36. Chapter 36
The fish smells awful in a way that all fish does whether it is good or not. Like lake water and something eerily close to a metal of sorts. The small space around us doesn’t help either, though I have found something else disturbing when we returned from fishing.
The cabin has quit feeling foreign.
Nothing about it has changed; same rough wood walls, same mismatched cabinets, same narrow windows that frame the forest. The only thing within this space that has, is me. Sort of. Maybe.
Or maybe I’ve stopped bracing for the impact long enough to just accept the details. Some of which I don’t mind all that much.
My eyes flick to Alex from where I stand leaning back against the counter.
The knife he’s chosen is sharp and he works with practiced precision, movements efficient without being rushed.
There isn’t any wasted motion and he certainly doesn’t fumble.
I wonder if he wields the knife when he murders the same way?
The fish yields easily under his hands, and I try not to read too much into the fact that he looks very comfortable slicing things up into little pieces.
“You’re staring again,” he hums without looking up.
“I’m observing,” I correct. “You’d hate staring, that is awfully inefficient.”
A faint huff of amusement escapes him, and he points to me playfully with the knife. “That is fair.”
I grin and shift closer, grabbing the cutting board he slides my way. The counter is narrow enough that our hips brush when we pass each other. The contact is brief, accidental maybe, yet my body registers it instantly. A quiet awareness blooming under my skin that I try to ignore.
“I’ll season,” I bark, attempting to do other things besides hyper-focusing on each touch.
I reach for the small collection of spices he’s lined up on the counter, nearly snorting when I find them arranged in alphabetical order.
Peeking over my shoulder, I make sure he’s more focused on the weapon in his hands and quickly reorder the spices.
It’s a small act of defiance, but it feels fucking phenomenal.
“Do you cook?” He asks after I’ve gathered what I’ve needed.
“I survive and there’s some overlap, I suppose.”
I sprinkle salt, then pepper, then hesitate before adding just a bit of lemon zest. The scent brightens immediately, and I close my eyes for a second just to breathe it in. When I open my eyes I find Alex watching me.
“When did you learn?” He asks.
“Well, I mean I guess you learn fast when wasting food means going hungry. Cooked food lasts longer than raw if you don’t have a freezer.” I murmur, to which he only nods and files it away in that big brain of his.
We continue to work in relative silence for a few minutes, the quiet filled with small, domestic sounds; the sizzle of oil in the pan, the soft scrape of a knife against wood, and the groan of the cabin settling around us.
It feels intimate.
Not the sexual kind of intimacy both of us know a little too well, but the real one. The one that forms bonds and ties that you can’t shake no matter how hard you pick at the knots that form.
Reaching for a pan, I stretch across the counter without thinking, my fingers brushing his wrist. I should curse myself for the fleeting contact, but I don’t pull away immediately, nor does he.
I let the heat from that touch pool low in my stomach.
Then I realize how bazar it is to get all hot and bothered by touch and yank my hand away.
“This is weird,” I mutter, stepping back to the stove.
“What is?”
“Cooking with you,” I admit. “Feels like I’m in the wrong universe.”
He snorts, considering it. “You’re not.”
“You sure about that?” I grin to him over my shoulder.
“Yes, I’m certain.” He smirks back.
I roll my eyes and soon we are plating the fish, sitting down at the small table across from each other. The light outside has softened, late afternoon slipping toward evening where shadows crawl from the trees to greet everything it would never normally touch under the sun’s protection.
The fish is good, and I mean really good. I groan softly as I cut into the tender meat before forking up the rice Alexander had whipped up for one of the sides.
“Acceptable?” He muses, studying me.
“Annoyingly so. It’s sort of unfair that you’re a decent cook too.” I mutter into the napkin I use to cover my mouth while chewing.
“How so?” He smirks.
“Because then I have to reconcile the fact that you’re a multifaceted murderer.” I mutter.
He snorts into his wine and shakes his head. “That was never in question.”
“For me, it was,” I counter.
He rolls his eyes, unbothered by my subtle jab. So, I decide to send another one his way just for the hell of it. Why? I don’t fucking now. Maybe to make up for the too good of time we’ve had today.
“You know I’m not under any illusion that this changes who you are.”
He sighs, looking up to me from his plate, but I keep going.
“I don’t think you’re secretly good or misunderstood. Or one breakthrough away from whatever version of you people like better.”
I wait for his reply, feeling a little self-satisfied up until the moment he smirks. I blink at that.
“Good.”
“Good?” I frown.
“Good.” He reiterates.
My brows furrow. “Well, if it’s good, then—then I think you’re dangerously calculated and capable of things I don’t want to think about too hard.”
He doesn’t bother to interrupt.
“And somehow, I don’t know if that’s a dealbreaker anymore. And that really fucks with my head, about as much as you did in that mirrored room and every moment after.”
Boy, that is not where I thought that barb was going.
The silence that follows my admission is heavy. My jaw tightening at the way the truth had slipped past my teeth without my express permission. It’s a real pain in the ass when the filter between the brain and tongue forgets to do its job and filter.
“You’re not obligated to be comfortable with it,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You’re allowed to leave,” he adds.
I scoff. “You say that like it’s true. I seem to distinctly remember you chasing me down.”
“It is true,” he sits his fork down. “The real question is whether you want to.”
I cluck my tongue against the roof of my mouth, considering that before I open my mouth. Because he does seem to have a habit of beating me at my own game. Frequently.
I choose to go with ignoring the topic of me leaving, because I don’t particularly like the answer that lives inside my head at the thought of it.
“I don’t think you can change.”
“I don’t want to,” he answers immediately. Letting me change the topic back to the one I originally started.
“I figured not,” I murmur.
I finish and stand, clearing the table. Needing motion to settle the buzz that has taken root under my skin. He joins me without being asked, taking plates from my hands when they stack too high.
And right back to domesticity we return.
At the sink, I wash while he dries. Our movements synch without discussion as we pass dishes back and forth in an unspoken rhythm. At several points he goes out of his way to touch me, to stoke that warmth inside of me he only seems to wield, but I don’t comment on it.
Neither does he, thankfully.
When we’re done, we stand there for a long moment, close but not touching. The space between charged with everything we’ve left unsaid at that table. I sigh, reaching out and gently brush my finger to his own, letting my mind ponder the mess of it.
I realize I don’t need him to be better, I just need him to be honest.
And he has been despite how hard I’ve tried to back him into a corner that gives him the opportunity not to be. It’s sort of a punch straight to the gut to realize that it is enough. That he is enough.
Releasing his fingers, I turn and leave the kitchen.
The darkness in him isn’t fading. It never will.
But I’m not exactly running from it anymore either, am I?