Chapter 11
Willow
“Can't sleep?”
I yelp, nearly biting my tongue as I freeze mid-handful of sweets, homeward bound, playing softly in the background. Heart pounding, I twist around on the couch.
Elijah's leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place. Well, technically, he does Willow. Pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips, bare chest on display, a cheeky smirk on his pretty face.
Not pretty.
Absolutely not pretty.
“You need a bell,” I complain, hastily setting the bowl on the coffee table as he strolls closer, far too relaxed for someone who just scared ten years off my life.
“I’ll be sure to wear one next time,” he muses, dropping down beside me. His gaze flicks to the TV. “What are you watching?”
I glare at him, pulse racing, painfully aware of how close he is now. “A film, obviously.”
He hums, clearly amused, eyes still on the screen. “Sarcastic tonight, aren't we?”
I huff and grab a sweet. “You just bring it out of me.”
That earns a deep laugh from him, warm and unguarded. I glance before I can stop myself, the flickering light from the TV washing over his skin and making the lines of his tattoos easier to see.
There's a light dusting of dark hair across his chest—something I always thought I didn't like on a man. Apparently, I'd been very wrong about that.
My eyes drift lower, tracing the artwork etched into his skin.
A large, intricately detailed clock spans his shoulder, frozen at a precise moment in time.
Woven through the Roman numerals is River's name.
Below the clock, the design softens. Angel wings unfurl across his arm, the feathers layered and detailed, some sharp and defined, others fading as they trail downward.
Between them drift heavy clouds, textured and deep, like a sky just before a storm.
The further the ink travels, the lighter it becomes—feathers thinning, clouds breaking apart.
Near his hand, small flowers emerge, delicate and almost fragile, scattered between more fallen feathers. It's beautiful and sad. Something I could look at all day. It feels like there's so much grief, it's almost consuming.
“Willow Rose, are you ogling my body?”
I suck in a breath, heat rushing straight to my face. “No,” I blurt. “And—ogling?” The word slips out, and I don't mean to laugh, but I do.
His face lights up instantly, grin wide and triumphant.
“I got you to laugh, didn't I?”
He did, and the frustrating part is that he didn’t even have to put in any effort.
He leans forward to grab something from the bowl, popping it into his mouth without hesitation. A second later, he winces, chewing like it's the most disgusting thing he's tasted. “How do you even eat these?”
I snatch the bowl away from him. “They're good. Don't diss my sweets.”
He swallows, his throat shifting as his Adam's apple moves—and oh. I really shouldn’t be thinking about how attractive he is.
He's basically my stepdad.
He leans back again, stretching out, one knee bending and falling open, the fabric of his pyjama bottoms pulling tight over his strong thighs.
The film is completely forgotten now.
“I can think of far better things to eat,” he says casually.
It's probably innocent. Probably. But the way his eyes flick—just briefly—to my lips makes my thighs squeeze together.
Holy water. I need holy water immediately.
“Well,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady as I cross my legs. “I’m perfectly happy with these.”
His eyes follow the movement before shifting to my wrists. Even covered by long sleeves, I feel exposed. He knows. I know he knows. And yet he doesn't say a word.
It's been a week since he found me in the rain, and Sassy still hasn't forgiven me for it. Not that I blame her. That night, I fell asleep for a little while instead of telling him what Rose said. He hasn't pushed as much as I thought he would. Hasn't forced an uncomfortable conversation.
I’m grateful for that.
“When was the last time you ate something?”
I lift a sweet like it's a valid argument. “I’m eating now.”
He frowns, the skin between his brows creasing in a way that makes something in my chest ache. I have the overwhelming urge to smooth it away with my fingers.
“I mean real food,” he says. “Not that plastic shit.”
Rude.
“I don't know.”
“You do.”
I turn my head, but the hand resting along the back of the couch slides towards me, fingers catching my chin. He tilts my face back to his, making him impossible to ignore.
“When was the last time you ate? And don’t make me ask again.”
There's no escaping it. He has this infuriating, unnerving way of knowing when to push—when not to let me hide.
Part of me knows he's right. I can feel it in the heaviness of my limbs, the ache that never quite leaves, the sting behind my eyes.
The tremor I can't control, no matter how tightly I curl my fingers.
“When you made the pancakes,” I admit.
His expression drops instantly. He drags his free hand down his face, the rough stubble scraping against his palm, frustration rolling off him in waves so thick it almost feels like heat. I hate that it matters to me, that I care; I've upset him.
“Christ, Willow. That was ages ago.”
I bite my lip. “I know. I just… can’t.”
I don't explain the times I've eaten nibbles from the fridge, only to stop the dizziness. Or the days spent in bed, unless he drags me to his garage. I don't go out anymore like I used to, trying to get lost in men to just forget, even if it were just for a little while.
River keeps trying to get me out of the house, but I tell him no every time because I don't want my sadness to seep into his life.
His fingers leave my chin, but they don't retreat. They slide down, settling over my hands—still shaking. I clutch the blanket, and his thumb brushes over my skin, slow and grounding, like he's anchoring me without saying a word.
He's been gentle with me. Constant. Close in a way that draws dirty looks from Rose, though she's been uncharacteristically quiet. It feels like borrowed peace, fragile and temporary, like it could slip through my fingers at any moment.
“We're going out.”
He stands and holds out his hand. I notice, absurdly, that his finger is bare.
No wedding ring.
“We can't,” I protest. “It's one in the morning.”
A smirk curves his mouth. “Good to know you can tell the time.”
Sarcastic ass.
He waits anyway, fingers flexing once before he reaches for me and pulls me up.
I stumble, completely caught off guard, and my chest collides with him.
His warmth hits me first, steady and solid, and my hands fly instinctively to his stomach—strong, firm, muscles soft in all the right places.
My fingers brush over the faint line of his abs, and heat flares through me, sudden and alarming.
He doesn't move. Not a millimetre. Just lets me press against him, like he's permitting me to touch him without saying a word. The tension deepens between us, my pulse hammering out of control.
I blink, trying to think, trying to pull away, but my skin is on fire, my chest and thighs suddenly aware of him in ways that have nothing to do with gravity. His scent is just all… him. It wraps around me, and I know he notices the little shiver that travels up my spine.
The last thing I want to do is move, but it can’t happen.
It's so fucking wrong.
I take a small step back, my heart still racing.
The way his eyes darken shows me that I'm not the only one who felt the tension.
He's incredibly tall—so much so that I don't even reach his shoulders.
With his head tilted down and dark hair falling over his forehead, I catch glimpses of his blue eyes.
Flecks of grey flash in the light from the TV, resembling tiny storms trapped in his gaze.
Being this close makes me want to stare forever.
I bet they’d look even prettier in the sun.
I lick my lips and clear my throat, trying to break the spell—but failing.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice quiet. My stomach is doing somersaults.
“Let me grab something to throw on. And you,” he adds, tilting his head at me. “Wear a jumper. We’re going to McDonald's.”
“I’m fine like this.” I brush off his instruction, forgetting where he said he's taking me.
He gives me that look—the one that says Don't even think about arguing with me.
“Cover up.”
I glance down at my Iron Man pyjamas—the full, modest ones my dad bought, not the skimpy pair I usually wear. “Cover what?” I snap, irritation creeping in.
He points at my chest.
He's joking, right?
I huff. “It's just a bit of cleavage. We’re going to McDonald's, not a bloody sex club.”
Elijah hums, and I freeze as he lightly tugs at the low neckline. “Too low for my liking. Now cover it up… or I’ll do it for you. And don't think I won't.” He winks, taps my nose and strides away from the room, leaving me pissed off and flustered all in one.
Dickhead.
“I can't believe you made me put your hoodie on—it's huge.”
I slump into my seat, practically swallowed by the fabric, as Elijah unloads the food he ordered for both of us.
Multiple burgers, bags of chips, two chocolate brownies, mozzarella bites, and a McFlurry.
I just take a cautious sip of my coffee, silently wondering how he plans to put all of that away.
“You look cute,” he says, setting a burger in front of me.
I tap my foot impatiently. “I look ridiculous.”
He leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “You look beautiful. Now eat.”
Beautiful? The thought nearly chokes me. I shouldn't be too surprised because I look like the woman he loves. A version who wears less makeup, doesn't have fake lips and actually has a nice personality.
“Do you want me to feed you?” His hand dips into the chips, lifting one toward my lips. The salty smell makes my stomach betray me with a quiet growl.
“Really? I’m not a child.”
“I don't think you're a child. Insanely stubborn and you enjoy being a brat sometimes, but… definitely not a child.”
I shake my head, caught off guard.
“Now, open wide,” he adds, teasing, and I feel a jolt through me. I part my lips slightly.