25. Chapter 25
Chapter 25
The sun, level with the kitchen window, shone past me to caress Mercer’s handsome face.
The purple stains under his hypnotic stare made it look like he hadn’t slept for weeks, but it had only been one night. He’d gazed up at the ceiling, and I slept in his arms. He was still staring at the same patch of plaster when I woke up. I tried not to focus on his lack of sleep as he fed a chocolate-covered cannoli into my mouth.
Crumbs dropped between us, and I rushed to collect all seven, not wanting to waste a single one. Mercer’s tight stomach made me question how much I should eat. I was small but soft in places where muscles pressed through his skin.
I felt the tension beneath his clothes, and my eyes wandered into the path of his distant gaze. Fear led the way to what I worried were thoughts of her. My eyes dropped, and the shirt of his I wore rustled as I reached for a crumb I had missed. My other hand found comfort in a single strand of hair. The frizzy ones—my faves—were harder to find in the aftermath of fresh conditioner.
The distance closed between me and his far-off mind, his baby blues now falling on me, disappointment weighing heavily. His tanned fingers weaved through my wet hair, removing my hand.
I asked, “Are you okay?”
A kiss on my forehead told me to stop worrying and reminded me he wanted to give this a try.
But it was hard to stay in an optimistic headspace when his love for her had been painfully drilled into my heart and soul.
That thought was cut off, interrupted by a robotic voice—a new one I had chosen before coming into this room.
It had been hard to be in the basement again. It was hard to pass by the door where our first memories together were made.
But it was interesting to see the room I could only think of as the backstage set-up full of technology, gadgets, and cameras, including one that pointed from a peculiar part of my pink room. I should have known that damn stuffed bear couldn't be trusted, with his beady brown eyes, always on me.
The voice repeated what it said, as I didn’t hear it the first time.
“I’m fine, cuore mio. You’re the one who doesn’t seem happy.”
“I’m confused,” I admitted. “How can such strong feelings just change?”
He raised my chin with two fingers and smiled at me like I was the best damn thing in the world. “Guilt stepped aside.”
I smiled, too, my fingers keen to explore him while my eyes avoided him. “What does cuore mio mean? You’ve called me that a lot.”
“It means my heart, in Italian.”
My smile grew and I started to feel like I was the best thing in the world to him...after the cannoli he reached for, of course.
“Sweet mother, you’re up!” Trix said, walking into the kitchen where I sat on Mercer’s lap at the breakfast bar. Ethan was close on her heels, stomping all over her shadow while he spoke on the phone.
“How are you doing, Feebee darling?” She stopped at my side, her soft touch gracing my arm. “I wanted to come check on you yesterday, but this one,” her finger stabbed into the air, pointing at Mercer, “wouldn’t leave your side.”
He hadn’t. And I appreciated that. Yesterday hurt, but it showed me what I needed to see...that Mercer cared about me.
“I’m okay. Thoughts drift in now and again, but I feel okay.”
“I’m glad, and I’m glad you pair made up.” Trix pulled out a seat, and Ethan helped her climb up as if the sturdy old broad was incapable.
He hung up his call, to who, I assumed was his step-brother, by the way Mercer scowled in his direction.
I didn’t take it as a threat. As pain over Chandelle. Not when Mercer still had one hand in my hair and the other sharing his cannoli between us. It was just the betrayal...of someone he thought of as family. I knew the feeling well. And that thought had me tensing, too. Had me itching.
Another kiss landed on my forehead, brushing away agonizing thoughts of abuse.
Trix interrupted us, “But now that you’re a little more than friends,” she said, pouring tea from another vintage teapot. “Can you be more than friends a little quieter going forward? Some of us need beauty sleep.” She fluffed her hair. “And I could hear you all the way down the hall.”
“I second that.” Ethan held out his cup, waiting for Trix to fill it before taking a seat.
I couldn’t turn to face them with my heated cheeks pink with embarrassment. I stayed locked on Mercer, who looked incredibly pleased with the remarks.
He fed me another cannoli, the munchies getting the better of me, but at least that was the only reason my stomach cried out today. He had taken my pain away, stored it somewhere with his own, and set them aside for us to live in harmony.
Standing from the stool, Mercer held me in his arms because who the hell knew where my wheelchair was. It was probably still sideways on my bedroom floor. I pictured the wheel spinning as it had been yesterday, and Damiano’s face filled my head, his ugly expression haunting me. His dirty breath, too.
The nightmare was flicked away by Mercer’s hand caressing my lower spine, quick to pull down my shirt, which had risen to reveal a lace pair of underwear.
“I hope you’re going back to bed,” Trix said, filling her mouth with breakfast foods, tea, and then more breakfast foods.
A curt nod was all she was getting from this silent man, and I was still too busy practicing calming methods to answer.
Mercer clocked this, running gentle fingers all over me.
With a full mouth, Ethan added, “Yeah, because you look like shit. Did you get any sleep at all last night?”
My fingers rubbed over Mercer’s face, which they thought looked less than perfect. My racing heart disagreed as I smiled over his dark stubble, tanned skin that had been gifted by his Italian heritage, and the crystal blue eyes of his mother. He looked perfect to me.
He ignored Ethan, happy to whisk me away upstairs. Trix and Ethan’s private conversation made not so private by their naturally loud voices, could be heard as we approached the top. They thought we were good for each other, and it made my heart burst.
Mercer’s feet stilled at my door. I clutched him tighter, not wanting him to take the step inside I knew was coming.
Bare feet avoided the bloodstains on the carpet. He placed me on the bed I hoped never to sleep in again and moved to the canvas on the floor. His eyes and fingers roamed the painted tree, the ruin granting furrowed eyebrows and a whitewash of fury.
He was mad, but I saw the painting differently today. An abstract beauty that, ironically, thanks to the heavy rain that had appeared from nowhere in the last few minutes—weighing down the red leaves—held a closer resemblance to the maple now that it was blurred beyond the wet window.
He typed a quick message from his keypad. “This tree will be beautiful in winter. I’ll take you outside for a better view, and if you’re not too chicken, you can feed my fox some berries, too.”
He swapped one painting for another, the heart bringing out mixed emotions for him. He concealed them all by biting his lower lip.
Taking a seat at my side, he handed it to me.
“Is it done?” the new voice asked.
“Do you not like it?”
“I would like it to be healed. Is that possible?” His mannerisms, skating touches and sharp stares, smiles that the devil would be powerless to, dragged the truth from me.
“Yes.” I nodded. “We can heal it.”
We can heal our broken hearts.
“Good...because I want to display it for everyone.”
He carried me back to his room, and I carried the canvas, ready to add the first of many stitches to the broken heart. He left, returning moments later, paints and new brushes in hand. It was almost like he had a storage closet somewhere in this house that catered to each of my needs.
“Can you be finished by tonight? I have plans for us.”
I knew he didn’t mean a date. The cold, cruel look in his eyes told me exactly where we were going.
Home.
He was taking me home again, for an introduction with the only family I had left.