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“Then sleep in your bed. I’m perfectly happy in my bed.” I don’t know why I’m pushing him.
Okay, that’s a lie. I kind of know why I’m pushing him.
Okay, another lie. I totally know why I’m pushing him.
I just don’t like my reason. But the fact of the matter is that I’m angry with him. I’m angry because he didn’t follow me to bed, like usual. Didn’t brush my hair. Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t settle his big weight into my body, shoving me into a kind of sleep where I felt impossibly cherished, and impossibly, insanely, foolishly safe.
Kirill throws back a thick black blanket, from what I can see by the sliver of silver moonlight that spills between black drapes, to lay me down on black sheets.
When I shove myself up, I’m met with a big, hard hand in my belly. He pushes me back down onto his bed, his low growl a threatening warning that has my heart racing in my chest.
“Don’t push me tonight, wife. I will punish you, and you won’t like it.” He gives me a little weight as he leans in close. “Or maybe you will.”
I hold my breath, ill-prepared for this kind of back and forth. I sense he’s in a mood, and although I’m in one too, I’m not sure I have it in me to go against him like this. I’m not sure I’m prepared to weather the consequences.
“I’m tired,” I whisper.
He stays hovering above me for a long moment. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to push me or restrain himself. I’m too afraid to ask. Too afraid to poke right now, while he’s clearly on the edge like this.
Finally, he pushes up to stand at the side of the bed. I watch in the sliver of silver light as he reaches out a big hand for the blanket, pulling it up over me. He stands there for a long while, simply peering down at me as I lay stiffly in his bed, under blankets that smell entirely of him.
“We’re in here from now on.”
“In here?” I can hear the thudding of my heart between my ears.
Can he hear it too?
“In my room. When we sleep, we’re in here. In my bed.”
“I like my room.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, reflecting in the moonlight. “You’re in here, Ruby.”
I say nothing as I turn over, giving him my back. Apparently, he’s touchy tonight.
I wonder, what happened to put him in such a bad mood? Considering I’m not getting anywhere with him right now, I see no point in attempting to tell him my feelings. They don’t seem to matter to him, anyway.
The thought has hot tears of frustration welling in my eyes. I pray he won’t see them as they begin to fall to the pillow under my head. I wasn’t lying when I said I was tired. I’m bone tired. I’m beyond stressed. I’m emotionally ravaged.
Behind me, my husband looses a heavy sigh. Then he turns and moves deeper into the room. I listen to his movements, to the sound of material sliding over his body, to his footsteps as he moves into what I assume is the bathroom. It doesn’t take long for that assumption to be confirmed with the sound of water running.
My ears stay trained to the sound of him in the bathroom the entire time he’s in the shower. He’s in there so long, I almost think I should go check on him. But I’m too afraid of what I might see, so I stay where I am. A coward.
The water shuts off and I turn back to the edge of the bed, a little shriek escaping as I come face-to-face with a regal Simba.
“You scared me,” I whisper to the dog as he peers at me through observant eyes.
I snuggle into my pillow, determined to at least seem asleep for when my obviously tense husband returns to bed. Clearly, Simba’s concern is a little placated, because as I snuggle into my pillow, he curls his body into a ball on the plush carpet that covers the floor on my side of the bed.
My heart squeezes for the big, scary pup who clearly holds affection for me. Hanging my hand over the side of the bed, I give Simba a pet. I don’t stop until I hear the click of the bathroom door, and then my husband’s footsteps as he moves closer to me.
Stealthily, I pull my hand back under the covers, doing my best to pretend I’m asleep as he pulls back the covers and slides in beside me. I think for a moment, he’ll settle in on his side of the bed, but he doesn’t. Like every other night, he slides closer until his front is pressed to my back. With his arm looped around my belly, he tugs me closer to him, rumbling a low, “I know you’re awake.”
I huff a sigh. “But I want to be asleep.”
“I’m sorry I was so abrasive.”
Did I hear that right? Is he apologizing? To me?
