I know it’s another jab at my upbringing, but somehow I manage to keep my mouth clamped closed.
As my frustration grows with him, I realize it helps to alleviate the fear I thought I’d always suffer from, especially with what’s happened recently.
Without a word, I reach for the cabinet he indicated, but the bowls are on the top shelf. I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I open the bottom cabinet and use the shelf there to hoist myself onto the counter so I can reach them. He doesn’t offer his help, probably knowing I’d hit him in the head with one of the old crystal glasses on the lower shelf if he even tried.
I try to keep my eyes trained on the floor as I climb down, but his imposing body on the other side of the room proves to be too much to resist. His mouth tugs up in a grin when I jump off the counter with a grunt. The cross tattoos on his neck ripple when he turns his attention back to the pot on the stove.
After placing the bowls on opposite ends of the mid-sized dining room table, I go in search of silverware. He doesn’t offer any guidance, and I’d bet money that the man is getting some form of pleasure from watching me open each and every drawer until I locate the eating utensils. I should give his ass a fork just out of spite. It’s only because he’s been hospitable enough to bring me here to relative safety that I grab us both spoons.
I don’t say a word as he carries the pot to the table, filling my bowl with more food than I’ll ever be able to eat. In turn, he doesn’t speak either. I don’t pick up my spoon and dip it into the heavenly smelling food until he sits and lifts his own. He eats with purpose, almost as if he’s only eating to survive and not enjoying the food he’s prepared.
In my household growing up, food was our love language. It was a time to talk about our day and share all aspects of our lives with our family. Deacon doesn’t seem interested in opening his mouth for any other reason than to shovel the food inside.
The quiet is killing me, pushing me close to the edge of insanity.
“Who was that guy?”
Deacon lifts his head but doesn’t answer.
“He was there to hurt me?”
He swallows his mouthful of food but doesn’t answer.
“I don’t associate with dangerous people.” I feel the need to tell him this because Detective Mendoza all but accused me of being involved with gangbangers.
He won’t answer my questions. He won’t respond in any form, and the longer the time ticks by, the more alone I feel. I don’t know what to do with these emotions. Hell, I don’t even know how to feel right now.
I don’t think Deacon would let anyone hurt me. He killed a man tonight before he could breach the bedroom, but it’s very apparent he doesn’t want to be around me. He doesn’t want to be in the position I forced him into. I’m sitting in front of this man unwanted, and that kills something inside of me.
Giving up on trying to get him to engage with me, I lower my eyes to my own bowl and struggle to eat past the lump of sorrow growing in my throat.
I didn’t ask for any of this. My life was lonely before Dani disappeared, but I was content. At least I thought I was. My world was normal until Deacon pushed me against the damn wall hours ago and pressed his lips to mine. That one act, that single kiss changed everything. He doesn’t feel the same. Irritation is rolling off of him in waves so thick, I feel smothered by them even at the other end of the table.
He instigated that kiss, and yet I’m the one getting glared at and blamed. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I fight them off. Not only is he not worth my pain, I refuse to show him that I’m affected by him at all.
I don’t lift my head when his chair scrapes back. I sense him moving across the room with his empty dish, but I keep my head down. When he disappears from the room, I wait until I hear the front door open and close before I release the breath I was holding.