Page 107 of Broken by my Bully
“Much too late for you to be wandering around in the woods.”
He comes up beside me, and I’m hit with the smell of booze. Something similar to the bourbon he put in my cocoa, I think. I’m no expert. When I still lived with them, my dad drank vodka and my uncle, beer.
They both preferred meth much,muchmore.
Fuck. Bad timing for those memories to resurface.
“Haven?”
“Yessir.”
“Where the fuck are your shoes?”
My toes curl again. I look down, see how muddy they are. “Oh. Shit. I’m tracking mud all over your nice clean house.”
I thought my shivers were getting less until a violent shudder goes through me. Maybe it’s the horror of getting mud on this white carpet.
“We need to get you out of those wet clothes.”
“We really don’t,” I mumble, slowly wrapping my hands around my chest.
“Then shiver to death.”
I watch him stalk away into the kitchen and turn on the coffee machine, my eyes wide and my jaw clenched to stop my teeth chattering.
He’s not wrong. I am freezing my fucking ass off. But something tells me it’s really not a good idea to take off my clothes. Sodden as they are, they’re the only protection I have right now. And since I still have no idea how I got here, I could be dealing with a concussion or something. Maybe I hit my head when I slipped at the barrier by Lookout Point.
Anyway, my professor isn’t a threat, even drunk.
Right?
Bastian keeps his eyes on his task as he takes out two cups. “Coffee will be done in a few minutes. There’s a bathroom to your left. Grab something warm from my closet.”
“Really, I’m?—”
“You’re drenched.” He turns, eyes narrowed. “And you’re tracking mud all over my floor. So either clean up, or clear out.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, clamping my jaw closed at a violent shiver.
Survival overrules the gut feeling that I should be heading out the backdoor, not stepping deeper into the lion’s den.
I pass the fireplace and step into Professor Rooke’s bedroom. There are two barn doors on either side of the massive fireplace that I guess he can close to make this area more private. The walls in here are bare concrete and tinted glass windows, just like the rest of the house.
There’s a walk-in closet, and beside it, a partially open door that must lead to the bathroom, if those dark tiles are anything to go by.
Despite having his permission, I still feel like I’m intruding. I guess because, despite how barren and lifeless this house feels, I find glimpses of the professor everywhere.
The stack of weathered, spine-cracked books on the nightstand.A pair of reading glasses. Inside his closet, the row of suit jackets, mostly tweed.
And his smell.
It’s so intense inside this space, I can almost taste him on my tongue.
Pine trees. Leather. Rain-soaked soil.
I realize I’m just standing there, drinking in his smell, when he might come and check on me any minute. But I can’t help it. It’s so warm in here. So clean, and fresh, and neat. Terribly neat.
Every place I’ve ever lived in has always looked like a fucking rat’s nest after a couple of days. Dad stopped cleaning up after himself around the time Mom passed. Or maybe Mom had always been the one to tidy, and he was too broken from her death to bother keeping the place neat.
