Chapter 10
Annabelle
My stomach twists as bile hits the back of my throat.
He doesn’t answer me. He just stares at me with an unreadable expression that unnerves me.
I don’t want him to say I’ve angered him or done something wrong.
I don’t want him to walk away. I need him.
I need him to keep doing things for me, to keep making decisions and thinking for me.
His hand comes up and settles at my jaw, firm without hurting.
“No,” he says at last. “You did nothing wrong.”
The breath leaves me in a rush so sharp it almost hurts.
But it doesn’t fix this. I need to fix this somehow, to make sure he doesn’t leave me. With a trembling hand, I reach for him, running my hand up his thigh. He grips my fingers without taking his eyes from mine.
“No, you don’t need to fix anything.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Sleep, Annabelle.”
He lets me go, and I withdraw my hand as if I’ve been stung. I cradle it against my chest, closing my eyes so the tears don’t fall.
“Don’t do that,” he says, stroking my hair. “Don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it,” I whisper, hating how thin my voice sounds.
“You can.” His thumb brushes under my eye before any tears can fall. “You don’t need to panic every time something feels off. I’m not going anywhere.”
I open my eyes and look at him. His face is calm again. Beautiful. Controlled. If I didn’t feel the tension in him, I would think I imagined the roughness from earlier. Maybe I am imagining things. Maybe I am more exhausted than I realise.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
His expression hardens. “Stop apologising for existing.”
My throat tightens. Nobody has ever said that to me before.
He slides down beside me on top of the duvet, not under it, like he is making a point of staying available without crowding me. “Come here.”
I move without thinking, shuffling across the mattress until he pulls me against his chest. His body is warm and solid. Too solid to be temporary. Too steady to be real. I rest my cheek against him and listen to his heartbeat. It is slow. Certain. Nothing like mine.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I know.”
“Are you frightened of me?”
The question is quiet. Careful.
I think about his hand on my throat. The crack in the tile. The way he looked at that driver like murder would be easy. The way he tells me what to do, and my whole body unclenches at it.
“No.”
“Good. You never need to be afraid of me, Annabelle. I am the one who will protect you from this world.”
His words hit a place in my soul that wrenches hard, painfully. “How do you know I need protecting?”
“Because I see you,” he murmurs. “I’ve seen you for a long time, Tinkerbell.”
His voice is a low vibration against my ear.
It sounds like a promise and a threat all at once.
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push him for more.
I am too tired to play detective. I have spent four years playing detective, and it has left me hollowed out, a shell of a woman waiting for a life that never restarted after the doorstep visit.
His hand remains in my hair, a steady weight that keeps the room from spinning.
The darkness of the bedroom feels different tonight.
Usually, the shadows are where my mother’s ghost lives, where the man who took her from me waits in the corners of my mind.
Tonight, the only thing in the dark is Ethan.
And he is safety, not fear.
“Go to sleep, Tinks,” he says.
I close my eyes. I don’t fight him. I don’t worry about the morning after pill or the library or the fact that my life has been hijacked by a man who hits walls. I just let him fill my senses.
I drift off to the sound of his breathing, anchored to the world by the man who—for reasons known only to him—refuses to let me sink.
* * *
Groaning, I wake up. I’m cramping, and I feel wet between my legs. “Fuck,” I mutter and push my hair out of my face.
“What is it?” Ethan asks. He isn’t in bed; he is standing by the window.
“My period,” I mutter without shame in my hurry to get to the bathroom.
I slam the door closed in the en-suite before he can reach me.
The timing is a burden lifted. It accounts for the weepiness and the sudden drop into deeper despair. I reach for the cabinet, my hand shaking as I find my tampons. The cracked tile remains at the edge of my vision, a reminder of the force he carries.
A knock sounds on the door. It is not tentative. “Annabelle.”
“I’m busy,” I call out, my voice cracking.
The handle turns. I forgot to click the lock.
Ethan enters without an invitation. His blue eyes scan the small space, the cracked tile, until they land on me.
The energy to feel embarrassed is gone. He doesn’t look away.
He doesn’t show disgust. He walks to the sink and wets a flannel with warm water.
He kneels in front of me and pulls my shorts down. I step out of them as he ignores the mess. He cleans my skin with steady, rhythmic strokes. The intimacy is suffocating. It is an invasion. He takes care of it. He handles the ruin. I am a project to him. A possession to be maintained.
It settles the pain inside me more than any medication could.
He takes the tampon out of my hand and unwraps it.
To my mortification, he inserts it into me and looks up, “Comfortable?”
“Yes,” I croak, my cheeks going hot. “You don’t have to—”
“I do. You are mine to take care of, Annabelle. There is no pick and choose. That means everything.”
There are no words. The small part of me that I refuse to listen to is telling me this is wrong, too intense, too fast. It doesn’t matter even if it is.
It’s exactly what I need, so I don’t reach the place I did the other night.
My mum would be disappointed in me, and that is the only thing stopping me from giving up at the moment.
Ethan stands and washes his hands before moving into the bedroom, he pulls open the dresser and picks up a pair of underwear. He returns to me and helps me into them. Then he scoops up the bloodied sleep shorts. “I’ll get these in the wash.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He kisses the top of my head. “Go back to bed, I’ll bring you some tea up.”
I crawl back under the duvet, relieved that the morning after pill isn’t needed.
The fabric is cool against my skin. My face still burns from the intimacy of the last five minutes.
I am twenty-eight years old, and a man just put my tampon in because he has inserted himself into my life after a one-night stand to take care of me.
Why am I letting this happen?
But I know the answer, and I’m not afraid. If he is going to hurt me, I won’t feel it. If he is going to kill me, I’ll find relief. There is nothing about this situation that is going to make me push him away while he is here.
But the shame from the tampon incident is there, buried under layers of apathy. It is smaller than the relief.
Downstairs, the pipes groan as the washing machine starts.
I stare at the ceiling. The light is grey, a dull morning trying to fight through the curtains. I hate the sun. I hate the way it demands I be a person with a life and a purpose.
Moments later, the door creaks. Ethan enters carrying a steaming mug. He places it on the bedside table. “Drink it while it’s hot.”
“Thank you,” I mutter.
He sits on the edge of the mattress. His hand finds my ankle through the duvet. He anchors me there.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No. You also don’t need to go to the chemist.”
He grips my chin as I look down. “Your alarm will be going off soon. Try to get some more rest before work. I’ll drop you off.”
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t sleep.”
“Ever?” I ask with a small smile.
“Rarely.” He returns the smile.
“All I want to do is sleep,” I admit quietly.
“That is because the world is too much for you right now, Annabelle. You find solace in slumber. But I will bring you back. I’ll make breakfast.”
He gets up before I can ask him how he seems to know so much about me. Not that it matters.
Nothing matters except him.