30
CARA
I’d tried to call Killian once or twice after Archer had left, but both calls went straight to voicemail. If Killian is still choosing to ignore me, then so be it, he’ll come home eventually, I’m sure, and then I can set about putting things right.
I run my hand over the counter, catching my thumb on the scratch on the surface as the coffee pot bubbles behind me. It’s been a stressful twenty-four hours since the accident. I’ve wandered the house all night, unable to rest without Killian, who has been under medical observation at Dante and Sienna’s since the accident. I suppose they need to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion or something, but I want to see him with my own eyes.
I showered, brushed my teeth to get rid of the bile taste clinging to my tongue, and attempted to scrub the wine from the floor. Despite my best efforts, though, it hasn’t come clean. I hope Killian doesn’t mind the new pattern on the floor.
Maybe I can Google a way to clean it better when I’ve got the time. Y’know, when I’m not so twisted up waiting for my husband to come through the door and face me.
The wine stain seems so ridiculously mundane in comparison.
The bubbling increases and I turn, watching the dark liquid churn inside the pot like it’s desperately trying to escape. Is that what my stomach looks like inside? As it clenches with anticipation at every sound the house makes as it settles, hoping it’ll finally be the door opening.
I pull the pot from the plate, tipping some of the boiling contents into my waiting mug, and watch it mix into a tan color with the creamer I’d already added. The bubbling fades and I’m left with the coffee and the echo of my own dire thoughts. Sliding into the bar stool, I settle against the counter as the wine stain on the floor catches my eye. It remains there, forever a stark reminder of what happened the morning after we wed, no matter how hard we might try to patch things. Does it even matter? This isn’t even really our house.
Fuck.
What a way to leave my mark.
Hugging the cup to my chest, I stare out into the darkened lounge. It’s past midnight, and being here, alone without the promise of Killian returning to me, leaves this place seeming emptier than before. Like I could get swallowed up if I stay still too long.
I sip the coffee - and immediately scald my throat, swallowing rapidly when the front door locks click into place. I set the cup down, and the bottom clinks sharply in my trembling hands. My heart flares into life, beating wildly in my chest with painful tremors as my throat sings from the hot coffee.
My lips part, trying to speak, but the words fail me.
My focus locks on the doorway as hallway floorboards creak, and my heart crawls all the way into my throat.
What if it’snotKillian, and I’m just sitting here out in the open?
Just as my thighs tingle with the urge to move, my breath is stolen away by Killian filling the doorway, and my shoulders slump, relief crashing over me as sharply as the coffee down my throat. I slide forward on the stool until my feet touch the ground, and then I hover there, unsure what to do.
He looks rough. His hair is swept back wildly and I can see a fresh, red raw wound stitched up on his forehead. The open collar of his shirt shows a bit of bruising over his chest, and my heart clenches painfully as if crushed by his fist.
He’s hurt. He really could have died.
“Killian…” I manage to force his name from my lips as he stands there, watching me with eyes so stormy I have to grip the counter edge to stop from being washed away. He lingers there and stares, an imposing presence as the walls seem drawn to him, making him appear larger. He doesn’t speak, and I have noideawhat to say.
“Want some coffee?”
Lame.
“Sure.”
His word pierces me like a dagger and I’m rooted to the spot until I can pull all my focus away from him and into myself. I slide off the stool and turn back to the pot, rummaging in the cupboard above until I locate a cup.
“Are you okay?” It’s easier to talk to him when I’m not looking at him. If I face him, I’m certain my words will be lost to his typhoon, and I’ll be nothing but a goldfish caught up in a whirlpool. I spoon two sugars into his cup and add a splash of creamer.
“In what way?”
His voice is louder, much clearer, as if he’s moved closer even though I didn’t catch any footsteps, so I distract myself by tightening the cap on the creamer until my palm screams in distress at the ridged cap.
“The crash,” I answer carefully, “Archer didn’t go into detail.”
“Forehead laceration,” Killian replies in a flat tone. “Some deep tissue bruising but nothing I’ve not walked off before.”
“That’s good.”