twenty-six
Eliza
When I hear the jangling of keys in the door, I don’t know what to do with myself. I have the ridiculous urge to pose somewhere, like he’s going to walk in and forget that I haven’t lived here in months. I shove the thought away just as the door opens and my husband walks in. He stops short, blinking at me like I must be a mirage.
“What are you doing here?” he asks carefully, turning to push the door closed behind him.
Suddenly I wish I had posed somewhere. Better than standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, clasping my hands in front of me like I’m waiting for his fucking approval.
“You told me on our wedding day that I have to always come back to you.”
He sets down his leather bag, the one that looks professional, but if I had to guess, probably contains a Glock, a few extra magazines, some rope for tying up uncooperative suspects, and maybe a handful of instruments of torture thrown in for good measure.
“And you made it clear you do whatever the fuck you want and don’t obey me,” he says, the corner of his mouth tilting up so I know he’s just giving me a hard time.
“Yeah,” I admit. “But maybe I sort of like it when you get all bossy and dominating.”
He arches a brow. “Is that right?”
“It was pretty hot when you fed me that time,” I admit, biting at my lower lip.
His eyes follow the movement, but he returns his gaze to mine quickly. “I’m going to clean up,” he says, snagging his bag and heading to the bedroom.
A minute later, I hear the shower running. He always showers when he gets home, even when I can’t see blood on him. It must suck for a guy like him to have to hurt people all day. He’s not like Dad’s men, who joke about it over dinner. He’ll get there, but he’s not desensitized to violence yet. I’m probably more callous than he is, for fuck’s sake. But I can’t help but wonder if he’s excited that I’m home, if he’s taking a cold shower so he doesn’t get his hopes up. I want to tell him that he can, that I’m ready to try again, but I don’t want to lead him on. I don’t know if I’ll make it all the way this time, or if I’ll freak out again.
Dinner’s not supposed to arrive for an hour, so I go into the bedroom and sit on my side of the bed and lean back on the pillows, waiting for him to come out. A few minutes later, he emerges trailing wisps of steam, wearing nothing but the water droplets clinging to his skin and a towel wrapped around his hips, hanging low enough that I can see the V of muscle leading downward.
I swallow hard, trying not to ogle him. But god, he’s so beautiful. I’m not even an artist, and he makes me want to draw him. All those angles and long lines. Was Michelangelo gay? Because it would be a damn shame to look at something like that and not see how sexy it is. Or maybe that would be a good thing. I don’t know how long it took him to carve David, but it would probably be the longest hard-on in history.
King goes to the dresser and opens the drawer to get his boxers.
“Are you just visiting?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I realized that I’m doing just what my mother did. I don’t want to do that to anyone. I want to fight for this. For us.”
“I’ve been a terrible husband,” he reminds me.
“I probably deserved it,” I say. “I was a total bitch to you.”
“No one deserves what I did. I want you to know, I don’t think you owe me your body. Not ever. If you give it to me, I’ll honor it the way I always should have.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. I think I wanted you to force me. To get it over with. I just didn’t know how to say it.”
“Well, I’m happy to boss you around a little,” he says with a little grin. “But I don’t want to cross that line ever again. I don’t want to risk losing you.”
“Maybe I was testing you in some way to see. In my world, people don’t stick around. I push them away, because it’s easier if I’m the one who makes them leave. Eventually, they always do. No one stays.”
King’s expression turns pained, and he comes over to sink onto the other side of the bed. “Eliza… Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who left. You just let me.”
“I thought you wanted freedom from me.”
“I wanted freedom,” I agree. “Now I have it, and this is what I choose to do with that freedom.”
He reaches for me, pulling me to him. I curl against him, relieved for the contact. That surprises me. I’ve gotten used to his touch, and on our nights apart, when he’s not there to hold me, I miss him all night.
“If this is what you really want, I’m so fucking happy to have you back. But I want you to make sure it is.Am I really good enough, or is this just another one of your self-destructive tendencies, like the drinking?”