Page 6 of Cruel Submission

I close my eyes and breathe him in.

God, I’m pathetic.

When I open my eyes again, I see the chaos.

Drawers left partially open. Clothes missing from the closet. His gun safe closed but not locked properly—the edge of the door not quite flush with the frame. Papers scattered on his desk like he swept them aside in a hurry.

He left fast.

But for what?

I don’t know. That’s the problem. I know nothing about where he goes or what he does or why he’d leave the house like this.

With his weapons.

He could be anywhere. Doing anything.

He could be hurt.

He could be with someone else.

The second thought surprises me with its venom. I shouldn’t care who he’s with. Shouldn’t care if he’s fucking another woman while I’m here playing housekeeper and hiding his baby in my belly.

But I do care.

And I hate myself for it.

I grab the laundry basket from the closet and start picking up discarded clothes. A shirt that still smells like him. Jeans that I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear. I fold each piece carefully, trying not to think about his hands unbuttoning them. His body underneath.

Trying not to remember the last time he touched me.

The memory surfaces anyway: his mouth on my neck, his hand sliding up my thigh, the rough command in his voice when he told me to be quiet. The way my body obeyed even when my mind screamed to resist.

Heat floods my face.

I shove the clothes in the basket and force myself to focus. There’s work to do. Tasks piling up. I can’t afford to stand here daydreaming about a man who disappears without explanation and leaves me to clean up his mess.

By the time the sun climbs higher, I’ve worked my way through most of the house. Scrubbed the kitchen until it shines. Organized the pantry. Changed the sheets on beds that haven’t been slept in. The whole time, I listen for the sound of his car in the driveway. His boots on the stairs. His voice calling my name.

Nothing.

The afternoon light slants through the windows, warm and golden. My body aches. Exhaustion settles into me, heavier than usual, the pregnancy taking its toll even though I barely show yet. I finish putting away the last of the laundry and admit defeat.

I need to lie down before I fall down.

My bedroom feels small and safe after the echoing emptiness of the rest of the house. I collapse onto the bed and grab my phone.

Still nothing from Arkady.

I should be angry. And I am, fury simmering under the fear.

Bastard!

How dare he leave without a word? How dare he make me worry like this when he’s the one who tracked my every move with apps and cameras and his goddamn security team?

But the anger just makes the fear sharper. Because what if something happened? What if he needed help and I was too busy being mad to notice?

I dial Diane before I can spiral further.