Unwillfully Wed to My Valentine (Fire at Will #1)

Chapter Nine

? ? ?

Bags, burritos, and broken, broken boys.

Amber

A knock sounds on my door while I’m quite busy lying in my bed and staring at the shadows that the faux firelight flickers across the ceiling. I don’t know what time it is. All I know is that what happened three nights ago won’t leave my head.

I haven’t seen Liam since. I’ve barely moved since.

Liam’s tears haunt me, just like they always have. Watching him break is the worst thing in the world.

Knowing I broke him this time…

I feel like a monster.

I don’t know how he can exist so constantly without a scrap of remorse, then experience agony at such a blinding level without any warning. I can’t count how many times he shattered while we were growing up, how many times I talked him through stuff, yanked him off precipice after precipice.

It was exhausting.

He was exhausting.

I’m not able to handle the stress anymore. I don’t have the resistance, or the patience, anymore. If I had to grow up and deal with things on my own, why doesn’t he?

My head tilts toward the door when a louder knock pulls me from the thoughts I’ve been struggling with all day.

I hate how he gets in my head.

He’s just so… good at commanding attention.

Without my answering, the door cracks open, and he peeks inside.

Our eyes lock.

His gaze drops, then—silently—he sticks a brown paper bag inside my room, purple logo front and center. Lowering it to the ground, he says, “There was a meeting today. I had it catered.”

I look at the bag. I lift my attention toward the darkness of his hair. “You had Taco Bell cater a meeting?”

“I normally do.”

“Are you sure you’re a billionaire CEO?”

“Everyone loves Taco Bell.”

I roll onto my side, facing away from the door. “That is not true.”

“Anyone who doesn’t love Taco Bell is stupid.”

“Or celiac.”

Silence. Pondering silence. Then, so softly, “I’ll call my investors and ask them to put some money toward gluten-free tortillas.”

Ugh. He’s being a cutie, not an evil-ie right now. I don’t know if my system can take the guilt. I’m so tired. Even though I’ve done absolutely nothing today other than lie here and maladaptive daydream scenes for the story I could be writing.

“Bambi,” he murmurs, still soft.

“What?” I ask.

“May I come in?”

I sigh. “I didn’t know villains asked permission for things like that.”

The door opens fully, he picks up the bag of Taco Bell, he enters, he shuts the door behind him.

In the enclosure , my lungs starve.

With his every step closer, my heart thumps in my throat.

Upon reaching me, he opens the bag and sets a burrito on my stomach, then he sits, shifting the gravity of my mattress. “Have you stood up today?” he asks.

“Why do you ask?” Moist heat from the wrapped burrito soaks through my camisole.

“Bonnet.” He directs his chin at my head, where a black silk bonnet protects my curls. His attention lowers. “Jammies.” He slips out of his shoe and pulls his leg to his chest, hugging it. “I wish they were pink…and that you had a teddy bear.”

I stare at him. Let long moments pass. Sigh without rolling my eyes. “Well, I could always borrow yours.”

Heat warms his cheeks as he takes my hand in his, tracing my fingers. “I’m not sure I could handle that… My big clothes, baggy on your little body, while you cuddle a bear that smells like me…”

I shudder, hating the picture. It makes me sound like a toddler. Pulling my hand out of his mindless caresses, I reach for the burrito, unwrap it. A Beefy 5-Layer. After all these years, he’s remembered my order. I glance at the clock. One. It’s barely one. “Are you home early?”

“I told my assistant I had a heartache and left.” Unprompted, Liam rests his head on my thigh and closes his eyes. “I’ve been struggling to process what happened three days ago.”

Dread rises in my chest, so I bite into my burrito, quelling the panic with glorious cheesy goodness. Some girls bury their complicated feelings in ice cream; I prefer burritos.

“Please tell me you’ve eaten in the past three days,” he says.

“Once,” I mumble, take another bite. “Or twice.”

His eyes close, pain scrunches his brow, and he grips my thigh. “I’m sorry.”

I…stop eating. I stare at him, ignoring how tight he’s holding onto me. Liam doesn’t apologize. I know this. I know this because hundreds of times, I told him to, and he never—ever—would. I used to think he was too embarrassed to admit he was wrong. After time and distance, it became clear he just never actually believed he was wrong.

His face turns, against my leg, and my muscles flex as he… kisses.

Then, he repeats the apology. “I’m sorry I haven’t taken care of you the past few days.” He noses my flesh, nuzzling against my soft flannel pants. “I was angry. Then I was in pain. Now I’m just scared. If you don’t trust me, I don’t know what to do. If you have always hated being around me, I don’t know how to fix that—I don’t know why you never told me. I’m trying, Bambi. I’m trying my best. I don’t mean to accuse you, but the more and more I think about it, the more and more it feels like you’re the one who didn’t communicate with me. I need you to tell me when I go too far. I need you to say you aren’t joking anymore. I want you forever. I want you to be happy, sad, angry, everything, with me, forever . I want you to like who I am and know who I am. I want you to believe me when I say how much I care about you, even though I am…the way that I am. Can we, please, create a system that works for us?”

It takes pain for me to realize I’ve stopped breathing, as though I’m afraid of breaking whatever is happening right now.

Liam just kissed my thigh. Liam .

That’s…so very weird for Liam.

He’s always been kind of touchy with me. That’s nothing new. But it’s usually less touchy feely and more admiring . He’d play with my hands and note how small they were, how slender my fingers, how precisely shaped my nails. He’d hover around me while I did anything stationary, spending hours arranging my every curl before sitting and just…staring.

If he could put me in a stand, he would. He’d dust me daily and keep me mint.

But, see, Liam’s cute-obsessed weird. He’s not pervy weird, or uncomfortable weird.

There’s nothing in him that says creepy . Even though he openly considers me to be his doll, not a single one of the outfits he selected for me catered to the male gaze or grossed me out.

Liam’s a lot of things.

Evil among them, mind you.

But he is not unsafe.

“Liam,” I whisper.

He kisses my thigh again before looking at me, eyes half-lidded, cheek against me, grip ever strong.

Do you like like me?

The question sticks in my throat. I can’t bring myself to say it. It’s insanity. I don’t know if Liam is even capable of like liking someone. I hardly believe I am, so why would he be? He’s alien, and I’m at least mostly human.

My burrito is getting cold.

I nibble it, look elsewhere, try not to use normal logic on someone like Liam . “If you really cared about me—”

He grabs the Taco Bell bag, fishes out another burrito, and sets it in my lap. “I’d have gotten you a Burrito Supreme, too? With nacho sauce added?” His head plops back down, beside the burrito. “I am not joking, or teasing, or tormenting. I am choosing my words in a careful way that I reserve for other people, not you. I care about you. I have never let myself assume we were friends. I have always understood that I was a burden on you, and most everyone else. But you are precious to me. I enjoy life more with you. And, now, I have things of worth to offer you, as compensation for dealing with me.”

“Like health insurance?” I ask, gently.

He nods; my pant leg bunches beneath his head. “Exactly.” His eyes close. “I am begging you to believe my sincerity. Of everyone in this world, only to you would I concede control.”

That is definitely going in my book…which I mysteriously have regained motivation to work on.

I am not a fan of the way Liam’s mood affects mine. I really hate feeling like I’ve done something wrong. It’s a side effect of growing up in my home, around so much dissonance. When peace is so fleeting, you learn to live without it. You learn to put stock in other markets—like being correct, doing the right thing, following the rules, even if you’re the only one who does.

“I can’t be that fun to torment,” I mutter into the final bite of my first burrito. Crumpling the wrapper, I toss it across the room, where it rolls into my desk chair. “You can afford a whole zoo of dolls, ones that would listen without question for the right price, ones that would pose in whatever outfits you give them, ones that wouldn’t get mad at you over stupid things.”

“I quite like the struggle, though. It makes something feel almost real between us.”

“You could tell them to be disagreeable.”

“I like the part where I don’t have to tell you to.”

I sigh, munching my Supreme. “You’re so messed up.”

He hums, lashes fluttering closed, thumb rubbing the outside of my thigh in steady caresses. “Oh yes, my unwillingness to keep a zoo of women who do whatever I tell them to for money is a very messed-up character trait. I’d work on it in therapy…but…”

I poke his nose. “You have got to stop using therapy as a joke.”

“As soon as it stops being funny, I’ll consider it.”

Finishing my burrito, I send the wrapper to live with the other one on the floor, then—in a bout of mental illness—I run my fingers through Liam’s silky dark hair.

In the right lighting, which my room does graciously possess, he’s a gothic painting. All harsh shades and strong lines. A touch of ethereal. A sprinkle of horror.

Everything I once let myself love, back in the days that came with him .

“Recite your thoughts,” he murmurs.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

His midnight eyes open, find me, linger. “Your clothing should be here tomorrow.” His hand lifts, frames my cheek. “I never want to see you in beige again.”

“Unfortunately, I dislike perception, and beige works like Disney’s Go Away Green. Everyone sees the short curly-headed blonde girl in frills. Fewer people make note of her in beige capris.”

“But,” he begins, “it’s cloak weather. And I bought you a cloak. To conceal your dagger.” His touch slips away as he rolls to face the ceiling. “I have this recurring dream where I’m running from you in a moonlit land. The white tendrils of light catch your hair moments before hot pain swells in my chest, crushing the air from my lungs. As my consciousness fades, you lay me down and smile sweetly before you close my eyes.”

Um.

So, yeah. Therapy? We should really get this guy back in therapy.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I have this recurring dream where I’m a bag of chips.”

Liam’s brow furrows.

“I’m on a shelf, in a store, surrounded by other chips just like me. One by one, people come by and get their chips until the shelf starts to get empty. Once I’m one of the last bags, I begin to wonder if there’s something wrong with me. If the people can tell I’m not salted enough, or if I have too many seasonings, or if my bag has more air and less actual chips than the other bags. Because, I mean, come on . Who doesn’t like chips?”

“You have a recurring dream. Which is entirely the opening of The Tangerine Bear ?” he asks.

I scoff, pull my hand out of his hair, and cross my arms. “Yeah, so? You have a dream where I kill you, so I don’t think you have a point.”

“I have a point.”

“Do enlighten me, then.”

“I’d pick you.” He reaches for my hand, unravels it from my other arm, returns it solidly to his hair, and lets a smile soften his lips. “I know I would.”

Stillness sweeps in, settling in my chest like something akin to peace. I ask, “How can you know for sure?”

“Because,” he says as his eyes close, “I already have.”