Wake to Dream(68)

“Eat.”

“Yes, sir,” she laughed, assuming Max’ assertiveness was simply a facet of his personality. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Max had a tendency to make demands, or even choices, without first asking her what she wanted to eat or wear. She assumed it had more to do with his fastidiousness, the calculated and precise manner in which he ran his own life. He was the type of man who controlled the room around him, but Alice didn’t see it as a negative aspect to his personality. Her life, up to that point, had been so far out of control that it felt good to let somebody else take the wheel for a change.

But even with that logic, something bothered her about Max, about the manner in which he’d taken over control so easily.

Picking up her fork, she ignored the whispers inside her head, the nagging reminders that Max reminded her of another man in her life, one she’d run from as soon as the opportunity had been there to escape.

Slipping the tines of the fork into the scrambled eggs, she fed herself slowly, chewing thoughtfully on the food that would sustain her. She enjoyed the salty slide across her tongue, the warmth that traveled down her throat to land on an empty belly. Relief was found in the comfort of the nourishment he’d provided her.

Seemingly satisfied to stand back and watch her eat, Max leaned back against the kitchen counter, a steaming cup of coffee held in his hands, his lips pursed to blow over the surface of the liquid. His face was clean shaven, the dust of shadow gone following the shower he’d taken that morning.

Alice watched him when he wasn’t looking, her eyes playing over the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the strong, square jaw that gave him a rugged, but cultured appearance. Despite the scar that marred the left side of his face, he was elegant in his features. With a straight nose that ran above full and sculpted lips, he had eyes that were pale and cold, a sparkling blue that were in stark contrast to obsidian hair and tan skin. An enigma wrapped in beauty, he was as alluring as he was fierce.

A question toyed over her thoughts. Afraid to ask, she worried her bottom lip between her teeth, her curiosity too much for her to keep her silence.

“What happened to you, Max?”

His eyes pinned her in an uneasy stare, studying her over the rim of the cup from which he sipped. His throat worked to swallow down the steaming liquid before he pulled the cup away to place it on the counter. “What do you mean?”

Clearing her throat of the anxiety she felt for bringing the subject up, she summoned everything brave within her to continue forward in the conversation. She knew that, like her, Max had his own share of secrets, he’d made that fact known time and time again. Perhaps the story behind that scar was one of the parts of him he rarely revealed. She wanted to know everything about him: what brought him joy, what he feared, but mostly, what events shaped him into the man he’d become.

“Your scars? How did you get them?”

His glacial stare was a wash of cold contempt across her body, a shiver running down her spine to know she’d stepped in places not traveled but many people. It scared her suddenly to see the expression on his face, the distinct change from a man comfortable in shared silence while she ate to a person she wasn’t sure she knew at all.

Silently considering her question, his jaw ticked a slow beat. She wasn’t sure whether he’d answer her, and the tension that mounted her shoulders forced the fork from her hands, her pulse an annoying drumbeat that fluttered over the soft point of her neck.

Black lashes framed his hollow eyes, shadows creeping and swirling beneath the blue that didn’t give her any clue to the thoughts assaulting him inside.

“My father,” he finally said, his voice morose and vacant, “was an exceptionally driven man. I was an only child, his only offspring that survived the journey from my mother’s womb to the bedroom where she’d given birth to me. I was the seventh in a line of eight, and the only one who’d taken a breath once the umbilical cord was cut.”

Pushing up from the counter upon which he’d previously leaned, he took three steps to stand by the island where Alice sat listening. A sheet of paper sat to his side, a stack of mail neatly organized beside it. Slipping the top sheet from the stack, he slid it to lay between them, his hands working methodically over the blank surface, making folds with sharp creases, before opening it again. Spellbound by the precise motion of his fingers, Alice jumped when he spoke again.

Over the course of several minutes, Max told her a story that shattered her heart. Not much different from her own, but with far more permanent and physical reminders, Max’ young life had been plagued by the same domineering father, the same type of abuse and pain that had haunted Alice since the moment she left home.

Lifting his hand, he placed a paper crane on the table in front of her. Its beak pointed at where she sat, its wings perfectly formed at its sides. Small and plain, white with no ornamentation to speak of, the creation was beautiful for its simplicity alone. Reaching out to touch it, she’d almost put a finger against its surface, but pulled back at the last second. There was something sacred about the paper crane, something solemn that kept her from corrupting it with any part of herself.

Her eyes affixed to the inanimate bird, she didn’t look up when he spoke again. She couldn’t without allowing him to see the tears that rimmed her eyes red. And as she stared at that crane, she listened to him relay the worst part of the story, the physical abuse that caused the scar that now was a prominent feature of his face.