This Is War, Baby - K Webster Page 0,37

seem a little safer here than when I was with Gabe. At least he’s not forcing me to partake in depraved activities like I just came from.

“I’m sorry that took so long,” War huffs, interrupting my thoughts. “I have issues.”

I smile at him as we take our seats. The salads are perfect…and even. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”

He nods and sets to cutting his food into bite-sized pieces. I, on the other hand, am ravenous and don’t have time for manners, so I all but inhale my food. The urge to lick the bowl afterwards is intense but a choking sound drags me away from the lingering morsels.

The handsome man’s features are twisted into one of absolute disgust. “You eat like a starved dog,” he hisses and then follows it with a gag. “This was a bad idea.”

I roll my eyes and smirk. “I guess licking the bowl is out of the question.”

I’ve never seen a man run so fast in my life.

EXACTLY THREE MINUTES every day.

That’s how long it takes me to shower.

Not twelve seconds less, not forty-five seconds longer.

Always three minutes.

I know this because I count. Every second. Every minute. Every breath. The average adult breathes twelve to eighteen breaths per minute. I breathe twenty-two breaths per minute. Always. No variation. So in one shower, I take sixty-six breaths.

As I tug on a pair of slacks, I contemplate how many breaths she takes when she showers. Her breaths are unmeasurable—sometimes rapid when she’s afraid or upset and similar to mine when she’s behaving in a calm manner. Calculating her breaths in one shower is an endless, unsolvable problem. What if she takes ten-minute showers? Or forty-minute showers?

I’m about to consider several different variations when I pause to simply consider her in the shower. The very image of droplets sliding down her smooth, pale forehead and wetting her dark eyelashes is captivating. Her blonde hair would grow darker from being wet and it would hang smoothly down her back. And her smile—it would reveal her perfect, pearly white teeth and the kindness that lies within.

If she’s smiling, she’s breathing slower. Perhaps thirteen or fourteen breaths per minute. But the variable I’m still unsure of is the length of her showers. I’ll have to ask her to time them.

I glance up at my long mirror on the wall and frown. For over ten years, I’ve been this man I don’t know. Ever since…well, anyway, I’m him now.

And I hate the very fucking air he breathes.

All twenty-two breaths per minute.

Today, I’m wearing a pair of charcoal-colored fitted slacks, black dress shoes, and a crisp pale blue dress shirt that matches her eyes almost perfectly. I’d seen to ordering three online in similar colors in an attempt to find a perfect match. If none of those work, I’ll have to call the manufacturer and have a special order made.

Normally, even at home, I slip a tie around my neck and dutifully knot it just as Dad showed me when I was ten years old. Sometimes, I wish the knot would turn into a noose and hang me. I’ve contemplated how many breaths I would take before my air supply would become completely cut off. Three? Four? Twenty? The answer defies me and I can’t seem to ever push it from my mind.

Along with the million other rampant thoughts that run my fucking life.

“To hell with it,” I snap in defiance. It’s me who struggles to survive in a battle against myself. Every now and again, my true self wins—even if only momentarily.

I toss the black tie onto the bed and start to stride from the room. I’ve barely made it to the door before I’m stalking back over to it. Carefully, I roll it up neatly—it takes two tries to get it exactly the way I like it—and I place it back in the drawer where it belongs. My breaths seem more rapid, so I unbutton the top few buttons in an effort to breathe more easily.

Every day for years, I’ve had my morning ritual. Shower. Dress. Eat. And then work. But today, along with the discarded tie, I have the urge to break from the mundane and peek in on where she sleeps. Last night, I’d left in a childish huff at seeing her eat like a pig. The human part of me wanted to feel sorry for her—sorry that she was so hungry that it forced her to eat that way. But the monster who controls my every thought was