To the Stars (Thatch #2)(59)

Chapter 14


Harlow

Present Day—Richland

FLIP EGGS; DON’T burn the eggs. Flip eggs; don’t burn the eggs—they have to be perfect. Flip eggs; then grab the toast. Coffee . . . coffee comes last, I chanted ceaselessly to myself two days later. It was the only way to keep myself composed at that moment.

I slid the spatula under the edge of one of Collin’s eggs, and after checking the bottom of it, flipped it over, then did the same with the other. Don’t leave them long; they need to be perfect. Put away the bread. Grab the toast and butter it, then check the eggs again. I took a step away from the stove and reached for the loaf of bread, but my hand stilled on it when I finally noticed the unpleasant feeling moving through my veins. He’d come in silently, but I knew he was there.

It wasn’t at all like the feeling I had when I was in a room with Knox. That kind of energy left me feeling like I was floating—like his presence, or even just the sound of his voice, was giving me the greatest kind of high. This energy that filled the room whenever Collin was near had a pit forming in my stomach. It left me shaking, and I would often find myself holding my breath—as if somehow that inane act could help me get in control of my body again. Or maybe because I was secretly hoping that it could help me disappear from his radar.

Child . . . my husband had reduced me to a chanting, frightened child.

Forcing myself to continue making Collin’s breakfast and not acknowledge his presence, I failed to stop my shaking even though my lungs were protesting the lack of oxygen.

Tie the bread off; put it up. Grab the knife; stop shaking. Stop shaking. Stop shaking. Damn it; stop shaking! Butter the toast; grab a plate. Check his eggs . . . they need to be perfect. You can’t make him mad again.

I’d woken up to my monster this morning. No. Not my monster. My new monster . . . the unpredictable one—even more terrifying than the one I’d been living with for the past two and a half years. The rest of Tuesday and all day Wednesday, he’d been strange. He’d tried to be loving and attentive, but had moments where he’d lash out, only to rein it in just as fast. He’d also told me not to work so hard. The house is already spotless, Harlow. Why are you cleaning? I can make lunch for us. Why don’t I take you out to dinner tonight; you do too much for me. Just make sure to cover up that . . . thing, he’d said as he gestured to my throat.

This morning, however, had been different:

I’d woken up with his hand covering my nose and mouth; my arms and legs were flailing before I was even fully conscious.

“Two days of spoiling you, and suddenly you just sleep through alarms?” he’d yelled.

A deep, warning growl soon followed when I’d finally connected with his stomach. It had been the wrong thing to do, but it was instinct when he was making it impossible to breathe. He’d released my face, and I’d immediately began dragging in air. But before I could take in two breaths, the back of his hand had come down across my right cheek.

A shocked cry escaped me a second before my air was cut off again, and his face was directly in front of mine. “Do not show your pain,” he’d snarled, forcing each word out in short, staccato bursts.

I’d clawed at his forearm, but he hadn’t so much as flinched. It wasn’t until I’d stopped fighting and my vision started to darken that I noticed a spark in his otherwise lifeless eyes. He’d snatched his hand back and sat up on his knees, and his chest had moved roughly up and down as I pulled in air as fast as I could—like he was having as much trouble breathing as I was. The sound of our joined ragged breathing had been uncomfortably loud in the room.

“You are selfish,” he said moments later, his lip curled up in a sneer. “You are spoiled, and you don’t deserve all that I do for you when you can barely give me anything in return.”

I’d pressed a hand to my aching chest and rolled to the side, just wanting to get away from his crazed stare, but he had flipped me back. His hand had been up, this time in a fist, but instead of releasing it on me, he relaxed the fist and flexed his hand a few times, then dropped it to his side.

“You have no idea how lucky you are that I love you, Harlow.”

I had nodded, knowing at the time that even if I could speak, I would most likely say the wrong thing.

“I want my breakfast ready when I get out of the shower. Surely you can’t screw that up, too.” With that, he’d moved away from me and let me climb off the bed.

START KEURIG. SET the plate on the table. Grab silverware and mug; go back to the table. Don’t spill his coffee.

“Now you don’t look at me?” Collin asked in a dark tone, but there was no mistaking the humor in it.

After I set the mug and fork down, I turned to look up at him. A very small part of me was happy that there was some light in his blue eyes; the rest of me just hated him. Hated that he could be the way he was—hated that he could switch from Collin to the monster so quickly, and then back again like it was nothing at all.

His eyes drifted to the kitchen table, then back to me. “Eat it,” he said simply.

I glanced at the food, just to confirm that there wasn’t something else there that I might have missed. “I don’t—you know I don’t like eggs.”

“Eat it.”

“I’m not hungry, Collin.”