Chapter 19
Elowen
He doesn’t show at lunch, but thankfully, he comes for dinner. I’ve had the entire day to overthink our situation.
So I start as soon as he settles into his chair.
“Forget what happened in the garden.”
He looks at me. A frown pinches between my brows at the haunted look in his eyes.
“What happened?” The words hurry out, laced with concern.
He shakes his head.
“Something must have happened. But if you don’t want to share, it’s fine. I won’t push you.” Even though I want to, but it’s useless.
“So, as I was saying: forget this morning. Can we be friends?” I extend my hand.
He takes my hand in a careful grip, holding it a few seconds longer than is friendly.
I purse my lips and snatch my hand back. “Don’t you dare give me mixed signals.”
In response, he does the only thing he’s best at: stare. I can tell his mood is in the gutter, or I’d point out that staring, too, qualifies as a mixed signal in my book.
We eat in silence.
I glance at his plate, he’s barely touched his food. Okay, now his bad mood is giving me real concern.
He gets up. I do too, moving to his side and taking his arm. He looks at my hands around his elbow, then up at my face.
“Friends hold hands,” I say with an excessively friendly smile.
I slide my hand lower and hold his—over his glove.
“Why do you always wear gloves?” I ask as we leave the dining room.
“I have haphephobia.” His voice is detached.
Now that he’s spoken, I notice the rough texture of his voice. I look up at his face—so tired, dark circles more pronounced than ever. Once again, I find myself in that place where all I can do is helplessly feel bad for him.
Wait. What did he just say? He has what? Haphephobia? Isn’t that the condition where a person feels intense aversion to being touched by others?
“Is that why you ran this morning?” I ask, stunned, stepping into his path.
“I don’t have a problem with your touch.”
I purse my lips. Very comforting. Then frown. “Why?”
He doesn’t answer. I slouch, sighing.
“It’s so difficult to talk to you. It feels like each word costs you a fortune.”
We resume walking toward the stairs. Haphephobia is a psychological condition—people with severe trauma often develop it. Another sign pointing toward his painful past.
When we reach the top of the stairs, I take his hand again.
“Spend some time with Bruno and me,” I offer with a grin.
He nods.
I lead him to Bruno’s room, to the bed. “Sit here.”
He does. I chuckle, watching his large, formidable frame settle onto the small bed. I sit beside him, leaving space for Bruno between us. Bruno promptly claims his spot.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask the handsome grump.
“None.”
“Not surprised. Favorite food?”
“None.” He intones.
“Come on. You’re not even trying. Think harder. There must be something you’d love to eat every day.”
His eyes slide from mine down to my lips. Don’t read into it, Wen. He’s probably just looking.
“Strawberries,” he says—after staring at my lips for a solid half minute.
“I also love strawberries.” My voice comes out strained. No matter his intentions, my body is going to interpret them the wrong way.
“Have you ever dated anyone?” I ask, the most important question.
He shakes his head.
“Not even casually?”
“No.”
“Is it because of the haphephobia?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I hate people near me.”
“Yeah, that was kind of a dumb question.” I grin. “But you don’t hate me.” I pause, recalling our history. “At least not in terms of your condition.”
“I don’t hate you. In any terms, Princess.”
I hold up my hand. “Don’t say anything good to me. I’ll take it as a mixed signal.”
He goes silent again, retreating into staring.
I bite the corner of my lower lip.
“I think I’ve developed a Stockholm syndrome crush on you.” Though calling it a “crush” feels like a joke.
“It will go away when you’re back home,” he states flatly.
My lips form a smile I don’t feel. I don’t think so.
“You’re the most gentlemanly captor in history. In fact, the most gentlemanly man to ever exist.” I mock-praise him, arranging my face into faux pride.
“How many men do you know to make that judgment?” His tone is mocking.
Nice improvement—from no emotion to mockery.
I lift my chin. “More than enough.”
“Why don’t you tell me about a few?” There’s a tightness threaded beneath his words.
“Sure. Why not? So the first is my childhood crush, Joseph Dario. A real sweet guy. If I’d dated him, we’d probably be married by now with two kids.”
A deep frown darkens his face.
In a brighter mood, I continue. “Then there was my high school fling, Dany Linger...”
What a ridiculous name. I bet no one actually has that name, but this man doesn’t care. He’s already starting to boil, so I put on a show. I arrange my features to look dreamy.
“And he was such a good kisser.”
“Enough,” he bites out.
I laugh. “Jealousy looks good on you, Mr. Tyrant.”
His expression is pure anger.
I keep laughing. “There was no such thing. I didn’t even go to high school, in our system, there is no ‘high school.’ I finished at fourteen, then went to my grandparents’ house with my sister. We’ve been living in that countryside house ever since...”
I clap my hand over my mouth, eyes wide. “Tell me you won’t misuse this information,” I plead, horrified.
“I’ll see,” he drawls.
The sound of his phone ringing interrupts us. He pulls it out. I stare at the black device with longing. It feels like years since I last saw a phone.
He gets up and leaves.
How many days has it been since I last heard my parents’ voices? My grandparents’? Avi’s yapping, Leo’s taunts, Uncle Alex’s jokes, I’m even missing Zo’s silence.
He returns after a few minutes. I rise from the bed and walk to him.
“I want to talk to my family.”
“You can talk to them in three days.”
My face lights up. “Really?”
He nods, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t you have conditions? Like, I can’t tell them certain things?”
“You’re free to tell them whatever you want.”
I lift my shoulders, hands rising slightly. “Yeah, what can I even tell them? I don’t even know your name.”
He watches me for a silent minute, then turns and leaves—the conversation, apparently, over.
I sigh and go back to Bruno.