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I recoil slightly, shifting back fully into the chair, putting the little space I can between me and the volatile man.
He sucks in a sharp breath, like he’s trying to control his rage.
“But…” I open and close my mouth a few times as I attempt to sort through what’s happened in the last several days. “But that’s what you wanted, what you demanded. All I did was—”
“All you did was fuck up everything.”
His words make me bristle, and there are a thousand questions I want to ask him, a thousand answers I need, but he storms away with long, sure strides before I get the chance to even open my mouth again.
If he didn’t want me here, then why the hell did he demand that Dad send me?
It doesn’t look like I’m going to figure any of it out anytime soon, not with him basically running away from me.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me why I’m down here in the first place. I may want answers, but what my body needs is food.
I lift the nearest cloche, and my mouth waters at the plate filled with sausage and bacon.
Oh, God.
The next holds Belgian waffles and pancakes.
Another contains eggs cooked three different ways, like his chef wanted to make sure all the options were available.
Fresh fruit and pastries fill the final one.
And a beautiful teapot and matching cup and saucer sit ready beside the spread that’s large enough to feed a small army.
I pile my plate high with far more food than I’ll ever eat, then dig in, letting my eyes bounce around the elegant dining room and the massive double-sided fireplace that allows the flames and heat to permeate this space, too.
As I dip my head to spear another bite with my fork, my eye catches another slip of paper and a pen tucked under one of the cloches. I slide them out and find his neat scrawl again.
Use this to make your list of requests for meals.
To the point.
Almost harshly direct.
The man certainly doesn’t mince words.
If I’m going to get any answers from him, I’m going to have to drag them out of him in a way that’s going to be very painful for both of us.
WESTON
The clank of silverware hitting fine bone china that hasn’t been used in decades fills the house. After the deafening silence I’ve lived in for so long, the noise is unnerving. My skin crawls, and my knee bounces where I’m seated in the leather chair facing the fireplace, waiting for her to finish, unable to bring myself to join her at the table I haven’t shared with anyone in thirty years.
Sounds carry memories, and certain faces float in my head. Promises made and soft words spoken. Lies told and believed. Love held and easily lost by betrayal.
I fight the desire to leap up and race out of the house, to seek solace in the woods or with my axe in hand rather than force myself to suffer through listening to her enjoy her meal.
Because those sounds are a whole new type of torture.
A little moan of pleasure here.
A muttered word of praise to the chef there.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty.
