Page 93 of A Murderous Crow
That was a huge responsibility. A sacred thing. One deserving of deep respect and love for the trust placed in me as the dominant figure.
With great power over someone, came great responsibility, and discipline. You couldn’t let your frustration win or overpower you in the moment. You had to be firm, but gentle. It was such a vulnerable state to put yourself in to hand someone such an absolute power over your psyche and wellbeing.
I recognized I had been careless in the beginning. A reckless child; little more than an immature boy ripping the wings off a fly. I hadn’t recognized what a true gift she had been. That she was handing me so much trust and wasn’t playing pedantic games like so many of the disposable little darlings that had come before her.
I would spend a very, very, long time making things up to her, if they could ever be made up at all.
We texted throughout the day, and she was happy. She’d cleverly worn long sleeves with a long and tight cuff that morning to hide her chafed wrists, and I felt genuinely bad about that.
I checked on her several times and she was always quick to get back to me, which I appreciated.
At closing time, I gathered my things and headed downstairs.
Specter was outside our gambling den, smoking a cigarette. He nodded at me and I gave him a stiff smile and a polite nod back.
I put my briefcase in the Porche, and stopped, went back to him, and sucker punched him right in the gut. I leaned over him as he retched into the gutter and said, “You ever disrespect my woman like you did last night again, I’ll fucking end you. You have any complaints about this, take it to the table. See what fucking happens.”
“Hua,” he gritted out, and I walked away, got into my Porche, and headed to the spot Savannah and I had agreed upon to pick up our dinner.
Once back at home, I climbed the steps to the apartment above the carriage house, letting myself in.
I found Savannah in her stocking feet, standing by the built-in bookcase surrounding the fireplace. She had a stack of books out of a box and was carefully shelving them.
“Ilovethis bookcase,” she said.
“I do too, it was one of the features of this place that I liked the most, I just keep my books in my little library in the main house.”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I fill this one, then.”
“It’s your apartment, love. Your space. You do what you want with it.”
A serene little smile played on her lips and she asked me softly, “Do you mean that?”
“Mean what?” I asked, sliding the takeout bag onto the kitchen counter. I opened cupboards and found plates.
“What you just called me,” she said.
“What?” I asked, distractedly.
“Love,” she said and I stopped what I was doing.
“Did I?” I asked, and I really had to think back on it, and realized she may be right.
“You did,” she said, her smile growing.
I smiled back at her and said, “Well, if that wasn’t just some kind of Freudian slip,” I said and she laughed.
“It’s not the first time I’ve said, ‘I love you,’” I said and she nodded.
“No, I know… itisthe first time you’ve said it so casually.”
“That’s fair,” I said.
I moved about her kitchen taking down plates and gathering silverware and she said, “In case I’ve not said it,” she murmured and I turned to look at her. “I love you, too,” she said softly. “So much.”
I smiled and nodded, a warm glow suffusing my whole being, as I plated our food and brought it over to the little table that had come from her old place. It only seated two, and it was nice and cozy for this place. She’d redone it and most of her furniture in a French Provincial style and while it was semi-out of place with the stark, undecorated walls of the place, I knew she would make this place feel like a home soon enough.
She’d done wonders with polishing the turd she’d come from – though I still hated that she’d lived in that condemned monstrosity for so long.
