Page 75 of Under His Control

“That’s funny coming from the guy who told me to ‘leave and don’t fucking come back.’” She folds her arms. “You made me promise not to disobey you. If I’m to stay, you need to make me a promise too.”

“What do you want?”

“Promise me you won’t touch me again or try to… to do what we almost did tonight. Promise me that you’ll keep things appropriate between us.”

A beat passes before the words slide from my mouth.

“I promise.”

She frowns at me until her suspicion fades into acceptance.

Of course she believes me.

I sounded genuine to my ears too.

But I know how beautiful she looks when she’s sleeping and when she comes for me. I know the sweet sound of her laugh and when she moans my name. I know her scent and what she tastes like. She’s still on my tongue and I smell her on my lips when I breathe.

Deep down, the truth lurks.

I’m a dirty fucking liar.

* * *

For years, it’s been normal to wake up alone in my bed.

This morning, I’m on edge.

I promised myself yesterday I wouldn’t share my bed with Penelope again. That resolution died last night when she insisted she wanted to go home.

Keeping her close was necessary. I didn’t trust she wouldn’t try to sneak out while I slept. I figured my sister’s words would hurt less by morning, and Penelope would realize that staying is the right choice.

It wasn’t easy keeping my promise not to touch her. A persuasive voice whispered I should pull her close and finish what we started before Elizabeth showed up.

Did she leave anyway?

Since I’m a light sleeper, I was sure I’d know if Penelope got up. Last night’s excitement—both good and bad—must have tuckered me out.

I throw off the sheets and swing my legs out of bed, surging to my feet. I’m out of my bedroom and down the hall in seconds then come to an abrupt stop.

Penelope is sitting at the kitchen table, the notepad I use to jot down grocery lists and other random things in front of her.

She’s still here.

The thought floats through my mind the same way one would breathe “thank god” after a close call with danger.

She pauses her pencil sketch on the notepad and looks up at me. The oppressive tension between us is still alive, the elephant in the room crushing us both. Last night, we stepped well over the line. This is something we should talk about.

I would rather rinse my eyes with mouthwash.

On the notepad, Penelope sketched a menacing dragon clutching a woman in its clawed fist. Its maw is wide open, exposing sharp teeth, and there’s a tiara mid-descent to the floor.

Her skill is impressive, as usual. The subtext couldn’t be any louder.

“Am I the dragon?”

Her lips take on a gentle twist.

“Art is subjective. Everyone’s correct in their own interpretation.”