18. Deirdre
Deirdre
I ’m so used to spending time alone in this house that I expect having Elio here all day is going to be awkward, even suffocating, except it isn’t.
It’s oddly nice to have him here, even though we aren’t speaking or really doing anything together at the moment.
He’s currently dressed in a soft pair of grey sweatpants, shirtless, propped up against a mountain of pillows I insisted on shoving behind him.
I’m sitting on his bed, at the foot of it facing him, my laptop balanced on my legs that are crossed at the ankles.
I didn’t start out on his bed. I actually started out in my own room, returning to the homework I’d been working on earlier, when I heard Elio make a hissing sound of pain.
I rushed back in to find him breathing heavily, trying to get into a comfortable position.
Clucking at him like a mother hen, I hurried and hovered, adjusting cushions, tugging blankets, positioning water within reach until I was satisfied that he was as comfortable as possible.
But when I’d gone back to my room, I hadn’t been able to focus on the words on my screen at all. My mind kept reaching right on out of my head, reaching for Elio, and I found myself leaning back in my chair to stare through the doorway so often that I eventually just gave up.
So here I am. Doing my homework in Elio Titone’s bed.
Luckily, I’m not the only one working. If I had to sit here with Elio staring at me the whole time I’m pretty sure I’d get even less done than I currently am.
But apparently Elio hates lying around doing nothing. About thirty seconds after I got him settled, I heard him call Curse on his phone, asking for some contract or other.
He’s got the contract with him now, held in his gloved left hand while his right hand rests in his lap.
I thought Elio would be the one watching me, but it’s actually the opposite.
My eyes keep rising from my screen to look at him.
He’s so totally absorbed in what he’s doing, his dark eyes keen with competence as they move in smooth, quick lines across the papers.
I’ve never really seen this side of him, this utterly cool and controlled tycoon of business.
I wonder if he looked like this – so confidently controlled, silent with shark-like purpose – when he signed the papers with my father.
“Whatchya thinking about, Songbird?”
I flinch, surprised that he can tell that I’m looking at him when he’s so focused on reading the papers in front of him. I was watching his eyes the whole time – they didn’t halt for a fucking second.
But they flick up to mine now.
A small smile touches my lips.
“Last time you asked me that, you paid six figures to get an answer.”
He sets down his papers in his lap and regards me coolly.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re one hell of a negotiator?” he asks.
“No,” I reply honestly. “But I don’t think I was before you. I guess I had to become one.”
He gives a soft grunt as he suddenly leans to the side, reaching for a drawer on the bedside table closest to him.
“Oh, no! Don’t,” I cry, tossing my laptop onto the plush bedding and scrambling to reach for the drawer. “I can get it. Just lie still, would you?!”
I’m too slow, though. Elio’s already grabbed whatever it was he wanted. I sit back down on the bed beside him as he whips open a chequebook. His eyebrows draw together with concentration as he uses a pen to scrawl with his non-dominant left hand. I watch him fill out the cheque with messy writing.
It’s a cheque from Elio Titone to Elio Titone, for the staggering sum of six million dollars.
He signs it with a scratch of ink, then hands it to me.
I frown down at it, unsure what he wants me to do with it.
“Now you give it back to me,” he says, his hand outstretched.
I do so, my confusion only deepening when he places one edge of the rectangle of paper between his teeth, using that pressure to tear it in half.
He takes the ragged-edged pieces, crumples them in his left hand, then throws them onto the bedside table.
“There,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Done.”
“What’s done? You just wrote a cheque from yourself to yourself and then ripped it up. Do I need to go get the doctor?” I eye him with suspicion, wondering if he really did take a blow to the head today that’s causing him not to think straight.
Elio rolls his eyes.
“It’s symbolic. I already told you that your debt is forgiven. But I thought that maybe you needed to actually witness something to mark the occasion. To show you that our relationship is no longer defined by money or by debt.”
“You’re the one who made it about money and debt in the first place!” I remind him stubbornly. “Or did you forget that part?”
“I don’t forget a fucking thing, Songbird,” he murmurs. “Not when it comes to you.”
I break eye contact, cheeks hot, then retreat to the safety of my laptop. But after a few seconds of staring blindly at the writing on the screen, I sigh.
“I don’t even know why I’m bothering to do this,” I grumble. “It’s not like I’m going to class tomorrow.”
“What do you mean, you’re not going to class tomorrow?” Elio asks so sharply I can’t stop my head from jerking up to look at him.
“Well I’m obviously not leaving you here like this,” I say, flopping my hand towards his bare, bruised torso. “I need to stay here and take care of you.”
“Like hell you do,” Elio growls. “I told you before that dropping out of school, or even just missing class, is absolutely not an option.”
I gawk at him, amazed that he’s insisting on something as routine as going to class when he’s literally bedbound by his injuries. But then again, that’s kind of been his MO this entire time. Do batshit crazy stuff, then try to trick me into thinking that it’s just normal, everyday life.
“You’re the one who made that comment about needing lots of tender, loving care when we were downstairs!” I sputter, anger rising. “What, you have somebody else around here to provide that while I’m gone?”
Amusement sparks behind Elio’s eyes, and it drives my outrage even higher. Damn him, damn him!
“Would that make you jealous?”
“What? No! God, you are infuriating!”
My fury seems to entertain him. His mouth stretches into a lazy, lopsided grin.
“The name’s Elio, actually. But you can call me God if you want.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I don’t even know why I’m worried about you,” I huff. “Clearly, you’re fine if you can be such a… a…”
“A what?”
“A freaking arrogant idiot!”
“Great comeback,” Elio says with a snort. But then his smile gets crunched, his hand flying to his ribs. “Ah, fuck .”
And just like that, my anger, my defensiveness, my irritation with him is gone. Destroyed in less than an instant, shattered by the sight of him in pain.
I close my laptop and toss it aside once more, positioning myself on my knees and leaning over him.
“Are you OK? Do you want the Tylenol now? Or maybe something stronger? I can-”
“Songbird.”
He grabs the front of my shirt, holding me in place as he says it a mere breath away from my lips. A shiver runs through my whole body at the exquisite sensation of that not-quite-a-touch.
“Yes?” I gasp shakily.
He fists my shirt harder but doesn’t draw me any closer, his words a tantalizing kiss of warm air against my skin.
“I didn’t let Mad Darragh use my kidney as a punching bag as part of the bargain to earn your safety in this city simply so that you could skip your fucking classes.” His words are falsely gentle, his voice so silken and smooth I could almost miss the warning in them.
Almost.
Not quite.
“So sit down,” he continues, each word dripping with dark, syrupy sweetness. “Shut up. And do your homework like the good fucking girl I know you can be.”
“Bedbound and you still somehow manage to be a menace,” I breathe, a hot spasm of need wracking my core at his proximity.
Elio releases my shirt and gives me a nudge back towards my laptop. He shakes his head, a wry look on his face as he returns his gaze to his papers and mutters, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
* * *
Elio and I stay in his room all day. We eat a quiet dinner together that Rosa brought up on a tray, then I head to my bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. I know Elio wanted me to play violin for him, so I’ve got it and my bow in my hands when I return to his room.
But even though I was barely gone for ten minutes, by the time I return, he’s fast asleep.
I stop short, staring at the colossal monster of a man who looks positively innocent in his sleep. Seriously, how can somebody as big and bad as Elio possibly look like that ?
He’s on his less-injured side, his arm flung over a stray pillow. His hair has dried much curlier than I’m used to seeing it, the rebellious bits looking practically cherubic in contrast to the hard, adult lines of his face.
I’ve never seen him sleeping like this before. Even when we slept in the bed together last night, my back was to him for a lot of the night. And he was gone before I woke up.
I put down my violin and bow and steal closer, quiet as can be, trying not to wake him up. I should just head back to the other bedroom and let him rest. But that idea leaves me feeling oddly anxious. An achy feeling of tender protectiveness is keeping me here, drawing me ever-closer.
I come to a stop beside him. He’s on his left side and facing towards the edge of the bed – towards me.
The scars on the left side of his jaw and neck are hidden like this, and a blanket is tugged up just above the ugly bruising around his lower ribs.
He looks so peaceful like this. Comfortable.
Whole. Like he’s never been hurt in his whole damn life.
I watch my hand rise like it belongs to someone else, fascinated to see my own fingers gently stroking his cheekbone, feeling the unforgiving line of it.
I trace the shape of his jaw, stopping to brush a springy lock of hair behind his ear.
I must have tickled him a little bit, because a muscle in his cheek twitches, and his nose crinkles as if he might sneeze.
It’s cute, and I don’t want to think about how cute he can be, because that distracts me from the dangers he represents.
But I just can’t think of him as dangerous right now. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
At this moment, I just can’t bring myself to care.
I stroke his cheek again, very gently, as tenderly as I’d touch a baby, this time with the backs of my knuckles. Apart from the little almost-sneeze face he made a second ago, he hasn’t moved. His breathing is deep and even.
I’m glad he’s getting some rest. I know he needs it.
Even someone as strong and wilful as him needs to slow down to heal sometimes.
I can tell he hates it, though. Hates not feeling strong as he usually does.
A man like Elio wasn’t made to stay in bed.
He was made to walk through the world like a weapon, bending every corner of it to his will.
Being stuck in bed is probably good for him , I think with a slight roll of my eyes. It will remind him that he’s human. And all humans need humbling every now and then.
Even if it isn’t easy for them.
I know he’s asleep, and that he won’t feel it, and maybe that’s why I do it in the first place. Silently, I bend down, brushing my nose against the sandpaper grit of his stubble before I place a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.
He remains in a deep sleep. He doesn’t seem to react at all.
Until I straighten up and turn to walk away.
A hand shoots from the bed, colliding with my wrist. I whirl around, heart pumping in surprise.
Elio’s eyes are still closed, his whole face set in a furious, sleepy sort of frown as he tries to ineffectually close his splinted hand around my arm.
With a sleep-gruff sound, he shoves the pillow he was hugging away, snakes his other arm out of the bed, and drags me down into it with him.
“Hey!” I gasp, tamping down the urge to fight my way out of his hold. I don’t want a stray elbow hitting one of his injuries. “Elio!” I hiss. “Let me go!”
I was planning on sleeping in the other bed.
Elio needs rest, not to have somebody else rolling around and bugging him all night.
But he doesn’t seem to care about what I have to say.
I doubt he even hears me, to be honest. He throws a heavy arm over top of me, buries his face in my air, and promptly lets out a soft, rasping snore.
I stay still, chewing on my lip and trying to figure out what my plan is. I don’t know what to do with this sort of closeness. Because it doesn’t seem to want anything. There’s nothing angry, nothing sexual, nothing violent in his hold on me. It’s proximity, apparently, for comfort’s sake.
You’re the wound and the treatment all at the same time.
I’m a pain point for him. That’s what he told me.
But even in sleep he can’t stay away.
I breathe in and out until I reach a calming tempo, a rhythm that seems to soothe me. It takes me a moment to realize that this isn’t a placid sense of timing I’ve discovered on my own. I’ve simply matched up my breathing to Elio’s.
Even once I’m aware of it, I can’t escape from how I’ve paired my inhales and exhales to his.
His broad chest plastered to my back, we breathe in perfect harmony, as if we share one heart and set of lungs between us.
More than once, I try to speed up or slow down my respiration, just to see if I can break away from that connection, but it feels so wrong, so unnatural, that I almost get lightheaded.
I relax, sink into it, close my eyes, and breathe with him.
Just for a little while , I tell myself. I’ll be gone soon. I know I will.
But not yet.
Not… quite… yet…