Chapter Thirteen
Unraveled
Kyle
As it turned out, Kyle was pretty good at playing chef. Smiling to himself as he cleared the kitchen surfaces, he imagined Leonard’s face if his cook could see him at that moment. The two plates of cheese and onion omelet he’d created looked as good as the aroma drifting from the plates to his nose. Grabbing the dishes, he realized he was proud of himself.
His brow rose in acknowledgment. Pride wasn’t an emotion he readily experienced since he normally chose to act only in his own self-interest, but flicking off the lights and heading out into the darkened hallway, he accepted that was how he felt.
He’d cooked the meal for them because, for once, he was thinking of someone other than only himself, and there was an unexpected satisfaction in the choice. Sure, she didn’t know what he was doing. Hell, he hoped she was still asleep, but when she did wake, she’d rouse to a hot meal he’d prepared himself—a feat rarely achieved in all his adult years. Kyle had gone from restaurant goer to restaurant owner, who also had the privilege of his own chef at home. Cooking for himself wasn’t something he usually had to endure, but as it transpired, he’d actually enjoyed the task.
A gentle hum escaped his throat as he wandered along the corridor, contentedly carrying the plates of food as though they were works of fine art. Even if his little girl had stirred and was angry about waking up cuffed, he was sure the hot meal would placate her, and from there, the two of them could talk again. They could make love again. They could be happy.
So, this is domestic bliss, eh?
His lips tugged north, grateful fulfillment blooming in his chest as he passed into the main hallway. Who would have thought a man like him could find such solace in an act as simple as cooking? He’d always known Amy had altered him, but even he was struggling to recognize the version of William Kyle rounding the bottom of his staircase—the contented, more relaxed guy who was excited to present his lover with an omelet.
It should have been a pathetic offering, much less an achievement, yet he accepted he was anxious to see her no-doubt stunned reaction once he presented her with the food. It wasn’t enough to be pleased with himself; he wanted Amy to be proud of him, too. Her gratification with his achievement would be the icing on the cake and evidence that, despite their differences, he and his little girl were moving forward together.
That was all he wanted.
He was halfway up the vast, sprawling stairwell when his bubble of peace was shattered. Amy’s shrill screech pierced the calm ambiance and filled the air around him. His body responded to the noise, his heart racing as his feet stilled, and his fingers and thumbs gripped the edges of the warm plates with greater intensity.
Amy!
His feet started moving again, managing the steps seamlessly in the dark. He knew Brock Hall like the back of his hand and could move around the place in the dark with ease, but the idea that something was wrong with his little girl shook him to his core.
Rationally, he knew she had probably only woken up to find herself cuffed—her scream more a show of frustration than fear—but he didn’t know for sure. Maybe someone had managed to penetrate his fortress and was hurting her? Maybe she was in pain? Reaching the top of the staircase, his heart sped up at the distressing ideas.
Only he could inflict hurt and humiliation on her. That anybody else would even try tore him up inside.
“I’m coming, Amy.”
He didn’t know who he was talking to as he picked up his pace and rushed toward the bedroom. He barely even paused when a selection of the cutlery he was balancing on the dishes slid to the carpet below. All he could think about was his little girl—whether she was okay and what he would find when he came hurtling through the door.
So consumed was he with the urgency that he didn’t hear the movement on the stairs behind him as he turned the corner, and he didn’t sense anyone watching. That was saying something. Kyle was generally sharp and didn’t easily miss a thing, but Amy had that unique way of clouding all nonessential functions in his head, blinkering him to the only thing vital to his being— her .
That was why he never noticed Seth’s ascent behind him and why he didn’t pay attention to his senses as he rushed to come to heel.
Lowering the door handle with his elbow, he hurried into the bedroom, his gaze scanning the bed to ensure Amy was safe. The red-faced, snarling woman who met his eyes wasn’t quite the loving, purring Amy he’d hoped to find, but she was at least Amy—a version of the woman he loved—and her right wrist was still cuffed to his bedstead.
Thank God.
Relief flooded his brain. She was okay.
Everything’s okay.
“Are you all right?” Kicking the door closed, he came to rest the plates of food on the end of the bed.
Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of him, but he sensed it wasn’t fear motivating the gesture but anger.
“What the fuck?” She could barely catch her breath. “I woke up to find this!” She motioned to the metal encasing her slim wrist. “And now you bring this…” Her gaze slid to the omelets.
“Language, little girl.” He’d spoken to her about profanity before. “I made us dinner.”
“Dinner?” Her focus flitted to the window and the darkened sky waiting beyond it, conveying the obvious response—it was too late for dinner.
“Breakfast, then.” Flustered by her comeback, he pushed the loose strands of hair from his eyes. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“Like this, sir ?” Her tone was sardonic as she tugged against the handcuffs.
“Don’t push your luck.” Relief mingled with his desire to punish her sarcasm. “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
The pride that had bubbled at his efforts in the kitchen began to fade, replaced by the familiar need to tame his wildcat. God knew he only wanted to look after her, but it seemed she couldn’t help but push back at every given opportunity, riling the animal inside him. Naturally, it didn’t help that he knew she was naked under his covers. He hadn’t left any of her clothes within grasping distance when he’d left, and the cuffs ensured she hadn’t gone wandering in his absence.
“Since when did cuffing me become the right thing ?” She glared at him. “And what are those?” Her attention darted back to his culinary offerings.
“I…” He floundered, bewildered at the cutting timbre of her voice. Amy was normally such a kind soul. Perhaps the omelets weren’t the best she’d ever seen, but he hadn’t expected insults for his attempt. “I wanted us to eat something.” He pulled in a breath, surprised at how much her sneer had hurt.
“Oh.” She sighed, apparently as unenthralled by the omelet as she’d initially seemed. Shifting on the bed, it was as if she’d abruptly realized how rude she was being, and the Amy he knew and had fallen for reemerged from her furious shell. “Well, thanks.”
“Here.” He passed a plate to her, placing it on her blanket-covered lap. “I hope it’s okay.”
The insecurity bubbling within him was a new and disconcerting symptom of being so blindly in love with her, and collecting his own plate, he wondered how long the uncertainty would last. He didn’t appreciate its gnawing derides and longed to be free of its mocking tone, but somehow, the risk of losing Amy had derailed his inner confidence. It was as though he needed her on an ethereal level—required her presence to just be— and in the panic of pleasing her and fearing she might be in trouble, his self-worth had been rocked to its core.
“Erm, sir.” She cleared her throat. “I am hungry, and I appreciate the thought, but how am I supposed to eat like this?” Her bound wrist shook in his fetters, drawing his attention back to her cuff.
“You’ll manage with your left hand.” Any semblance of him that wanted to release her hand had waned with her snide remarks. “You have cutlery, don’t you?”
Glancing down at the plush knife and fork on his plate, the appetite that had plagued him all but vanished as he perched on the opposite side of the bed from her. The cutlery set had cost him a fortune, the knives better suited to ripping through steak than egg, but he’d chosen them intentionally—he wanted the best for her.
He always wanted that.
“Actually, no, I don’t have a knife or a fork.” She almost laughed as he glanced back at her plate. “If you wanted me to eat from the floor, sir, then you’ll definitely have to uncuff me.”
“No, I…” A crease appeared in his brow as the memory of dropping silverware crashed through his mind. It must have been Amy’s tableware that hit the carpet on his way in there. “I dropped them. Wait there, I’ll get them for you.”
Placing down his plate, he rose from the bed. The omelet would probably be frozen by the time he got to eat it, the plummeting temperature of the food the latest reason his hunger had ebbed. The idea of cooking for her, which had once seemed like such an alluring gesture, had unraveled to be nothing more than the congealed egg waiting on their plates—cold and unappealing.
“No, wait!” She yanked harder at her cuff that time, nearly spilling the plate from her lap as she rose to her feet. “Don’t go!”
“They’re out there.” He nodded toward the door, pulling it open to reveal a glimmer of the hall outside. “I won’t be a minute.”
Striding into the dark passageway, he paused to catch his breath. It was astonishing how quickly the dynamic between them, which he’d worked so hard to enforce, had crumbled. She’d only referred to him as sir once or twice since he’d walked in with the food, and he was pretty sure she’d wielded the word ironically when she had. Even worse, he’d barely even moved to correct her.
It was all falling apart, and he couldn’t seem to get a grip on himself.
What’s wrong with me?
The Kyle he knew wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting her sass. He’d have had her flung facefirst over the bed and tanned her pretty backside for her impertinence, but all he’d wanted to do was contract at her criticism.
Feeling for the wall with his left hand, he considered flicking on the light to help him find where he’d dropped her cutlery, but he didn’t have the will. There were various antique-looking mirrors along the way in the corridor, and the idea of catching sight of himself in one of them was suddenly demoralizing. He couldn’t face the concept of seeing himself, of looking into his sad eyes and knowing that something inside him was irrevocably altered, knowing that she’d been able to command those changes in him, and there was apparently nothing he could do to rectify things.
“Shit!”
Pulling in a breath, the sense of impotency was crippling. It was something he wasn’t used to feeling. Stumbling along the corridor, he hoped to God, it would soon pass.
“Get a fucking grip.”
His temple throbbed with the urgency lingering in his tone, and glancing back, he wished he’d closed the door behind him. The last thing he needed was for Amy to realize how rapidly he appeared to be losing the plot. If he had any chance of clawing back his authority—and he had to believe he did—then she couldn’t recognize the change in him. She couldn’t realize the man she’d fallen for was losing control.
“That can never happen.”
He had to get himself together—and fast.