Page 86 of Moth
Chapter Twenty-One
Iwake up so disoriented I know I’m dreaming. The bed beneath me is far too soft to be mine. Too big. Soft blankets shroud me in swaths of fabric, and it feels as though I could lie here forever.
But raised voices intrude my refuge, sounding as if they’re coming from directly below.
“…said you told him to stand down,” a man says, his voice so deep it seems to vibrate through the floor, up the bed frame, and into my very bones. “Since when do we cower in our territory?”
“He isn’t worth it,” a man replies, his voice so level I almost don’t recognize it. Rafe. He must be down in his shop, and the sound must carry easily in this old building. “There’s no point in—”
“No point in proving that we are not people to be fucked with?” the other man counters, his inflection conveying a dangerous implication. “I’ve given you more control than most men would,” he adds. “Don’t make me regret that, Rafael.”
“You won’t,” Rafe replies.
“And now with the missing Wen girl. The police will be buzzing around, sticking their fucking noses where they don’t belong. You need to get a handle on this. Now. Not toy with your fucking whores, or waste time doing whatever the hell it is you do in this shithole of a playhouse.” The vitriol in his tone makes my skin crawl. It’s cruel, directed at more than just this building, but at everything down to the drawings adorning the walls.
Every piece of art.
“I will,” Rafe says.
“And if you don’t… You know I don’t give second chances.”
The man must leave because I hear a bell chime as though the main door was opened. In his absence, heavy footsteps resonate, though muted from the distance. I recognize the slow, steady gait. Rafe. Pacing?
He must do so for what seems like hours, forming endless circles. Finally, the sound trails off only to be replaced by the louder thud of advancing footsteps entering the apartment. He comes close only to retreat without trying the door. Again, minutes later.
My brain reads into the action. His attempts to do what he did the first night I stayed here. Tell me to leave. Uphold his rule.
Pain shoots down my spine as I push back the covers and gingerly sit upright. I’m still wearing his shirt, my shoes removed, my bag nowhere in sight. I brace my feet on the floor and attempt to stand. My knees buckle, and I have to clutch the bed frame just to stay upright.
Bit by bit, I inch toward the door and push it open. My eyes scan the living room for my stuff. I find my bag on the couch and my shoes near the door. I start for them first and attempt to wrestle my feet into each sandal.
From this position, I have a clearer view of the apartment’s common space—including the figure standing in the kitchen with his back to me. He sighs heavily, rummaging through a pile of assorted items. I can tell from the set of his shoulders alone that he’s sensed my presence.
I don’t wait for him to turn around scowling or to dish out his trademark kiss-off.
Limping with the effort, I start for my bag. I barely get my fingers around the strap when it’s yanked from my grasp. A sturdy arm hooks around my waist, bringing with it the overwhelming scent of coconut. My feet leave the ground a heartbeat later, and before I can even blink, I’m being placed onto a hard surface while a muscular body blocks me in, preventing me from falling.
I’m on the counter, sitting precariously beside a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter.
“Eat.” A sandwich appears beneath my nose, oozing peanut butter from the edges. “Eat.”
I eye the soft, pale surface. Of all the scenarios running through my head, this one didn’t even make the cut. A trick? A test?
“I’m not hungry,” I finally rasp.
He makes a gruff sound in his throat, and I finally gather the nerve to meet his gaze. A single cocked black eyebrow transforms the cold, icy expression I expect to find. He looks more irritated than anything. “You slept through the night,” he says. “It’s two in the fucking afternoon. You’re starving. Eat.”
My brain short-circuits, and I can’t argue. My lips part as he rams a corner of the sandwich between them. I bite down and chew.
The simple act triggers an avalanche of pain I’d been able to suppress until now. My throbbing left eye. My cheek. My jaw. My shoulder. Chewing hurts, and it’s painful to swallow.
Taking a hint, he sets the sandwich aside and grabs a spoon from the drawer. He shoves it directly into the jar of peanut butter and brings the mixture to my mouth.
“Eat.”
It’s easier to swallow without having to chew first. I take a careful lick. Then another. After that, he switches up the rhythm by presenting me with a glass of water before one more spoonful.
His eyes scan my face as I choke down each sampling, hunting for something. Whatever he finds in the end, makes him set the spoon aside once I’ve licked it clean. He raises a hand to my face next, but his demeanor keeps me from flinching. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this expression shaping his features, tightening the line of his mouth, and darkening those watchful eyes. The worst part? I can’t even begin to name it.
