Chapter Twenty-Four
Jennifer
Dylan chuckles, his hand wrapped tightly around my neck, then he turns to the side. “Are you ready, Jacob?”
My eyes drift over to see him there in prison clothes, glaring at me. “You ruined my life. Now it’s your turn to pay.”
My pulse thunders against Dylan’s hold, breaths wheezing out of the tight space in my throat.
Eyes fixed on Jacob, I try to apologize, but no words escape. They’re trapped, caught somewhere below Dylan’s grip.
I didn’t mean to, I scream in my mind. I really didn’t.
But intentions don’t matter when the result is so disastrous.
Dylan’s fingers squeeze tighter. “Maybe I’ll damage her some more after all.”
His face comes closer, but then morphs, twisting into Jacob’s, the hold on my neck disappearing.
Jacob’s face is concerned as it hovers over me. “I’m just trying to help you.”
My hands shoot up and push him away without my permission, then he’s being carted away, staring at me the entire time.
“Why did you do this to me?”
I reach for him, but I’m drifting farther and farther away.
“Stop! No!”
I’m panting when I open my eyes and look up at the unfamiliar ceiling.
It takes a moment to adjust, and remember where I am: gray walls, black quilt, pink pillows. Mase’s apartment.
His comfortable guest bed feels like a cloud below me, which is a contrast to the thorns stabbing at me from the inside.
A knock sounds on the door. “Jayne?”
I push to a sitting position, lifting a hand to my still pounding heart. Was I screaming? “Y-yes?”
“I . . . heard some yelling. Everything okay?”
Flopping back onto my pillow, I cover my eyes, slight embarrassment touching my cheeks. What came out of my mouth?
“Yeah,” I call back. “Just a bad dream.” About your innocent friend and my actual attacker. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Rolling my head to the side, my eyes land on the door. I imagine Mase on the other side, creased forehead as he stands there.
When I hear the faint sound of him walking away, I flip the blanket off to force myself up but end up staring at the ceiling again. I wonder if these dreams will ever stop? It’s more than likely they’ll plague me until the day I die.
It took a while to fall asleep last night after arriving home from work.
Being in a new bed, in a new place, and knowing Mase was sleeping across the hall from me was strange, to say the least.
Plus, my mind wouldn’t turn off the constant loop of I shouldn’t be here.
But here I am.
As soon as my feet hit the soft carpet instead of the cold laminate floor of my bedroom, I close my eyes and take a moment to curl my toes into the threads.
It’s nice not to have the urge to dive back under the covers, because Mase’s apartment is properly insulated.
After slipping on a long-sleeved top to go along with my sleep shorts, and using the bathroom, I slowly wander down the short hall, unsure of what to expect here at eleven a.m. on a Sunday morning.
Lulu appears out of nowhere and circles my ankles, letting out a little meow. I look down at her bright blue eyes and can’t resist picking her up. “Hey, cutie,” I whisper, taking her with me.
Mase is in the kitchen, pulling a bowl out from a large drawer when I emerge. He’s dressed in thin cotton pajama pants that seem to cling to his thighs and butt, and a sleeveless T-shirt that gives his biceps free reign. His dark hair is ruffled from sleep, his features soft.
He glances up and flicks his eyes between me and the kitten, a smile forming on his face that causes a weird sensation to blanket my chest, similar to when he hugged me. “Good morning.”
“Hi.” I lower Lulu to the ground beside her food and water bowls. “Do you happen to have a kettle?” I ask shyly, stepping closer. “And some tea?”
He points his elbow at a cabinet while cracking an egg. “There should be some chamomile tea behind the jug in there. There’s some coffee made already as well.”
I pull the kettle out, hugging it to my stomach while chewing my bottom lip. At least there’s one thing I can be honest with him about. “I, um . . . I don’t actually drink coffee. I’ve never liked it.”
“You don’t?” Mase faces me, blinks, and then nods slowly. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” I ask, filling the kettle with water.
“When I brought you the food and coffee, you didn’t even look at it. A coffee drinker would have started guzzling it before it even reached their hands.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Yes, well, I’ve been called a weirdo for it in the past.”
“You took the word right out of my mouth.”
My jaw drops as I place the tea bag into the mug. “Hey, not you as well.”
When I look back at him, his mouth is kicked up into the most boyish smile I’ve ever seen on him, and my heart just about trips over itself. I’ve never seen him look so relaxed and happy, and I realize it’s probably because of how I’ve behaved with him from the beginning.
I’ve resisted him at every turn, been difficult, yelled at him, been a mess in front of him . . .
And though I have my reasons for all of it, maybe I just need to accept that when he does things for me, and tries to help me, it makes him feel better, and as I’m coming to realize, his happiness is important to me.
As I stare at his back, the tension that usually keeps my shoulders from relaxing eases a fraction, and the air around us feels a little lighter.
Somehow the thought of making him happy lifts the burden of not allowing myself anything good off my shoulders. At least, just until I’m gone in a couple of days.
“So, bad dream, huh?” he asks after a beat, popping my thought bubble.
My brows furrow, and I turn back to my mug. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I peek at him over my shoulder again, wondering what it would be like to discuss things like that with him. What would he say if he knew the truth?
I shake my head, stuffing those thoughts down into the depths of my soul, knowing they’ll still eat away at me in the background. He angles his face to me, eyeing me like he’s trying to see exactly where I just buried it all.
“It was nothing.” I turn back to the kettle, switching it on before deciding to escape into the living room while I wait for the water to boil.
Lulu follows me, and since I’m unable to resist her big blue eyes, I sink to the floor against the front of the couch to play with her for a bit.
A rod with a fuzzy mouse attached to it lies nearby, and the second I pick it up; she starts bouncing around, trying to chase it. A smile pulls my cheeks wide, and I continue flicking the rod back and forth while trailing my eyes around the room.
A large TV sits on a cabinet in the corner between two windows, with photos and a few awards for Jiu-jitsu and Taekwondo hanging on the walls surrounding them.
A small bookshelf with a handful of books and knick-knacks stands to my right, and a rubber tree plant sits opposite the couch I’m leaning against. The coffee table is still sitting at the odd angle Mase pushed it to yesterday when he sat in a similar position to play with Lulu.
There are no festive decorations in his apartment, just like there aren’t any in mine, and I wonder if he’s going to put any up.
I keep trailing my gaze around the room until they land back on Mase in the kitchen to my left.
My eyes slowly trail over the dark waves of his hair, the way his brows pull together in concentration, and the way his tongue pokes out to wet his lips.
His muscles flex and bulge as he mixes something, ropes of muscle traveling down the length of his arms to his hands. His tattoos are a mix of swirls and patterns, and I briefly imagine tracing them with a finger.
I drag my eyes back up, surprised to find his onyx ones on me.
At the curve of his lips, I shift my attention away again, as if I wasn’t just caught ogling him.
“Do you want your tea out there?” he asks a moment later.
“Oh.” I push to my feet and move to stand on the opposite side of the breakfast bar to him, noticing he’s already made it for me. “Here is fine. Thank you.”
He slides the mug across the bar, our fingers brushing as I take it from him, sending a rush of tingles up my arm.
His gaze flicks to me and holds for a moment, like he felt it as well, but then he looks away. “What do you think about a veggie omelet for breakfast?”
Still processing the way his fingers felt, his question takes a beat to register. I shake my head. “You don’t have to make me anything. You’ve already done so much for me.”
“It’s no big deal. I was already making one for myself.” He tips the contents from a bowl into the heated pan.
Guilt immediately follows, but it’s not as strong as usual. Instead, more fuzzy warmth spreads through me, pushing the negative thoughts even lower until they’re covered up.
It hits me now with sudden clarity.
I . . . like him.
And to be honest, I’m not even sure when it started. I’ve been denying that the kernel of joy hidden beneath the layers of self-hatred has been anything worth giving attention to. But anytime I’m in his presence, it flickers to life.
Attraction to the opposite sex, and anything like it, has been something so far removed from my thoughts for years that I didn’t immediately recognize it.
And while you can think someone is attractive and not have feelings for them, the uptick in my pulse merely at his smile in my direction suggests it’s more than simple attraction.
It seems fitting that I’ve developed feelings for, not only someone who is simply being kind to me, but a man who is so closely linked to my shameful past that I can’t hide much from him.
Unfortunately, all his opinions and actions are based on false information. He’s acting without knowing the full picture, and I guess being aware of that is my punishment for now.
Oh, what sweet torture it is to be cared for by someone who doesn’t know he’s meant to hate me.
But how could anyone not develop feelings for a man so caring and thoughtful? Someone who sees past the damage and wants the best for you.
When I realize I’m staring at him without responding, I clear my throat. “Okay. But at least let me clean up and do the dishes.” I don’t want to feel like a useless burden to him.
“Eat first. Clean later.”
I wrap my fingers around the mug, the delicious scent of the omelet filling the air. “Thank you, Mase. For everything.”
He stares at me for a beat, his features softening to something that still manages to cut through my outer layers. “You’re welcome.”