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His back stiffens, and he glances over his shoulder at me. “Stop thanking me, Beauty. None of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for me. The last thing you should do is thank me for trying to make something I caused better.”
He climbs to his feet and then starts to walk past me.
I grab his arm, just under the Barker family crest peeking out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Where are you going?”
A muscle in his clenched jaw tics as he stares back at me, seemingly perturbed by my attempt to prevent his flight from the room. He drags his eyes away and looks to the bedroom. “To wait out there.”
I tighten my grip. “Don’t leave. Join me.”
The resignation in his gaze when it meets mine tells me I’ve won this battle, but there’s still a long war to fight.
Chapter Eighteen
CALLISTA
Ipick at my food, but I have absolutely zero appetite this morning. And it has nothing to do with the lingering aches and bruises.
Weston went to great lengths to make me my favorite French toast and fill the cloches with all the other things he’s learned I love for breakfast. Yet I’ve only managed to take a few bites, and each one of those sours in my stomach quickly.
I frown at my plate, trying to will myself to eat more because, God knows, I need it. But there’s something I need more, something he has yet to give me—despite numerous requests throughout the sleepless night—answers.
He placated my requests with gentle brushes of his lips over mine or a murmured promise that we would talk later. Even though I finally managed to get him into the bed with me after our long soak, I couldn’t pry the explanation of what happened from the death grip he kept on it.
I glance up and find him sitting back in his chair across the long table, hands steepled over his mouth as he watches me, concern furrowing his brow. “I’m sorry. I just can’t eat.”
There isn’t any point in making excuses or lying. Weston is more than adept at getting to the truth, something I seem to fail at over and over.
That failure sits in my stomach like a giant boulder.
Weston releases a little sigh and runs a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his head. “I figured.”
And now I’ve gone and insulted his food and the efforts he went through to prepare this all for me this morning.
“It has nothing to do with—”
He holds up a hand to stop me, the large callouses and rough skin visible even from the far end of the table. “No need to explain yourself, Beauty. I get it.”
“Do you?”
Weston is a great many things, but he isn’t a mind reader. And I’ve been doing my best not to push today, to let him pamper me and do what he needs to in order to regain control over the beast inside him that threatened to come to life last night in that room.
I managed to keep him at bay.
To tame him enough that the man could rest—if not sleep—for at least a few hours. But morning came far too soon, and with it, the reality that absolutely nothing has been resolved or explained.
I’m back in limbo.
Waiting.
At the mercy of others to give me tidbits of information that could dramatically change the course of my life.
Weston nods slowly. “I do. You have a lot of questions, and I have tried for far too long to keep the truth from you. But that ends now.”
Hope blooms in my chest, warming what has been cold and dark since the moment I woke in that place. “Really?”
He stands, pushing back his chair and holding out his hand. “Come on.”
I set down my fork next to my plate, shove back my chair, and walk around the long table toward him, sliding my palm against his. He tugs me around the massive fireplace and over to the big leather chair he likes to sit in.
