I hate his disappointment. It tears at me. But I’m not ready to speak to my sisters. I know it’s hard for him to understand. Hell, it’s hard for me to understand. This time last week, those women were my life. My everything. Along with Tobias—my captor’s son. The little boy I helped raise.
It’s clear, though, that I need to keep my distance. The only thing I can bring to their lives at the moment is negativity. And I won’t risk my bad attitude rubbing off on them.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, brushing away any stray remains of his breakfast. “I guess staying home and chilling out is at the top of our agenda.”
“Chilling out?” I scoff. “Do you even know how? You spend hours in your exercise room punishing your body as if you’re preparing for Armageddon.”
“Like you can talk. You flitter around the house all day, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. It’s like you’re my fucking slav—” He stops mid-sentence, his chin hitching. “Shit.”
A slow burn creeps up my neck, my shame undoubtedly visible in the color of my skin. It’s not the word that bothers me. I’ve been called a slave more times than anyone could count. What hurts is his reaction. His embarrassment. Over me.
He cringes. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it.” I fight harder to keep my smile in place. “You know it doesn’t bother me.”
He sighs and glides a rough hand over his forehead. “I need more fucking sleep.”
“Yeah.” I grab a cloth from the sink and begin wiping down the counter. “I agree. You go to bed too late.”
He huffs out a faint chuckle. “Again, you’re not the best point of reference. I’m pretty sure you get less sleep than I do.”
I keep wiping, determined to remain busy as he continues to eye me like a bug under a microscope. He knows too much about me. Horrific details. Lies, too. He was told I enjoyed the torture Luther put me through. That I loved everything those monsters inflicted.
I hate him having that information. I hate even more that he might believe the slander.
“You’re having nightmares, aren’t you?” he asks.
“No.” The denial slips out easily. “I’m getting a lot of sleep. I’m doing really well.”
I don’t want him wasting his time worrying about me. Not when I’m already a grade-A burden. He was never meant to bring me back to the States. He wanted to stay in the Greek Islands and help take down the sex trafficking operation.
Instead, he’s here. Stuck with me, while doing his best not to show his resentment.
That’s why I cook. Why I clean. Why I paste on a smile whenever he’s around and pretend I’m climbing back on my feet.
I won’t cause any more trouble than I already have.
“Sure you are.” He forks another mouthful and scrutinizes me as he chews. I’m sure he sees through my fake facade, but until he calls me on it, I’ll maintain this charade.
I’m content in his sanctuary even though the irony hasn’t been lost on me.
I fought so hard to escape Luther’s house only to mentally trap myself within another. I spent years trying to liberate myself from one man—now I’m racked with fear that the guy before me will cut me loose at any given moment.
It’s a complete shift in situation. Yet the sense of being trapped is the same.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I place down the cloth and reach for my coffee, attempting to shield my face. “I swear you keep scrutinizing me, hoping to find some hidden issue that isn’t there.”
“Penny, you know I—”
The doorbell rings, startling me. The jostle of my arms sends a splash of coffee over the lip of my mug.
“Don’t panic.” He places his fork on the counter. “I’m expecting someone.”
My heart sinks, the painfully squeezing organ dropping to my stomach as I wipe up the liquid spill.
“Is it that woman again?” The question flies from my lips unbidden.
I shouldn’t have asked. I’ve deliberately kept my curiosity to myself, not wanting to pry. Yet the lack of knowledge has plagued me.
“Yes.” He glides off the stool and when I raise my gaze to his, those eyes have gentled, as if he’s trying to soften a blow. “Do you want to meet her?”
“No.”
She’s come here every day for the past three days. They talk for hours, murmuring in low tones over unending cups of coffee. It’s clear they’re close. Or at