3. - – Amelia
CHAPTER THREE
-
AMELIA
I can't breathe with Preston's hands around my throat and his weight pinning me down to the bed. The smell of expensive cologne and whiskey makes my stomach churn.
I wake up to the sounds of my own screams echoing through the lake house. I jerk upright violently in the bed, gasping for air, as the lights above me click on.
Christian stands in the doorway, shirtless, a pistol gripped in his hand at his side.
“Nightmare?” He asks.
I wrap my arms around myself, “Yes.”
Christian’s eyes move to the purple bruises around my throat.
“Did he enjoy it?”
The question surprises me, and I'm not sure how to answer. “What?”
Christian dips his head towards me, “Hurtin’ you. Did he get off on it?”
“Yes.”
Christian looks away first. I can't tell if he is angry because of the abuse or if I disgust him.
“Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t.”
He slips the switch to turn out the light. Instead of walking out of the room, he moves closer, lowering himself onto the floor beside the bed. Not touching me, just there. Grounded and solid.
“You don’t even know me,” I whisper.
“I know enough. Go to sleep.”
I study him in the dim light. Scars mark his shoulders and back—old burns, knife wounds. One long pale line runs the entire length of his back, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats. The violence isn't just inside of him; it lives on his body too.
I fall asleep to the sound of him checking his weapon beside the bed.
The next morning, I find him splitting wood behind the cabin, and the rhythmic crack of the axe echoes through the air around me as soon as I step outside.
Christian glances up at the sound of the door opening. “You should be resting.”
“I'm sorry, I wanted coffee.”
He nods toward a thermos sitting nearby. “Already made.”
The simple gesture twists something painfully inside me. No one has ever taken care of me before. At least not without wanting something in return.
Christian watches me as I wrap both hands around the warm thermos.
“You apologize a lot,” he says suddenly.
I blink, confused. “What?”
“You apologize when you walk too loudly, when you ask questions, when you have nightmares. I'm guessing if I were around you long enough, you'd apologize for breathing and taking up space too.”
I can feel the heat crawl across my face. "I'm sorry. I didn’t realize I was apologizing that much.”
“I know.”
That somehow makes it worse.
Without warning, Christian drives the axe down hard enough to split another log cleanly in half, and my whole body jerks at the sudden movement.
“You flinch every time I move too fast. Someone taught you to expect punishment. You know it's coming, so you react to every movement around you.”
I just stare at him, not knowing what to say. He was right.
Christian sets the axe down against the woodpile and turns to face me.
"How long?"
I wrap both of my hands tighter around the thermos. "Three years."
"And before him?"
I look out toward the lake. The water is still and grey under the morning cloud cover. "My father wasn't a warm man."
Christian says nothing before turning away and picking up his axe again. He positions another log and splits it clean.
He doesn't look at me this time when he speaks again.
"You're staying another night."
"You said one night," I say quietly.
"I did."
"It's morning."
"I'm aware. Look, I know what I said, but now I'm saying you're staying."
He picks up the split logs and stacks them beside the back door of the house, not offering any further explanation.
So I watch him work, waiting for the conditions.
The rules. The thing he wants in exchange for the roof over my head.
Preston and my father always had conditions.
Any kindness given to me always came with a price tag stapled to the back of it.
But it doesn't come. He just continues to work in silence.
"Thank you."
Christian doesn't turn around. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Thank me like I'm doing you a favor." He slides the last log into place. "You've got nowhere else to go. That's all this is."