Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Zephyrine
The alcohol buzzing through my veins and the kind gesture from Levi have me feeling brave as we make our way back into the cabin. Dakota’s advice is running through my head, making me want to test her theory. Nothing risked, nothing gained after all.
“If I run off into the woods again, would you chase me or send one of your guys?” I tease him.
“If you run off into the woods, it’ll be the last time.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A promise because you’ve clearly had one too many drinks, and you’ll end up snapping your ankle.”
“You’re a buzzkill.”
“I’ll work on it.” He gives me a side-eye, but I see the way his lips twitch with amusement.
“You should. Dakota said that’s how you are all the time. All work and no play. Is that true? It would explain how you could do the priest thing so well.”
“I’m focused. Yes.” His tone tells me he’s wary of where this is headed.
“She said you don’t play ever.”
“Dakota doesn’t know anything about my personal life.”
“But you don’t have a wife or a girlfriend?”
“Do you think I’d be out here playing house if I had a warm bed with a wife in it?” He raises a brow.
“I don’t know. My husband did.” I shrug as he ushers me into the cabin.
“Your husband is a piece of shit. If I ever had a wife, she’d be the type who would slit my throat over something like that.
” His hand goes to his abdomen on the way in.
It’s my turn to raise a brow, but then I could see him with a wife like that.
One who has the same penchant for violence and zero tolerance for any lack of loyalty.
“Are you okay?” I ask, noticing the grimace he makes.
“The bandage is just pulling a bit. I've got new gauze pads inside. I’m fine.”
“So if your wife would slit your throat, does that mean you like me? I can never tell if I irritate or amuse you. But I feel like that means you like me.” I flash him a grin, one that’s probably ill-advised and fueled by the alcohol.
“That’s what you get out of that?” He flashes me a look as he pulls out the first aid kit and the fresh box of gauze. He spreads the pads and tape out on the table alongside each other and gets to work.
“I mean, if it makes your wife violently jealous for you to be with me.” I grin even though I feel awkward when I see the look on his face. I’m terrible at this.
“Except, I don’t have a wife. And I’m not with you. I’m watching you so you don’t run off into the woods and break a fucking ankle in the process.” He cocks a brow at me as he washes his hands, something like wariness behind his eyes.
“Here, I can help with that.” I nod to his first aid kit and put my hands under the water.
He passes me the bar of soap, our bodies practically touching as we lean over the old farm sink.
I can feel the heat of him and hear his breathing, the hesitant way he’s watching me.
The air around us feels like tinder, and I take a step closer to him as I set the soap back on his side of the sink.
“I think you’ve done enough,” he grumbles.
“I really am sorry. I thought you were one of Corey's guys, you know?” I give him what I hope is a remorseful look, even through the fog of my buzz. Whatever Dakota gave me was strong. I’d almost say she went a little heavy-handed on purpose if I didn’t know better. But then… Maybe I don’t know better.
“I know.” His eyes search mine for a moment, and then he abruptly separates himself from me, grabbing a towel and drying his hands as he walks back to the table.
“Are you ever going to forgive me?” I dry my own and shut the water off, trailing behind him to the table.
“Maybe when it heals.” It sounds honest enough, but I hate that it’s going to be a reminder to him.
He preps the new gauze and tape, cutting the strips and opening the edge of the gauze package so it’s ready. I kneel down in front of him and pull up his shirt carefully, exposing the old gauze and running my fingertips over the edge of the tape.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping,” I answer, like it should be obvious to him, as I start to pull on the tape. He winces and glares at me, his hand covering mine.
“Not like that you aren’t.”
“What?”
“Just rip it, in one quick motion. Taking it inch by inch like that… You trying to torture me again?”
“I mean… you seemed to like it the first time, given the way you—” I stop abruptly and risk a glance up at him as I grab the tape and get ready to pull.
He watches me, a glint of caution in his eyes, but doesn’t say a word.
I take the silence as permission to press the issue.
“Do you like that? Pain, I mean? Or was it being tied up?”
“What happened to helping me with this?” he deflects.
So I rip the tape in one fast, smooth motion that tears it from his skin.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, and his fingers tease the edge of the wound—back and forth—smoothing the spot where the tape ripped some of the fine body hair on his abdomen out by the root.
I run my fingers along the other side, following a parallel path to try to soothe the tape burn.
“Tell me how I can help,” I say softly, slowly lifting my lashes to meet his.
He looks guarded as his eyes trail over me. Like an injured animal that doesn’t know whether to trust me or snap at me before I have a chance to hurt it again. I can’t say as I blame him, but the raw vulnerability disappears just as quickly as it came.
He stands abruptly, nearly knocking me over, and puts the second round of gauze on. He tapes it efficiently, one strip after another, while I pull myself up from my spot on the floor. My head is spinning from how quickly he’s moving.
“Levi,” I say his name softly and let my fingers trail over his exposed stomach as his shirt starts to fall back into place. He ignores me, cleaning up the mess on the table and repacking the first aid kit into its container.
He acts indifferent most of the time, but then there are rare moments, like this one, where it feels like he cares.
Like he might see something in me, and I just want them to last longer than a fleeting minute.
I can feel the tension between us, like the crackle of thunder in the distance right before a storm rolls in.
I just need to get him to break it, lean into it, and give me some semblance of emotion beyond his practiced demeanor.
“We need wood,” he announces, tossing the first aid kit back into the cabinet and putting distance between us. “I’m going to go chop some down for the stove. Think you can refrain from running off if I don’t chain you to something?” He doesn’t even bother to look back at me.
“I won’t run off but…” I trail off. But what?
I don’t have anything I can really say. He’s rejecting me.
He’s just being kind enough not to say the words out loud.
The embarrassment threatens to sear my skin with a deep blush, so I’m reaching for anything that covers up my misstep.
“Do you want help? Chopping the wood, I mean. I just want to be useful around here. I don’t do well just sitting around. ”
“I don’t need help. You can tidy things up in here. Make sure we have everything for dinner,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads out the door, letting it creak shut behind him.
I press my hand to my tumbling, nerve-riddled stomach as I look around for something to do.
Anything to distract me from my mistake.
I can’t believe I even hinted in that direction.
I have no idea how many blatantly obvious rejections from him it’s going to take to get it through my head.
But the problem is when I think of him, I don’t replay the embarrassment of having confessed my dreams to him or the way he looks at me like I’m a flimsy piece of cardboard that might fall apart in the rain.
No, instead my brain replays the way he felt underneath me at the convent, the singe of his lips on mine, the way his hands felt when he undressed me before my shower, and the way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice—like some part of me might be remarkable.
But I have to realize that I’m blindly reaching for a connection to someone where there are only figments of my imagination in his place.
I set to work on cleaning up the cabin, forcing myself into manual labor to forget the whole ill-advised attempt.
When I wake up, it’s the middle of the night.
The cabin is pitch-black as I tiptoe across the wood floors barefoot, hoping I don’t wake Levi up.
I need a glass of water and something for my head.
I had one too many to drink tonight. As fun as it was, I don’t want a hangover.
I’m hoping I can find both in the kitchen, but it means not disturbing him on the couch in the living room, which isn’t all that far away in this small cabin.
I curse silently as the doorknob creaks when I open it, and the hinges refuse to be quiet as I ease the door open.
I pause for a long moment, waiting to see if it wakes him.
I don’t want him thinking I’m sneaking out.
I’ve only just gotten my freedom to roam back, and I’d hate to make him think he can’t trust me.
When I don’t hear him move or call my name, I slip out of the room.
I can see the outline of his body on the couch, his head back against a pile of pillows, and his feet resting on the arm on the other end, his cowboy boots tucked just in front of the coffee table between them.
It doesn’t look comfortable. Tomorrow, I might see if he wants to come to bed.
We could make it work—a pillow fort or something that provides space between us.
Dakota would probably scold me for suggesting we need space.
She was clear that she thought I should go for him if I want him.
But my drunken attempt at feeling him out on the topic had gone so poorly I almost think we’ve gone backward.
He’d spent most of the evening in silence, barely speaking to me at dinner and only grunting out a goodnight when I went to bed.
I look back at him as I grab a glass out of the cabinet and the pitcher out of the fridge.
He’s too self-controlled to take those kinds of risks.
Risking his life, yes. Sleeping with the enemy’s daughter, not interested.
I frankly wonder if the man ever does anything but work.
It seemed like an exaggeration at first, but I’m not so sure now.
His life seems devoid of all fun. Like having some might be a sin.
Maybe he would have been a good priest after all.
I open the next cabinet and find what looks like a bottle of pain relievers. I check the date and kiss the top as I pour one out. I’m guessing Levi might have had them for the pain from his burn. I wince. Just another reason not to want me.
I toss the pill back and take a large gulp of water, refilling the glass from the pitcher before I put it away. I steal a piece of chocolate out of the dish on the counter and then tiptoe back to the bedroom again, careful to walk slowly and avoid the squeakiest floorboards.
I glance over at him as I move to sneak past and freeze when I realize he’s not really asleep.
He’s got one hand slung over his eyes, the other palm down over his stomach, but now that I’m closer, I can see the white outline of an earbud in his ear.
In the dead quiet of the night, I can also faintly hear what's playing.
Something I can't quite discern until I hold my breath to listen.
I bite my lower lip when I realize what the sound is floating across the room: a woman moaning.
I watch as the hand on his stomach moves further south, palming himself through his pants.
I take another short couple of steps, trying for a better angle and praying the floor doesn’t squeak underneath my feet.
I freeze when it does, but he doesn’t move.
At least not in response to me. He’s too focused on what he’s listening to, and a low rumble rolls out of his chest as he shifts his hips.
His hand ghosts over the waistband of his pants like he’s trying to decide whether to give in or not.
I have to know what he’s listening to. It must be porn of some sort.
I’m curious to know what kind. I take another couple of steps closer, and I spot his phone on the coffee table.
It’s dimly lit, but he has a playlist pulled up.
I can’t quite see it, though, when it’s this faded by the screen.
I squint, leaning over, careful not to spill my water.
“What are you doing?” His deep voice shatters the silence like glass, and I nearly drop mine when I jump back.
“What are you doing?” I press my palm to my chest to try to coax my heart back to a normal rhythm as he sits up.
He snatches his phone off the coffee table, and it lights up brighter when he does.
Just enough that I can read the words “Z’s Late-Night Playlist” before he turns it off and rips one of the earbuds.
“Don’t answer a question with a question.” There’s irritation rife in his tone. “What are you doing?”
“I got up to get a glass of water. I was trying to be quiet as I was headed back to bed, and then I heard your playlist. What are you doing?” I ask in return.
“Trying to sleep. Go back to bed,” he orders.
For a moment, I consider it. He seems grumpy, like someone who’s just been woken from a deep sleep, but there’s something about the way his body shifts as he talks to me.
How fast he snatched his phone up from the table.
Like he’s hiding something and hoping I don’t notice, which only confirms I didn’t misread the situation.
“Sure. As soon as you tell me why you’re listening to porn in the middle of the night.” I cross my arms over my chest, still careful not to spill the water.