Page 139 of The Unwilling Bride
I noticed the faint crease between her brows when she concentrated on plating.
The way she leaned over a pot to stir it, the steam rising around her until her face glowed under the kitchen lights.
The way she rolled her shoulders when the pressure mounted.
My attention kept drifting to her. And now, she’s here.
In my apartment.
Under my roof.
I worried about that.
For years, the space has belonged only to me and Malice. Order. Routine. Control. I was certain another person moving through it would unsettle everything.
That my OCD would spike.
That didn’t happen.
Instead, the moment she walked in, something shifted.
The apartment felt…different. Less like a place I retreat to between shifts. More like somewhere someone might actually live.
Somewhere warm.
The realization unsettles me. Because the truth is simple.
Having her here feels right.
As if she fits into the space in a way I hadn’t anticipated. As if the apartment was waiting for her.
I drag my fingers through my hair and try not to think about what that might mean.
Because if I start examining it too closely, I might have to admit something I’m not prepared to face.
When she pulled off her hair tie and it fell to the floor, I snagged it without her noticing. Again.
I sniff the hair tie, inhaling her scent, which goes straight to my head. Warmth infiltrates my chest and dispels the coldness normally lurking there.
I head to the drawer of the desk in my room and pull it open. Then add the hair tie to my collection.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Nine hair ties. I rearrange them until I’m satisfied.
I should tell my wife that I’ve been collecting them. That this is why she keeps losing them. That I hoard them and look at them because they calm me.
I’ll do so soon. When I’m sure she understands my compulsion. I promise myself.
I force myself to look away from the pieces of elastic. Then I then shut the drawer.
Once I touch her, the wall I’ve tried to put up between us will crumble.
I walk into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and drop them into the hamper. Then I step into the shower. My shaft is painfully engorged, bobbing up against my lower belly.
I turn the shower to cold, stand under it, and wince.
The needles of water beating against my shoulders and chest, do little to help alleviate the tension that has built up.
The fact that the object of my lust is sleeping under my roof doesn’t help either.
