

“Do you cook?” he asks, poking at the soup with a wooden spoon. I shake my head, and surprise sketches across his face. “An Italian who doesn’t cook. Alert the church elders.”

Against my better judgment, a small smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. “Can’t speak Italian, either. Outside of a few words I picked up here and there, neither of my parents taught my sisters and I. Guess they didn’t want us to feel connected to our heritage, or something.”

Cash nods. “A shame. I’ll have to show you some of my grandfather’s favorite recipes sometime.”

I stand there, noting how effortless the entire cooking process seems to be for him, like he really has been doing it his whole life. My chest warms, though my unease remains. “I’d like that.”

He doesn’t respond, and suddenly I feel awkward having said anything at all, especially when he’s probably still angry.

An untieable knot weaves its way into my throat, and I feel a little dizzy.

So, I don’t stay for dinner.

I don’t eat at all.

I just go right to bed.

And when I lie in bed, alone, after midnight, I feel the tears finally fall as I wonder why I have to punish myself every single fucking time.

15

Folding my hands together,I thread my fingers through one another on top of my chest, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Ariana’s light snore is the only sound that fills the room, and it’s been keeping me up.

That’s what I’m trying to convince myself of anyway. That it’s her breathing and not the memory of the despair written on her face when she thought I was angry with her.

Gone was the spitfire, the formidable woman I’ve come to know—the woman I married—and in her place was a terrified nightmare of insecurity.

In truth, I had been pretty pissed off when I saw her with that guy, but it morphed into mild annoyance by the time she returned. I was more upset about the fact that she’d disappeared on me before all of that, andthatwas what I found her doing.

Rolling onto my side, I study the curve of her hip through the down comforter. Each breath brings the soft rise of her shoulder, bare in a silk sleep top, and I grit my teeth against the urge to reach out and run my hand over her smooth skin.

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