pushing
myself off of the bed to leave. I've had enough of his insensitive
bullshit. As soon as I get home, I'm going to spend hours scrubbing
every ounce of him off of me. He hasn't really touched me tonight,
but just being in his presence makes me feel defiled.
I start walking
towards the door, and Lucian catches me by the wrist. I'm so
overwhelmed by emotions that my body moves reflexively. My palm
stings as I slap him as hard as I can, the sound seeming to
reverberate from the walls.
Instead of flinching
back, Lucian grabs my other wrist, giving me a slight shake. "She's
dead, Amy. They both are."
My heart drops to
the pit of my stomach as I realize that his eyes are welling up with
tears. I can't tell if it's because I slapped him, or he's incredibly
grief stricken. Almost the second he catches the shift in my
expression, he lets go of my wrists and wipes his eyes, retreating to
the bed to pick the picture up again.
I'm absolutely
shocked, not so much because he told me that his family is dead, but
because of his reaction. I've never seen him so unsettled
before—never seen him look so weak. Part of me thinks I should
leave, but I can't seem to make my feet move. All I can do is stand
there and stare at him as he looks down at the picture.
"You can go."
He nods to the door, not even glancing up at me.
They're words I've
been praying to hear all night. For once, he's not fighting me, not
trying to keep me prisoner.
I pity him. It's a
strange thing to think. Despite all of his wealth and success and
beauty, I feel sorry for him. I can't even imagine what it would be
like to lose a spouse and a child.
I wrap my arms
around myself and take a few timid steps towards him. He doesn't even
look at me. It's as if I'm not even there. Before I even know what
I'm doing, I feel the soft comforter beneath my legs as I sit beside
him. My eyes fix on the picture. I have so many questions that I know
are none of my business, but I so desperately want the answers.
"What happened
to them?" I ask, keeping my tone soft.
Lucian closes his
eyes as if he's searching for the memory. "I don't like talking
about it."
"I'd like to
know." I lean against him.
"Why do you
want to know?" He turns to look at me.
"Because I want
to know you. I want to know who you are. Who you really are."
It's not a lie. This is what I've wanted all along. Not exactly this
per se—hearing about his dead wife and child—but just
learning something about him. Something more than that he enjoys
cooking, loves sex, and is obsessed with BDSM.
"Telling you
this won't give you any insight into who I am." He shakes his
head before returning his attention to the picture.
"No, but it
might make you feel better."
"It won't."
"I'm just going
to leave then," I sigh, realizing that, as usual, he's
completely shut down.
I stand, and he
gazes up at me with wounded eyes, big and round and oh so blue.
Wetness clings to his bottom lids, but there isn't any threat of more
tears.
"Don't go."
The desperation in
his voice tugs at my heartstrings. The woman in me wants to comfort
him. I know better though. I need to stop feeling sorry for him;
otherwise I'll never find the strength to leave. This is a new twist
on his manipulation. Isn't it? He's doing this on purpose, right?
"I'm sorry for
your loss." I look to the door, trying to will myself to move
towards it. "But I don't think we have anything left to
discuss." I muster up all of my resolve and start walking away.
The pain in my heart is unlike anything I could have expected. This
time though, I think it's more from the thought that he actually
needs me right now. He needs me, and I'm leaving him.
"Amy, stop."
I pause, glancing at
him over my shoulder.
"I'll tell you
what happened to her. Just come back." He motions back toward
him. His tone sounds more annoyed than defeated, which makes me
hesitate.
With a sigh, I find
myself returning to the bed. I sit beside him, refusing to make eye
contact. Looking at the
myself off of the bed to leave. I've had enough of his insensitive
bullshit. As soon as I get home, I'm going to spend hours scrubbing
every ounce of him off of me. He hasn't really touched me tonight,
but just being in his presence makes me feel defiled.
I start walking
towards the door, and Lucian catches me by the wrist. I'm so
overwhelmed by emotions that my body moves reflexively. My palm
stings as I slap him as hard as I can, the sound seeming to
reverberate from the walls.
Instead of flinching
back, Lucian grabs my other wrist, giving me a slight shake. "She's
dead, Amy. They both are."
My heart drops to
the pit of my stomach as I realize that his eyes are welling up with
tears. I can't tell if it's because I slapped him, or he's incredibly
grief stricken. Almost the second he catches the shift in my
expression, he lets go of my wrists and wipes his eyes, retreating to
the bed to pick the picture up again.
I'm absolutely
shocked, not so much because he told me that his family is dead, but
because of his reaction. I've never seen him so unsettled
before—never seen him look so weak. Part of me thinks I should
leave, but I can't seem to make my feet move. All I can do is stand
there and stare at him as he looks down at the picture.
"You can go."
He nods to the door, not even glancing up at me.
They're words I've
been praying to hear all night. For once, he's not fighting me, not
trying to keep me prisoner.
I pity him. It's a
strange thing to think. Despite all of his wealth and success and
beauty, I feel sorry for him. I can't even imagine what it would be
like to lose a spouse and a child.
I wrap my arms
around myself and take a few timid steps towards him. He doesn't even
look at me. It's as if I'm not even there. Before I even know what
I'm doing, I feel the soft comforter beneath my legs as I sit beside
him. My eyes fix on the picture. I have so many questions that I know
are none of my business, but I so desperately want the answers.
"What happened
to them?" I ask, keeping my tone soft.
Lucian closes his
eyes as if he's searching for the memory. "I don't like talking
about it."
"I'd like to
know." I lean against him.
"Why do you
want to know?" He turns to look at me.
"Because I want
to know you. I want to know who you are. Who you really are."
It's not a lie. This is what I've wanted all along. Not exactly this
per se—hearing about his dead wife and child—but just
learning something about him. Something more than that he enjoys
cooking, loves sex, and is obsessed with BDSM.
"Telling you
this won't give you any insight into who I am." He shakes his
head before returning his attention to the picture.
"No, but it
might make you feel better."
"It won't."
"I'm just going
to leave then," I sigh, realizing that, as usual, he's
completely shut down.
I stand, and he
gazes up at me with wounded eyes, big and round and oh so blue.
Wetness clings to his bottom lids, but there isn't any threat of more
tears.
"Don't go."
The desperation in
his voice tugs at my heartstrings. The woman in me wants to comfort
him. I know better though. I need to stop feeling sorry for him;
otherwise I'll never find the strength to leave. This is a new twist
on his manipulation. Isn't it? He's doing this on purpose, right?
"I'm sorry for
your loss." I look to the door, trying to will myself to move
towards it. "But I don't think we have anything left to
discuss." I muster up all of my resolve and start walking away.
The pain in my heart is unlike anything I could have expected. This
time though, I think it's more from the thought that he actually
needs me right now. He needs me, and I'm leaving him.
"Amy, stop."
I pause, glancing at
him over my shoulder.
"I'll tell you
what happened to her. Just come back." He motions back toward
him. His tone sounds more annoyed than defeated, which makes me
hesitate.
With a sigh, I find
myself returning to the bed. I sit beside him, refusing to make eye
contact. Looking at the
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