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I tilt my head, watching her movements. They’re still slightly robotic, her fingers moving in a jerky manner due to the residual tremors, but she’s speaking without the haunting edge.
She’s also behaving normally, so that should be a promising sign.
After she makes sure the bag of containers is strapped in, she narrows her eyes on me. “You won’t object?”
“About?”
“Me calling him Leo.”
“Do you want me to object?”
“Nope.” She smiles and kisses my cheek. “You can be so adorable when you’re compliant, babe.”
And then she slides into the back seat.
I remain rooted in place, resisting the urge to touch where her lips burned my skin.
Did she just call me adorable and babe in the same sentence after kissing my cheek?
Jesus fucking Christ.
Maybe I should be the one who sees a doctor because I want her to repeat what just happened in that exact order.
Better yet, perhaps I should have her checked in case the brat behavior underwent some dangerous mutation.
I catch a glimpse of Henderson trying to hide his creepy smile. It disappears as soon as I narrow my eyes at him.
Maybe it’s time to chuck him over a cliff. I don’t appreciate his recent bonding with my wife or the way she keeps buying him stuff and making sure he eats. She’s not his mother last I checked.
I’m the only one she needs to make sure eats.
And no, I’m not being dramatic. This is perfectly normal behavior, even according to my father.
Mum said I shouldn’t listen to him, but she’s wrong in this instance.
I join my wife in the back seat, subtly searching for any red flags. As soon as the car moves, she faces me, a cryptic look casting a sheen over her expression.
Ava has always been an open book, including her attention-seeking behavior and over-the-top hatred during the past couple of years. I recognized what she wanted to accomplish with those and I often smashed any opportunity where she could’ve moved on to smithereens.
Again, and again, and fucking again.
Until she fell to her knees and could only see me as her savior.
Not anyone else.Me.
And yet, right now, she feels foreign. Not that ghost version of herself, but something different whose fine print I can’t read.
“Why can’t I drive?” she asks in a low, barely audible voice.”
“It’s not that you can’t.”
“It’s that I shouldn’t,” she finishes. “I figured that out from your uncharacteristic anger. You were worried about me because you anticipated the panic attack. Will I get one every time I drive?”
“Most likely.”
“Is that why you didn’t let me drive that time when I, uh, damaged your car?”
“Correct.”
