Page 11 of Welcome Home
“I know how bad it was, and I give you my word to never put you through it again. I could never berate or belittle you, Cora. I could never torment or make you less than you are. To me? You’re everything.”
Her eyes widen, before a line of gut-wrenching tears pool in them. “What are you?”
“Right now, all you need to know is that I'm the monster that's on your side. One that would cut down anything and anyone that would stand in my way to keep you. Including you if it came to that. I'm a terrible thing Cora, but one that is dedicated to you.”
She shakes her head, wiping at her tears. “You want me to trust you, but you threaten my life and plan to keep me hostage here?”
“Not hostage. I'm your husband. All I want is for you to be my wife. Like you promised. Those vows we-the two of youmade all those years ago. It might not have been me, but I’ve seen it like I was the one living it with you. I mean them more than he ever did. I won’t live without you.” I cringe at the desperate tone in my voice. This isn’t like you Vosz.
Get it together, for fuck's sake. You'll freak her out.
“I'm in trouble, aren’t I? With the police?”
I pause, confused by the sudden change in topic before nodding and rubbing my hand through my wet hair. “That detective wants to talk to you. I don’t know what she has, but it’s big. She looked at me like I was a ghost when I walked into the precinct.”
A bone deep shudder overtakes her small frame, a whimper leaving her throat before she buries her face in her hands. My legs carry me to her without any thought of my own. I make no move to stop them. If she were anyone else… if I hadn’t fallen for her, I’d tell her not to touch her face. I’d roll my eyes at her tears. I’d show her the same cruelness he always had. But this woman, she needs me. I'm no better than him for reveling in that.
I run my fingers through her hair before tilting her head up, cupping her face in my hands. “I'm going to keep you safe. I'm here now. It doesn’t have to make sense yet, but know that there is nothing I would not do to keep you safe, Cora.”
Her big pale eyes swallow me whole, making butterflies fill my stomach when she gives me a weak smile, a tear slipping past the perfectly arranged display of happiness. “Welcome Home.” She’s still smiling, but her soft voice cracks. It doesn’t matter if she meant it. She’s keeping it together because she knows I'm the key to her freedom. She’s using me and I'm okay with that. We have time, time for me to show her everything she’s needed all these years that he’s neglected her. Time for me to save her from herself. I smile back as I wipe her tear away with my thumb. Resisting the urge to taste it.
7
A United Front
Cora
When my eyes snap open, I’m greeted by an empty bed and more panic. A glance over to the alarm clock on my nightstand tells me it's my first day back in this wife business and I've already fucked up. My heart thumps in my chest as I untangle myself from the sheets, determined to ignore the lingering soreness in my limbs. I quickly brush my teeth, jerking the comb through my hair in some vain attempt of pleasing whatever this…thingis. Well before I reach the bottom of the stairs, my stomach is dangling around my feet, hitting each step as I go. Each step leads me closer to that special place in my mind I created just for Oliver. A place where the things he says can’t touch me, where nothing hurts and all I am is numb. The smell of something burning and the light haze of smoke slams me as soon as I hit the hallway. Oliver curses under his breath as he frantically tries to dampen the flames surging from whatever pan he had on the stove. I gawk. “What the hell are-“ the blare of the smoke detector fills the smoky kitchen, cutting me off short.
“Fuck!” He curses louder now, his voice taking on a growly tone. His eyes are pinched in pain as he cups his hands tightly on his ears.
I run to the stove, removing the flaming black husk of whatever the hell from the burner, gritting my teeth as the grease pops onto my skin. “Open a window!” I bark over the sound of the alarm, but he doesn’t move, his hands still cupped tight over his ears. His teeth are bared as if he’s in pain as I grab a lid from the cabinet, placing it on the small fire to smother the flame.
Hopefully.
Before I turn back to Oliver, I catch him jump in my peripheral far higher than he should be able to as he smacks the fire alarm free from its mount on the high vaulted ceiling. It slams into the floor with enough force to shatter it, tiny bits of plastic bouncing and skidding along the ground. Even the batteries burst on impact. I frown, coughing before turning my attention back to him. He’s glaring at the shattered remains of the alarm like it’s just slapped a puppy, his lips pulled back in disgust and all the sudden he looks so much like himself I feel the need to vomit. “Wretched thing.” He mutters, before opening his palms. My stomach rolls for real this time when I see the Prussian blue colored liquid on his palms, the substance still trickling from his ears. Dribbling onto the St. George University t-shirt he’s wearing.
“Is…is that your blood?”
His jaw clenches as he tugs the shirt off, exposing his toned athletic frame that should’ve remained hidden underneath. “Yes, sorry. Apparently burgers aren’t in my wheelhouse.”
Holy mother of Christ. What in the goddamn fuck is even happening right now?
“You were making burgers?” I don’t know why that of all the questions filtering through my mind I settle on, but it feels as good as any place to start.
He smirks. “Apparently, neither of us are very good cooks.”
Neither of you? You and Oliver…
“No, Oliver was an awful cook. Who makes burgers at six in the morning?”
He pauses, using the shirt to wipe at thebloodfrom his ears and neck. “Are burgers not an acceptable breakfast meal?”
The bewildered expression on his face forces a strange sounding giggle from my throat. “I mean, I suppose it can be, but no, it’s not the go to.”
He nods once, his smile deepening. “The board of trustees wants to see me at eight. Maybe we have time for a quick lesson on acceptable breakfast meals?”
My eyes fall to the dirty shirt in his hand, and I can’t help but to feel revolted by the idea. He’s a monster…by his own admission. I'm living with a monster that’s wearing my dead husband like a fucking Armani suit. He sets his jaw hard, looking at the floor. “It’s okay. I think I can manage cereal.” He looks…embarrassed almost. His cheeks flush lightly, the perfect imitation of the human reaction. But it’s not, he’s not.
