Chapter Four
“Be on your best behavior, sugar,” Cal presses to my back, and my skin crawls with the contact.
I dip my head in a nod, not saying a word. I know if I do, my tone will get me into trouble. It’s becoming harder and harder every day to mind myself, my voice, my expressions, but I know if I give into those, I’ll pay for it later.
His hand brushes my hair back, fingertips grazing my neck, and I have to hold my breath as he presses his lips to my skin.
Thankfully, the oven timer buzzes loudly, giving me an excuse to put the kitchen island between us.
Silas will be here any minute, and that thought alone is enough to push away the disgust making my stomach churn and replace it with something I can’t quite recognize.
I avoid men. I have for the past five years, though it was never like that, not until I married Calvin Scott.
I was an idiot; I should have seen the red flags with all the love bombing he did in the first six months of our relationship.
We got married quickly, and the moment that ring was on my finger, he changed.
No, he didn’t change; he just took off the mask.
Hindsight is a bitch, if I had really been looking, then I would have seen exactly who he was. Now I’m stuck with no way out.
No friends.
No family.
It is just me.
And I will survive like I always do.
I am the only person I can trust, my own hero, the only person I can depend on.
Pulling the roast chicken from the oven, I place it on the counter to sit before I carve it and go back to work at the stove, preparing the vegetables and potatoes to serve alongside.
I never liked to cook before Cal, but he demanded home-cooked meals three times a day, and in the beginning, I was terrible at it.
Couldn’t figure out timings or measurements, and the scoldings that came with it forced me to do better.
Now I enjoy it. I like cooking; it gives me something to do.
I fear if I didn’t, I’d go mad, and it often feels I’m on the edge of a mental breakdown.
But cooking keeps me from tipping over. It sounds ridiculous, even to my own ears, but other than Ginger, my red roan Quarter Horse, and this, it’s all I have.
I don’t have my own bank account or a car that isn’t limited, or even my own fucking email address.
No cell phone to endlessly scroll through social media or read.
I have books, but they’re chosen by Cal, and nothing on those shelves makes me want to pick them.
Cal controls every aspect of my life, from the clothes I wear to the way I have my hair, but cooking, that’s all me.
Sure, it started as something he forced, but I took it and molded it to be what I wanted it to be.
If I’m stuck here for the rest of my life, I may as well find something that makes me happy.
I feel Cal watching me as I prepare dinner, his eyes burning into the back of my skull. Silas will be a welcome distraction, if only for a few hours tonight.
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth remembering him last night, how he came to me with a drink after Cal lost his temper at me again.
It felt ridiculous to cry. Why would I cry when I am so used to this?
But most of the time, I physically cannot stop it.
It’s a boiling pot; it just keeps rising and I have no control when it all spills over.
He handed me the glass, his fingers brushing mine, and I’d thrown it back and made an idiot of myself as the hard whiskey burned all the way down. The chuckle that followed… it was as warm as the drink, rich and deep, and it made my skin prickle in response.
Something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
It twisted me up in a way I haven’t been able to shake since, and that’s a very dangerous thing to feel when living with a man like Cal.
A gentle knock at the door has Cal’s attention turning away from me, and I release the breath I was holding, relaxing a touch with him out of the room.
I hear his voice from the door, and a second later, Silas responds, his voice like his laugh, deep and warm, a comforting sound that in any other circumstance I would chase just to keep hearing it.
“Juni,” Cal’s voice sounds from the kitchen door, and I look over my shoulder, eyes colliding with ones the color of molten gold.
Silas Knight is beautiful, and it catches me off guard every time I get a glimpse of him.
Dark hair, left slightly longer than what I’ve seen around here, giving it a just rolled out of bed look, tousled and curling at the ends at the nape of his neck.
A thick, groomed beard surrounds his mouth and a nose that looks like it might have been broken once before, a little ridge on the bridge that I had wanted to trace with my fingers.
Stern brows sit above those captivating eyes, like the whiskey in the glass he gave me the night before.
He’s tall, towering over me and even Cal.
Broad shoulders, thick arms and thighs that stretch out the denim of his Wranglers.
He is imposing, dominant, but in a quiet, unassuming way.
There’s a story behind his eyes; one he guards well.
I’m good at reading people: the way they hold themselves, how they speak.
I have to be to survive Calvin, but I can’t get a read on Silas.
His book is sealed shut, and I doubt I’ll ever get the opportunity to open it to explore the pages.
“Fix Silas here a drink, would you?” He says it like a question, but I know it’s a demand, “I’ve got to make a call.”
“Sure,” I answer obediently, moving to the cupboard to reach for a glass as I listen to Cal’s steps retreat and then the door close behind him.
With his absence, the air in the kitchen seems to grow thinner, or maybe that’s because Silas is now behind me, reaching above my head to get the glass I was struggling to put my fingers around.
“Here,” I feel the vibration of his voice against my spine, and everything in me tightens. This is wrong. So wrong. I should not be reacting to this man in this way. I barely know him, and if Cal realizes, I won’t just have to endure his yelling…
“Thanks,” I squeak, moving out of his orbit. “What would you like?”
“Water is fine,” he assures me.
“Not whiskey? We have plenty.”
“I’m good. Water, please.”
I pull the jug of water from the fridge and fill his glass before I pass it over.
“Smells good in here,” he leans his hip on the island, eyes pinning me to the spot. He’s so damn intense, I can feel myself shrinking just to get away from it.
“Thank you,” I turn back to the stove and switch off the burners.
“Can I help with anything?”
“No, no,” I refuse, “You’re fine. You can go take a seat if you like.”
My voice is rushing from me, words pulling together, and I can feel my heart pounding so damn hard inside my chest I wonder if he can hear it. It batters against my rib cage and thumps in my throat.
Taking the boiling pot to the sink, I get the colander in place and pour, but my palms are damp with my nerves, and my hands shake so tipping the water is sloppy. Scalding water splashes out and lands against the back of my hand; the burn is immediate.
“Shit!” I cry out, dropping the entire pot of vegetables into the sink with a crash.
I don’t hear Silas move, don’t see it either. One minute he’s on the other side of the room, the next he’s beside me, his fingers curled around my wrist as he switches on the cold water and places my hand beneath it.
The back of my hand is bright red, already blistering, and the cold water is only adding to the pain.
“No, you need to keep it under,” Silas mutters, his hand holding firm to keep my hand beneath the water when I try to pull away from it. “Are you okay?”
I tilt my chin toward him, “No.”
He flicks his gold eyes to me, so much understanding there even though I haven’t said a single other word.
“Let me help.” He rasps.
“You don’t know me,” I swallow, looking away and to his fingers circled around my wrist. It’s soft and yet firm enough to keep me from moving, the calluses scratching on my skin.
“I don’t need to know you, Juni,” his voice is low.
“Why?”
“I’ve known men like Cal before; I know what they’re capable of. No one should be subjected to that type of person.”
“Then why are you still here?” I ask, “You can leave any time you want.”
“Not sure I could even if I wanted to,” he sighs. “How does that feel?”
The burn is still stinging, my entire hand throbbing with it, but I lie and say, “It’s fine now. I have some burn cream.”
Neither of us moves though, his proximity leaving my body flushed and my heart racing. He smells like leather and citrus, intoxicating enough that I want to bury my face into his neck and inhale, which is absolutely insane.
“What is going on here!?” Cal’s voice breaks us apart, and my wide eyes snap to him standing in the doorway, his face a mask of fury, his body practically vibrating.
“I—I,” I stammer, guilt and fear and anxiety pushing a lump into my throat.
“She spilled some hot water on her hand,” Silas says cooly, taking my hand like my husband isn’t still standing there. “Burned herself pretty badly. You should go grab the first-aid kit.”
His cold eyes narrow and a muscle twitches in his jaw, “Come here, Juni.”
Silas releases me when I pull my hand from his and cross the room to Cal, steps weighed down with lead. He’s far less gentle when he snatches up my wrist and takes a look at the blisters on my hand, the skin red raw and swelling.
He tuts impatiently, “This will leave a scar.”
Imperfection. Flaw.
“Go sort that,” he orders.
“Yes, Cal.”
The air in the kitchen switches; I feel it in my very bones.
Down deep a stirring is starting. I move by Cal toward the bathroom on this floor where I keep my first-aid kit, but before I round the corner, I look back at Silas.
His eyes are burning, the gold there swirling and darkening.
He isn’t looking at me though; he’s looking at Cal and he looks like he wants to kill him.
My gut twists.
I don’t deserve that kind of response from him.
Rushing to the bathroom, I shut and lock the door before I sink to the floor and cry.