Page 22 of Knot So Sweet
Cold shower. I need a cold shower. An arctic, freezing, get-this-alpha-out-of-your-head shower.
Because that grumpy baker downstairs with his incredible hands and his acts of random kindness is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with violence and everything to do with the fact that I'm already half gone for him after one meal and one accidental kiss.
This is a disaster.
I push off the door and head for the bathroom, already cranking the shower to cold.
Sunday stretches out in front of me with nothing to do and nowhere to be.
I've been free for exactly two days, and I have no idea what to do with myself.
Back with Mark, Sundays had rules. Make coffee, but not too strong. Read the paper, but only the parts he approved of. Exist quietly and don't cause problems.
Now I can do whatever I want, and it's weird. Freeing and terrifying all at once.
I spend the morning exploring the apartment, taking inventory of what the previous tenant left behind. Books, mostly romance novels. Kitchen supplies that look actually used. A life that involved cooking real food and reading for fun.
I wonder who she was. What made her leave.
By noon, my stomach is growling and I'm faced with a choice. Go downstairs and risk seeing Garrick, or slowly starve to death up here.
Since dying of hunger seems dramatic even for me, I remember the soup he mentioned. The one in the bakery fridge.
I can sneak down, grab it, and come right back up. Easy.
Probably.
As I heat it up, there's a little twinge of something when I realize he's probably not downstairs. Disappointment, maybe? I push the feeling down immediately. It's only because I'm not used to having so much time alone, that's all. Nothing more.
The soup tastes even better reheated, rich and nourishing and exactly what my battered system needs. I eat it slowly, savoring every spoonful and trying not to think about what happens when it runs out.
The afternoon crawls by and I try reading some of the romance novels, but the happy couple makes me twitchy. The hero keeps declaring his undying devotion and the heroine keeps believing him, and I want to shake them both and explain how these things actually work in real life. Next, I attempt to watch a movie, but the sound of the TV in the empty apartment feels too loud. Finally, I give up and sit by the window, watching the occasional car drive down Main Street and wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do with the rest of my life.
This is what freedom looks like, I remind myself. No one telling me what to wear, what to think, where I can go. No one monitoring my phone calls or questioning my every decision. No one backing me against the kitchen counter with that calm, reasonable tone explaining why I'm wrong about everything.
So why do I feel so lost? And why am I sitting here like some tragic heroine in a Victorian novel, staring out the window and contemplating my existence? All I need is a fainting couch and a case of the vapors to complete the picture.
The sun is starting to set when I hear the stairs creaking outside, followed by a knock on the door. My body tenses, every muscle screaming at me to hide as my heart hammers against my ribs. I press myself against the wall beside the window.
"Violet? It's Xaden."
His voice rumbles through the door, deep enough to feel in my chest. It's the same kind Mark used, promising safety before delivering pain.
"I brought dinner. Figured you might be getting hungry."
I stand there, frozen. Either this is sweet or I've stumbled into an elaborate kidnapping scheme involving comfort food. With my luck, it's fifty-fifty.
Slowly, I unlock the door. Crack it open with the chain still on.
Xaden stands in the hallway holding a paper bag that smells like heaven. His dark hair is messy, his expression carefully neutral. But his eyes. His eyes are doing things that make my stomach flip.
"Hi," he says, like showing up at my door with food is perfectly normal. "Mind if I come in?"
Every self-preservation instinct screams no.
But he smells good. Not just the food. Him. Something clean and warm and dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with violence.
And I'm so tired of being alone.
