Tragic Beauty (Beauty & The Darkness #1)(55)

A time appears, floating through my mind. A time when I was bound and naked, lying on a cowhide rug with a fresh brand on my hip. He’d crouched down over me and run his fingers over the marks I’d gotten from giving myself to another man first, and breaking my word to him. The beast said he would’ve taken care of me, that he would’ve made it good for me, but I wonder if that’s a trick. So hard, though. So hard to know.

The pain is so strong inside me, I clench my teeth and push him from my thoughts. Instead, I think of green eyes, only they’re not as clear as they used to be. The details not as sharp. But that’s what time does. It takes things from you.

But I close my eyes and take myself there, to that night. That first moment on the freeway, that moment when he came back for me, the playing in the pool, the running through the woods…all of it. It’s there now, I can see it, but it’s blurry, like looking through wax paper. Even the horses, and Ben, and my old house. So many little details that seem to have disappeared. And that’s how I fall asleep. Searching for those details.

I wake to the sound of the door opening. I’m thrown off for a second, because I didn’t hear the turn of the lock, but I remember now, I’m not locked in.

Not where I’m supposed to be.

Not where I’m supposed to be.

I scramble to my feet when I hear him say, “Kitchen.” Then he’s gone.

My pulse beats heavy in my ears, but slowly starts to settle. As much as it can anyway. This is all so new. So new. I knew the routine before. There was safety in that. I knew what to expect. But I don’t know this. I don’t know what’s coming.

I use the bathroom quick, grateful my knees are better today, then slip on the shirt and quickly make my way down the hall, past the living room and into the kitchen.

I stop when I turn the corner and see him, standing at the big window, hands in his pockets, staring out at the mountains.

I move quietly to the island and wait.

By the way his head moves ever so slightly, I know he’s aware of me. He stands there, his hair down today. My eyes linger on it, on the way it hides his face, but I look away as soon as he talks.

“You’ll make a grocery list,” he says, still staring out the window. “I’m sure you did all the cooking back home, so assume you know how to cook. If you need a cookbook, you’ll find a few in one of these cabinets. You can make what you want, but no fish and I’m allergic to peanuts. Not deathly allergic, so don’t get any ideas. All it’ll do is scratch up my throat a bit and make me uglier than I already am.”

He sounds more man than beast again, and I feel that strange feeling running through me, stronger than ever. It’s a feeling that makes me hurt, a feeling that has me wanting to go to him. To comfort him, like one might want to comfort a wounded wolf, even though you know he’d just as soon kill you as let you help him.

So I stay where I am, listening to him talk, the somber tone of his voice slicing through me like a knife.

“You don’t need to put things like soap, shampoo, those sort of things,” he goes on. “I order those in bulk online. Same with paper towels, toilet paper, all that.”

So weird, hearing him talk about things like this. About real life things. Day to day things. Things that a normal married couple might talk about.

But we’re not normal.

Not even close.

“I’ll be in my office,” he says, turning to leave. “Bring me the list when you’re done and I’ll send Red off.”

I’m left there, looking after him, looking at the way his shoulders hang heavy, the way his head hangs down. That strange feeling’s taking over. I should hate him. I should hate him with every part of me. And some of me does. But there’s a part of me that’s feeling weird things. Painful things. Things I don’t know how to make sense of. Not after all he’s done to me.

I stare around at the empty kitchen.

The kitchen he built for me.

It takes some searching but I find a drawer with a pen and a notepad—a notepad that’s never been used. So strange. It’s like he thought of everything. There are dishes, serving platters, silverware, cooking pans, and those cookbooks he mentioned. Anything and everything one might need in a kitchen. Everything but the food. There’s nothing but bread.

It takes me a good part of the morning, but I sit down at the dining table and make a list. A long list. Because I like to cook. That was something I got from Helen. She loved cooking, and it spread to me. Part of me wanted to just put down a couple of things, like frozen pizza and corn dogs, and call it good—my own little way of saying ‘fuck you’, I guess. But I know that won’t help things. If I’m going to survive, I need to be smart. I need to find ways to get by—ways to make my own little bits of light in the darkness he’s got me locked up in. And cooking will get me by. Especially after living on bread and water for so long. I decide then that maybe reading some of those books in that glass room might not be so bad either. But I know I can’t get too attached. I can’t get to liking it too much, because in the blink of an eye, he could take it all away.

But for now, I’ll take what I can get.

I look at my list, going over everything I’ve got down, all the things I’m thinking I’ll make. But it’s not for him, I tell myself. It’s for me. I’m not making these things for him, even though he’s been living off bread and water, same as me. It’s not for him. It’s not.