Page 58 of Tragic Empire
He could tell?
“I couldn’t give a singular fuck what they think of me, Ana. Your health matters more than any of this shit.Youmatter more. Understand?”
Sniffling, my head bobs. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“Jesus Christ,” he swears, shaking his head. “I’m not mad at you, Ana. I’m upset that you put yourself through that when you didn’t need to.”
“I wanted to help.”
“I know you did,” he replies softly, lifting my chin with his thumb and curled pointer finger. “Look, this situation isn’t easy for either of us. But you’re my wife, Ana. I take care of you, all right?”
“But—”
His stern expression has the protest dying on my tongue.
“We can figure out the rest someday but for now, you let me do that. You need something, you tell me. Having a harder day than most? Let me know. If something makes you uncomfortable, I make sure it stops. Don’t hurt yourself more than you’ve already been hurt. Especially not for political mafia bullshit.”
My throat clogs with emotion, feeling a rush of relief blanket around me. “You’re a good husband, Cassio,” I choke out.
An unfamiliar look lights up in his eyes, and his following words—though barely loud enough to hear—make my stomach flip.
“You haven’t seen the half of it.”
ChapterTwenty
Ana
Of course I would crave French onion soup on the one day a week that Agnes doesn’t work. I despise cooking for myself, especially when the dish is complicated in any way. I can manage a quick fry up in the morning if I need to, and boiling pasta to eat with some easy jarred sauce doesn’t irritate me too badly. Most of the time if I’m craving something specific that I don’t have the patience or the skill to make myself, I’ll order in.
French onion soup isnota takeout food. It needs to be eaten hot and fresh, while the cheese is still bubbly and the broth steams with every spoonful scooped. The idea of it has my mouth watering, and I know myself well enough to know that the fixation will not rest until I feed it.
So, despite knowing it’s a bad idea, here I am in the kitchen, fumbling with a bag of yellow onions. I know I’ll need to peel and cut at least six of these to make enough soup for myself and the boys. Armani and Colton are currently out walking Sirius, and Cassio is in Killian’s office, going over some sort of paperwork.Seriously, you would think some of these mob bosses were CEOs with the amount of bureaucratic bullshit they handle.
But with everyone busy, and no Agnes in sight, I’m on my own for this soup mission. I can feel the frustration building even as I pick up the first onion to pick off the skin. Ihatethe way it feels in my hands, and the grating way tiny flecks of residue sticks under my nails. They may be dreadfully unmanicured currently, but that doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate the awful sensation of flakes invading under the tips.
“I already hate you,” I mumble at the current piece of produce in my hand. “Agnes needs a raise. So many things have onions, and you’re awful to touch, do you know that?”
More of the dry onion skin crinkles off, and I release a deep sigh. “I haven’t even gotten to the cutting yet. You know, the violent part where you make me cry. Arsehole onions.”
God, what is wrong with me?This is what my time being cooped up at home has come to…I’m speaking to fucking onions.
It’s not even just the texture being offensive to the touch, it’s the way it litters the counter and feels taxing to even begin. Dropping what I’m doing, I reach for my phone and turn on some soft relaxing music, hoping the songs will tune out some of my annoyance.
I’ve successfully removed the skin of three onions when the sound and the mess start grating on my last nerve. While trying to prepare the fourth, I fumble with it and it falls into the pile of skin. Something in me just snaps and hot angry tears well in my eyes. Screaming in frustration, I pick up the bloody vegetable and throw it as hard as I can across the room.
Not satisfied with the outburst, I pick up another and treat it the same, throwing it further. “Fuck you!”
My face is flooding with angry moisture and the back of my neck goes hot. I feel so uncomfortable and upset. Why did I even try? I knew I wouldn’t enjoy this, but attempting to cook has never pissed me off to this magnitude. What iswrongwith me?
“Ughh!” I exhale, rushing to the sink to wash my hands furiously.
Heavy footsteps fall closer and closer as I scrub the onion remnants from my fingers, but I don’t look up.
“Ana?” Cassio’s voice, deep with concern, meets my ears. “What’s happened, I heard screaming. Are you okay?”
“No!” I burst out, slamming the faucet off and shaking out my wet hands. “I’m not okay at all.”
I’m practically growling at him, hotly reaching for a dish towel. He must see the cutting board and knife on the counter, because he’s grabbing my hands in a second flat, immediately searching for an injury.
