Chapter 5 #3
He shakes his head, water dripping from the waves in his light-brown hair. His honey eyes take me in, photographing the image of us in each other’s arms, relishing in our soft moment together.
“I don’t,” he confirms.
His head lowers in the slightest, the only indication that he’s about to capture my lips. A split second later, I’m melting in his arms like the stupid girl I am.
His hands stay at my waist, holding me close to him, my breasts against his warm skin. He doesn’t seek anything sexual, only the touch of two people who used to be in love.
We’re both searching for something we don’t have anymore. For a life we could have had and that he threw away.
When we separate, I swallow back the tears. I feel better than before the shower. I know he was right; I was coming down from the high he gave me.
“How I survived four years without you is a mystery.” His breath fans over my face, and something hits me.
It doesn’t smell of alcohol.
At all.
I fall flat on my feet.
He didn’t taste like someone who’s been drinking. Now that I think of it, before the shower, he didn’t smell of alcohol either.
“You’re not drunk.” I don’t need to ask. It’s obvious he’s not.
His brow furrows slightly, like he’s unsure how he should react. Honesty wins. “No, I’m not drunk.”
“But when you called…”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“Then why did you? You only call when you’ve had too many drinks.”
He pauses, his eyes roaming over my face, a look of regret shadowing the gold in them.
“Every time I called, you wanted to believe I’d been drinking.
I went along with it. If you thought I was drunk, that I was just some desperate guy calling his ex after too many beers…
if you felt sorry for me, then you’d stay on the phone. ”
I try to step away, but he tightens his grip on my waist. “You abused my compassion,” I grit out.
“I was desperate, Ella. Desperation makes you do stupid things.”
“I fucking know that. I’m the stupid girl who begged you to stay when you broke up with her. That’s desperation. You…you’re just some dude who can’t put up with his mistakes.”
“Ella—”
I almost slip when I finally manage to get out of his hold—or when he lets me—but I refuse his helpful hand as I step out of the shower.
I grab my plush towel and flip around. “We agreed. A shower and you’re out. The shower is over.”
I’m in my walk-in closet when I hear the bathroom door open and close. Then it’s my bedroom door.
I walk out, wearing an oversized Christmas sweater and some new sleeping shorts. I check the bathroom, perfectly knowing he won’t be there.
Standing in the middle of my bedroom, I look at the empty space.
He’s gone.
He did what I asked. He respected my wishes.
Then why do I feel like someone just ripped my heart out and made me watch as they stomped on it?
Why does my throat tighten and eyes water?
The headache from earlier comes back tenfold. It pounds in my head to the rhythm of regret. I let him in my life again. I picked up the phone, talked to him. I let him fuck me, let him put me on my knees and use me.
I played the game and I lost.
That’s what seeing Chris feels like. He plans it all out to get what he wants, hides behind that image of perfection to trick you into trusting him. And then he goes for the kill.
I press my palm against my forehead. I need headache tablets.
I huff to myself, biting my lip as I swallow back tears. I have nothing in my bathroom cabinet, but I think some of the house personnel keep medicine in a kitchen drawer.
Padding along the long hallway that links my wing to the grand staircase, the shaking comes back. How could I let him do this to me? Why did I let him back in?
This is going to cost me.
I don’t turn on any of the reception lights.
I can find my way to the kitchen in the dark, but to my surprise I don’t have to.
From the stairs, I can see that the light is on.
It’s pitch-black outside. I haven’t checked the time since Chris showed up in my room.
Maybe it’s four or five a.m. and the maid is already up.
But it’s not the maid I find in the kitchen, facing the counter with their back to the door.
“What the hell is going on?”
Chris looks up, twisting his head to see me while he keeps at his activity.
“Hey, Sweets.”
I rub my eyes, wondering if I dreamed tonight’s situation and I’m still asleep. “What are you still doing here?” There’s no poison in my voice, no blame, only relief that he didn’t listen and decided to stay.
“You don’t think I didn’t hear your stomach rumbling the whole night, do you?” A teasing smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Two slices of Emmental, cranberry sauce, and lettuce. That’s still your favorite Christmas sandwich, isn’t it? With a lot of vegan mayo, of course.”
I take a minute to pick up my jaw off the floor, especially when he finally turns around holding a plate with a sandwich cut in half on it.
“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “It’s rye bread. I know it’s the only bread you eat.”
I gulp the emotions down. “Chris…”
“Just take it. You know I won’t be able to go home until I know you’re fed, safe, and tucked in bed.” He pauses, his smile widening. “I already made sure you were thoroughly fucked.”
I lick my lips, searching for something to say. And I find exactly what I should say.
Chris, you need to go home right now.
I don’t want you to take care of me. It’ll only hurt more when you leave.
We are not together anymore. It’s not your job to feed me.
I simply choose not to say them.
Because I don’t want him to leave.
I take the plate, and I’m about to sit down when he grabs my hand. “Let’s watch a movie.”
I let him gather some candy canes, popcorn, and chocolates on a platter—moving around my kitchen like he’s lived here his entire life—and we both make our way to the media room in silence.
For lack of saying anything smart, I look at the platter. “I thought you hated candy canes.”
“I do. Might as well eat toothpaste. But I know a silly girl who loves them.” He winks at me as we enter the media room.
He sits down on one of the many extra-large sofas while I awkwardly stand next to him, my plate in my hand. For a second, I wonder again who this house belongs to as he lays back, his long legs resting in front of him, and puts the platter near him.
He taps the space next to him. “You might not like me, but you can’t resist Home Alone, can you?”
He doesn’t even look at me as he grabs the remote. I look around the room. My mom had it decorated because she knows I’ll be watching a movie alone in here tomorrow afternoon when they’re all gone.
There’s a tree in the corner of the back wall, some fake presents around it wrapped in golden foil with red ribbons. There are Christmas lights around the room, and I have access to any Christmas movie I want in here. Including Home Alone.
I sigh and sit down as far away from him as I can, pointing at my sandwich. “When I’m done with this, I’m going back upstairs.”
“Noted.” He doesn’t say he doesn’t believe me. His tone says it all.
I hate Chris, but I don’t hate that he remembers what my favorite weird Christmas sandwich is.
I hate him, but not that he noticed I was starving.
I don’t hate that he knows my favorite Christmas movie and that I like candy canes even though he hates them.
It’s hard to hate someone who loves taking care of you. It’s just too bad it comes with the rest of who he is. Possessive, controlling, desperate to hold my soul in the palm of his hand.
The movie starts, but he focuses on me. “Did you not have dinner tonight, Sweets?”
Shaking my head, my eyes are on the screen as I swallow my first bite. “I left dinner early.”
I sense him nodding in my peripheral. "Because of your dad’s news.”
I take another bite, taking my time to get my emotions under control. “Did you know it was Luke’s idea?”
He shifts, always uncomfortable when my brother’s name comes up.
“Yeah,” he huffs.
“He wants to make sure I have a future.”
I don’t mention the Silent Circle. I have no idea how much Chris knows, but he lives in Stoneview and his parents are powerful. I have no doubt he’s heard of it if not more. Still, he’s the last person I want to talk to about the Shadows.
“You’re an incredible dancer.” I feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of my head.
I keep my eyes on the screen.
“But…” I mutter, expecting the same lesson Luke gave me.
It doesn’t come.
“But nothing. It’s a shame your dad is controlling, a shame that Luke doesn’t believe in your potential. I hope you keep dancing.”
I whip my head toward him so fast, the headache pounds against my skull. I blink at him, holding the sandwich in both hands, but incapable of swallowing. I almost choke when I do.
“Do you…do you really believe that?”
His eyebrows rising to his hairline tell me everything I need to know.
“Of course, I believe that. I’ve seen you dance.
I’ve seen you cheer. I’ve seen the hard work you put into your passion.
Not many people have the chance to find something that drives them in life.
” He sighs. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. It’s magical. ”
I scratch my throat, the rye bread suddenly too dry for me. “Erm…thanks, I guess.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Look, there’s nothing you can do about your dad and Luke but promise me you won’t stop dancing. Even as a hobby.”
I nod dumbly, repeating the gesture over and over again. “Okay.”
“Promise, Sweets.”
“I-I promise.”
My heart somersaults in my chest when his bright smile spreads on his handsome face.
“Good girl.”
And there it is.
That fucking dimple.
Please, someone save me. The devil has the face of an angel. He has a hold on my soul, and he won’t let me rest in peace.
Will I ever be free of Christopher Murray?
Not if I keep melting every time I see his dimple.
Not if I let him be the only one to plant seeds of hope in my heart just so he can watch my dreams grow.
“Chris,” I huff. “Stop calling me that.”