Page 91 of Phobia
“I am well aware, it was just a manner of speech. Most pets are not nearly as prickly as you are,” I teased as I shrugged off his concerns, while he stumbled beside me.
“Slow down—”
I slowed, glancing at Oliver and his very irked expression. His five o’clock shadow was even darker now, though still sparse, probably due to his age. He was bound to only grow more handsome as he aged, all delicate features and sharp edges. God, he was lovely, lit up by the streaming morning light. How had I never recognized this feeling for what it was? Frowning, I realized he was walking with a slight limp, and it took me a moment too long to realize why.
Ah.
“God, stop smiling like that. You look so proud of yourself,” Oliver whacked my chest, obviously irked. Though his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile of his own. “It’s distracting.”
“Is it?”
“You’re distracting me,” he growled, seaglass eyes blazing. “On purpose.”
“Maybe.”
“Why would you want to keep me?” Oliver looked confused. “I thought I vexed you.”
“Perplexed,” I corrected, even though vex was probably more accurate.
“Both then.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “I don’t…” He paused. The warmth in his eyes grew cold, his skin taking on a greenish pallor. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
Big green eyes met mine, searching. “It’s because you fucked me,” he said simply, and I watched as the light in his eyes dimmed. “That’s why you’re feeling this way. Protective.” He said the last word like it was a particularly nasty swear.
“Well yes, but—”
“Fucking me does not make you obligated to me,” Oliver hissed, angry as a cat now. “Just because I let you do it—doesn’t mean you have to take care of me.”
“Who else?”
“What?” He blinked at me in confusion.
“If not me. Then who will be taking care of you?”
Oliver’s jaw dropped, his eyes bugging out of his head as he glared at me. “No one. Me. I don’t—I don’t need someone to take care of me, Henry. I’m perfectly fine on my own. I always have been.”
I stared at him dubiously.
“Says the guy who—”
“I know,” Oliver hissed, his brows drawn low. “Shut up. I know.”
“Come home with me,” I tried again, less commanding this time—more cajoling. “I’ll feed you.”
He eyed me warily.
Then nodded.
Right before we reached the wall he paused again, however, his shoulders tense, his green eyes murky with emotion. I could hear the crowd muffled behind it, the market already full despite the early hour. “It was me, you know,” he admitted, sounding both proud and ashamed at the same time.
“What was you?”
“The lunch thief.” His cheeks were pink.
I laughed.
I couldn’t help myself.
