Page 82 of Drowning in Darkness

Fuck me.

“Sparkling water, please.”

“Ooh, good choice with the meal. Also, I need to take a painkiller because my head has been throbbing since the shower.”

“You shouldn’t exert yourself then,” I murmur.

She chuckles, low and throaty. “Showering isn’t exertion. But I’ll keep your advice in mind for next time. Maybe you can give me pointers on how to manage the shower better?”

I freeze my stirring and snap my head over my shoulder. “What?”

She blinks, innocent as the day she was born. “The shower. Is there a special method on how to manage it? Maybe less heat? More pressure? Tell me what works for you.” The words penetrate, but my brain has checked out on account of her new attire. I want to beg her to put the towel back on because I have never understood the appeal of a woman wearing a man’s shirt until this moment.

Now it’s stirring a feral need in my chest. The one that’s begging me to lift her up onto the counter and show her I can beat a shower and any fantasy she has of me. She probably dreams of slow and soft lovemaking. It’s everything she deserves, but not what I can offer, reinforcing the fact that we’re mismatched in so many ways.

“There was nightwear in the drawers,” I point out.

Her lips curve as she pours water into two glasses. “I prefer a little more room when I sleep, less restriction.”

Nope. Don’t take the bait. Don’t do it. “Really?”

“Yep, I often get restless in the early hours.”

“Okay.”

Look away, man. Do it now. Save yourself.

She slides onto the bar stool, making my white shirt ride up her thigh. She catches me shamelessly staring and flutters her hand against the glimpse of damp, glistening skin leading down to the valley between her breasts. “You don’t mind, do you? I can take it off.”

Absolutely not. “Nope, that’s fine. It suits you more. It’s yours now.” I slide the garlic bread onto the wooden cutting board and slice it before sprinkling a little fresh chopped basil over it.

“Yum,” she says. “I’m ravenous.”

That makes two of us. “I made plenty. There’s another garlic bread if we run out. It only takes ten minutes in the oven.” I avoid her eyes as I plate up the carbonara.

“Who taught you to cook?”

My lips lift with fond memories of the woman who raised me. “My mother.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

My eyes lift, and I frown. “For what?”

She picks up her fork and swirls it in the pasta. “For being weak. For being the victim that led everyone onto that boat and which ultimately led to your mother’s death.”

Flashes of that night assault me, reminding me of the impossible choice Jonathan engineered to torture my sister’s boyfriend—lose the love of your life or your sister. But he didn’t count on me having loyalty to my blood over him. And he definitely didn’t count on my mother launching an attack on him and becoming the mistress of his ultimate demise. But none of that is Stephanie’s fault or doing.

Before I can overthink it, my fingers are under her chin, and I force her to meet my eyes so I can ensure my words penetrate. “Do you feel like a victim?”

She flicks her gaze over my face as if she’s committing me to memory. “No.”

“And I have never treated you as such. No one blames you for the acts of an evil man. My mother broke many moons before that night. It was her dying wish to make me free of him, and she achieved that.”

“But you aren’t free. Jonathan haunts you, and you’re still entrenched in the cult and with people like Christopher.”

Her tone isn’t accusing, but I can hear the thousand questions that any reasonable person would have about my life. “I’m working on it.”

My thumb traces the corner of her lower lip, making her mouth part and breath rush out. “What happens when you’re free?” she whispers. There’s hope in her eyes for a future I’ll never see.