CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
Meals had always been measured in usefulness.
If I worked hard enough, I ate. If I was too slow, too clumsy, too tired, then hunger became another lesson to endure until morning.
I reach for the toast with careful fingers, afraid to spill anything on the beautiful vintage couch.
I take a cautious bite, unable to stop myself from looking around the room once more, my gaze catching on the walls that frame the living room.
Heaven. It tastes like heaven. Which is a far cry from the hell I thought he’d send me.
“Who’s the little girl?”
He looks up from his mug, following my gaze toward the hallway before understanding settles across his features.
“My sister.”
The answer comes quickly, and I’m almost shocked he answered.
“I thought…” I trail off, lowering my gaze to the hot chocolate as though it might offer me the words I can’t seem to find. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
Something is telling me that if I push too hard, he’ll shut down again and say nothing. And I find myself wanting to know everything about him. If not for anything than to give me something to hold onto for when I return to the farm.
“How about we make a deal?”
I lift my eyes to meet him, curious to where this is going. He doesn’t seem like much of a talker, but the way he’s perked up has sparked my interest.
“For every question you ask me, you answer one of mine and I’ll return the favor with the same honesty you give me.” His voice is calm and even as it has been since the moment I arrived.
“A fair exchange.”
He inclines his head, and my eyes catch on the faint dimples that deepen his defined cheekbones, so unexpected against the hard lines of his face that for a second I wonder If I imagined they were there at all.
I study his eyes, watching as the flames dance in them so beautifully he almost looks like magic.
If monsters smiled, surely they weren’t supposed to look this good.
Or maybe that had always been the most dangerous thing about him.
Do monsters look like monsters, or do they look like men?
“I asked first,” I remind him quietly.
“You did.” He glances toward the fireplace, before his eyes meet mine again. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” I reply, watching as he wordlessly gives a small contemplative nod.
“And you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Only three years. For some reason I’d imagined him older.
Older than the trees surrounding this house and the bodies lying peacefully in the graves outside.
Instead, he’s simply a man three years older than me, sitting before me drinking hot chocolate.
Deciding that I like this game, I ponder questions that might not get me into trouble, and keep them light enough he might be willing to answer.
“What does your sister do?”
For the first time since we’d begun talking, something unmistakable shifts across his face. The careful reserve he had worn since the market earlier today eases ever so slightly. His gaze drifts briefly toward the hallway, toward the photographs lining the walls before returning to me.
“She’s a doctor.” The words come easily, followed by the faintest shake of his head, as though correcting himself. “Well…a surgeon. A doctor. Both.”
The correction makes something inside me tug.
He’s unbelievably human at this moment. He doesn’t sound like a man trying to impress me with her accomplishments.
If anything, he sounds quietly proud, and nervous to talk about her all at the same time.
He meets my gaze with quiet expectation before raising a single brow, the unspoken reminder of our agreement hanging between us.
My lips press together, the urge to roll my eyes at the childishness of the game catching me by surprise, and for a moment, I almost smile.
It’s like he’s carefully choosing a question from a hundred different possibilities, dismissing each one before finally settling on something so ordinary I almost laugh out loud.
“What side of the bed do you sleep on?”
What sort of a question is that?
“Uh…” I hesitate, thrown completely by how mundane it is. “I sleep in a single bed.”
He nods, his expression remains the same as he considers my answer before gesturing for me to take my turn.
“Why do you live alone?”
His amber eyes linger on mine for a moment before settling somewhere beyond my shoulder, and I watch as a slow breath leaves his still shirtless chest.
“It’s always been easier for a man like me.
Can’t give them leverage if there is no one to threaten.
” His words aren’t spoken with bitterness or regret, only resignation of someone who made peace with that truth a long time ago.
My eyes trace the strong line of his jaw, the stands of hair that are dry now, the broad shoulders that for some reason, seem to carry a weight I cannot see but somehow know has always been there.
He wears solitude the same way old churches wear ivy, so completely entwined with their foundations that it becomes impossible to remember what existed before it took hold.
I wonder if loneliness can become like a person’s shadow, faithfully following them until they no longer notice it stretching at their feet.
I had always imagined him surrounded by darkness because he welcomed it.
He had always been the one thing standing between me and the grave.
Perhaps that is why they call him Death.
Not because he brings it with him, but because he walks comfortably beside it that the two have become impossible to separate.
He’s always shown me kindness. While I am still not used to it, it’s not how I expected Death to be.
I don’t miss his use of the word them.