Chapter 7
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Nvm. I’m doing a less-than-great job…
Clara
Beaming, I put my eleventh little bunny sticker on my Yay, I haven’t been assaulted yet!
calendar, which I keep securely under the mattress in my very own bedroom—ever since I graduated from the guest bedroom.
The furniture Lukas ordered when we went shopping came in last Monday, so he helped me move everything from the guest room to the room beside his.
Most nights, he plays piano, and the notes drift through the wall we share, lulling me to sleep after I plan the next day’s meals.
I’m living perpetually on an edge, overlooking waves that crash upon sheer stone spikes…
but up here on the cliff? It’s beautiful.
The scent of sea air consumes me, and Lukas is holding my hand.
That is to say, have I been Stockholmed? Absolutely!
Smiling, I tuck my notebook back in its secret spot, rise, and get ready for the day.
Per usual once I leave my bedroom, Lukas is waiting for me, leaning against the hall wall. His eyes lighten—black and white going warm. “Morning, E-clair-a.”
“Morning, King.”
A predatory glint overwhelms him, but it can’t scare me anymore. No, no. I’m going on two weeks since I started living here, in a baking and cooking lap of luxury, and I’ve been thoroughly Stockholmed.
I mean, pah-lease. There’s even a library! Someone call me Belle. I can live with this. I just need to worry—every second of every day—that I’m going to mess everything up.
Ahhh.
What blissful peace I’ve found!
Humming to myself after reaching my lovely kitchen, I put together breakfast parfaits, heaped high with yogurt and fresh fruit and granola.
I chat with Crisis while everyone eats, and she tells me about her upcoming book series, which I can’t wait to read.
As is usual most days, Kyran doesn’t show up for breakfast, so after everyone’s finished with their breakfast, I make him a sandwich and leave it marked for him in the fridge.
Then, as I have for the past two weeks, I make sure I’m on track for any recipes today that have longer prep times while I think about the cozy reading corner that’s waiting for me upstairs.
Once I’ve prepped what I must prep, I melt into my bed with a book from the library.
Beneath one of the twenty fluffy blankets Lukas got for me on that homegoods store run, I tumble merrily into fantastic worlds far, far away from stress, concerns, and senses of security that may or may not be false.
Engrossed in the dragons and forbidden love scrawled before my eyes, I don’t hear a knock on my door until Lukas calls, “Clara?”
I jump, cramming a piece of scrap notebook paper between the pages of my epic fantasy. “Huh? What? Yes?” I scramble to assess myself, look busy, look like I haven’t been wasting time reading like an idiot.
My door opens, revealing Lukas in a dark fitted t-shirt that can barely contain his rippling abs. I gulp, glance at my phone, freeze as my eyes lock onto the time.
Breath sticks in my chest.
Two. It’s two in the afternoon. It is two in the afternoon, and I haven’t made lunch.
No… No, no, no. My heartbeat hammers, lurching and slamming around in my chest. I set a timer, didn’t I? Did I not hear it? This can’t be happening.
The world crashes down around me as consequences spiral, spotting my vision.
I failed.
I’ve failed.
At the one simple thing I do around here.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, scrambling off my bed and out of my blankets. “I lost track of time. I—” I nearly crash into the plate of food he’s holding, but Lukas lifts it out of the way before I do.
He settles a hand on my shoulder to brace me. “Whoa there, cutie pie.”
My stomach knots.
Tears…spill down my cheeks.
When in the world did they start?
Concern sinks deep into his dual-colored eyes. “Hey…” he soothes, tipping my face up to him. “What’s all this now?”
Pathetic. My mother’s jeering, Don’t screw your face up like that, Clara. You look pathetic, rises in my skull, filling my brain with pictures of her disdain and disgust.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, fighting panic and moisture. “It won’t happen again. I-I’ll do better.”
Running the crook of his finger under my eye, Lukas hardens. “Better?”
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Gripping a hand to my chest, I battle for purchase—air—as a shrill trill fills my ears. Lukas’s lips move, but the words he’s saying don’t reach me. This is it. This is the moment. The other shoe drops now. My brief days of peace are over. I messed up.
I need to calm down and accept my punishment maturely. Like an adult. Don’t I know that I’m too old for hysterical displays like this?
Idiot. Idiot. Why am I such an idiot?
Forceful, Lukas grips my wrist and takes me to my bed.
For one horrible minute that seems to last years, I wonder if he’s going to hit me.
I’ve never been hit before. I’ve feared being hit.
But I’ve always been able to plead and apologize my way out of it.
I can’t think clearly enough right now to quell him or grovel for forgiveness, so I just cover my face with my hands and hope it doesn’t hurt too badly.
Moments pass.
Each longer and harder than the last.
No pain comes.
But I continue to drown.
Even though I can’t hear anything beyond the trill ringing in my ears, I know he’s yelling at me. He has to be yelling at me. He’s definitely calling me stupid. Incompetent. A disgrace. He’s explaining how much he’s done for me and how useless I am. He’s—
Force presses on the side of my face, pushing me down, down, down until my head collides with Lukas’s thigh.
The distant sensation of his fingers combing through my hair in steady repetitive strokes becomes clearer and clearer.
Tears cloud my vision while I continue to fight for air, but—slowly—sounds return.
And those sounds are Lukas’s deep tenor, singing a lullaby.
The tune fills my burning chest, and I whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m so…” A tear slips across my nose, falling on his dark jeans. “…sorry.”
His hand settles on my shoulder, thumb rubbing in firm motions. “Hush…”
I had pasta salad planned. The pasta was already cooling in the fridge.
I just needed to mix the ingredients together, set out the chips and fruit.
It was so easy. So, so easy. But I messed it up.
Like a moron. Like a useless, worthless, horrible moron.
Biting my lip to stop myself from making excuses, I hush.
“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, “what are you apologizing for?”
He’s making me take accountability before I’m punished. I can do that. I can force my childish self to grow up and be responsible for once. Throat tight, I say, “I forgot to start lunch.”
He tuts. “Oh, Clara. I brought you lunch. Viktor made grilled cheese and tomato soup. It’s nothing special.
He even used a can. But he also used the fresh loaf of rye bread you made last night, so at least the sandwiches are delicious.
No one here expects you to cook every meal every single day. You live here. You don’t work here.”
My damp lashes flutter as I carefully lift myself off his lap. Lost, I look at him. “But…isn’t that…my job?” I went through a whole insane hiring process and everything.
“No?” He arches a brow. “But let’s for the moment argue that it is. If it’s your ‘job’ to cook three meals a day, it’s our legal obligation to give you time off, yet you’ve worked two weeks without a single weekend. This break is long overdue. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I…haven’t?”
He smiles—warm, gentle, kind. “No. Not a thing.”
Then why does it feel like I have? My body’s wound tight, ready to snap.
I feel like I need to run, but I can’t move, so the next best thing is to beg forgiveness in tears—really make sure my remorse is clear and plead for it to inspire pity, sympathy…
or mercy. What’s wrong with me? Why am I shutting down like this? “I’m…sorry.”
Gut-wrenching sorrow settles in Lukas’s eyes moments before he pulls me into a hug.
My struggling heart hits my ribs as the firm planes of him connect with my soft curves. His strength holds me together.
Exhaustion sweeps into me, and my eyelids turn heavy before falling closed. I can’t remember the last time I was hugged. Have hugs always been this…nice?
Limp, my neck gives up my head to his broad shoulder, and I welcome the Stockholm. If it’s always like this, I’m content to give in to the mental illness. Fully. I’d sacrifice just about anything to keep this warmth.
Lukas sighs, and I tense as panic sneaks up on me again. Every cell in me demands I find a solution to fix the reason behind despondent action, but there’s nothing I can do.
He says, “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding, Clara.”
“There has?” I whisper.
His lips graze my forehead, and his low affirming hum vibrates in my body. “You’re not here to make meals for my family. You’re here to pay attention to me.”
I…do not understand.
“You’re my emotional-support attention. I’ve been kind enough to share you with my family while you’ve adjusted to living here, but where in your list of rules did it say anything about making lunches on time, or even making them at all?”
I forgot about my list of rules, on account of the fact that they are completely unhelpful, insane, and also stupid.
“I’m an attention-obsessed borderline narcissist, cupcake. All you have to do each day to earn my approval is talk to me. At least once. My Morning, King is more than enough. It renews my soul.”
Surely not. Yet, why would he lie about being something terrible?
There must be a reason he would.
I’m going to dwell on all the potential reasons for the entire rest of today and well into the night.
“Are you hungry?” he murmurs into my hair. “I’d gladly hold you like this forever, but I don’t want your soup to get too cold.”
My stomach hurts. Burying my face against him, I shake my head.