I always know what to say the spoil the mood.
We lie in the strained atmosphere for a long time, but the warmth of our bodies that are pressed together under the sheet becomes comfortable when the night turns cooler. Eventually, exhaustion wins, at least for her. I manage to rest, but my sleep is light, interrupted by frequent waking.
After tossing and turning for most of the night, I give up at dawn and get up quietly. I pull on a pair of shorts in the bathroom and go downstairs.
An hour of grueling cross-training settles some of my tension. I finish my workout with a few laps in the pool. Needing caffeine after another night of restless sleep, I make coffee and carry a mug to the deck. It’s still early, barely six-thirty. Wanting to let Violet sleep for as long as possible before I need to get ready for work, I keep myself busy by taking my Glock G17 from the safe and cleaning it at the garden table. The task of taking the pistol apart and brushing and lubricating the pieces before putting them together again is much like building a favorite puzzle. It calms me.
I’m running a patch with bore cleaner through the barrel, the chamber and bullets neatly laid out in front of me, when Violet appears in the door, wearing an oversized T-shirt that has slipped off one shoulder. I lift my gaze only for a second, but it’s enough to take in all of her, to notice how the pink color of the fabric compliments the glow of her golden skin and how her hair that’s still tangled from sleeping makes her look soft and feminine. Huggable. Enough to notice how long those shapely legs are and to wonder if she’s wearing anything underneath the T-shirt.
“It’s early,” I say, sliding the chamber into the frame and locking it with a click. “You should’ve stayed in bed.”
I don’t have to look at her to catch her swallowing from the corner of my eye, her throat rippling as she stares at the gun. I’m well practiced in observation, in seeing everything even though it seems as if I’m not paying attention.
When she doesn’t answer, I raise my head to meet her gaze. Her lavender eyes are wide, fear tinting them a shade darker.
Her reaction surprises me. Having grown up in a house with Gus, guns shouldn’t be a foreign sight for her.
I pull back the slide to test the lubrication of the spring. Her gaze is trained on the action as she takes a step back, looking ready to flee.
“Come here,” I say, keeping my tone soft.
Her attention snaps to my face, panic painted on her features. “Why?”
As she’s not making a move to come closer, I get up, pick up the gun, and, holding it flat on my palm, walk slowly toward her. “Touch it.”
She jerks her hands behind her back. “No.”
“It’s not loaded,” I say, stopping in front of her. “It’s safe.”
She shakes her head, making her hair fly around her face. A strand remains stuck to her cheek when she looks up at me again. “I don’t want to.”
“Nothing is going to happen.” If she lives with me, it’s best she learns to be comfortable around guns. My lifestyle necessitates an arsenal of them. I hold the gun to her with the barrel pointing away. “Here. Most people’s fear stems from an inexperience in handling them.”
“No,” she says, taking another step away, terror bleeding into her eyes.
I frown. It’s not like her to be so jumpy. “Give me your hand. I just want you to see nothing is going to happen if you touch it.”
“No.” She backtracks to the center of the lounge. “Please, Leon.”
It’s not the rare use of my name that alarms me. It’s how she says it, begging me. Violet never begs. I doubt she’ll beg for water after a week in the desert, especially not from me.
I study her more closely. The kind of terror that reduces a person to pleading can only be caused by two things—trauma or fearing for your life.
Both thoughts do things to me, things that turn me inside-out. I’m fiercely protective of what’s mine. The gods have mercy on any person who did something to her because I’ll rip him apart. But the notion that floors me is the realization that she may feel unsafe with me.
Holding up my hands, I advance to the bar. “Fine. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” I put the gun down on the counter. Slowly. “There. Better?”
She shakes her head again, hugging herself.
“I’ll put it back in the safe,” I say, holding my palms in a placating gesture as I move carefully to her.
Bravely, she stands her ground, but she cranes her neck when I stop short of her, searching my eyes for a lie.