Page 21 of Love What's Left
I hesitate. Learning that her refusal of food and drink wasn’t anchored in a desire to self-harm changes things.
Sydney, who used to seek me out to put her feet in my lap while she scrolled on her phone—the woman who once said she couldn’t sleep without her hand on my chest—needs space to feel safe.
I reach for the smartwatch on the nightstand. She observes me with glittering suspicion in her dark eyes as I lift her wrist, strap the device around too-prominent bones, and resist the almost overwhelming temptation to pull her into my arms.
“I stayed with you in case you needed me. If you’re comfortable with me leaving you alone, I’ll go get some work done. I know you’ve been getting around by yourself, but you can tap the screen and press this contact to call me if you want me to come back.”
“Don’t want it.”
I hold her gaze. “I’ll never make you do anything unless it’s life or death. Take it off if you like.”
Her lip curls in disgust. “Don’t need you. Don’t want you.”
Her words are knives that stab and slice, but I force my expression to remain impassive. I have no business having hurt feelings when my wife is recovering from torture. She doesn’t know me. Of course she doesn’t want me.
I’ve been careful and as gentle as possible every moment since I lifted her into my arms in that warehouse. Maybe she doesn’t recognize this version of me. One thing we’ve always been good at is pushing each other’s buttons.
Maybe pissing her off is worth a shot. I’d rather see her feisty than afraid. “If you’re hungry, get off your ass and go raid the kitchen. It’s your house. You have clothing in the closet and a shower in the bathroom to deal with your own stink. Nothing here is off-limits. It’s yours. If you want help from me or the staff, then ask for it. I’ll give it gladly, but I’m not your jailer. I’m your husband. If you’re medically or mentally incompetent, it’s my duty to take care of you. If you don’t want me to do those things for you, then do them yourself.”
Sydney watches me with hot, intelligent, assessing eyes. I force myself to head for the door.
“Where are you g-going?” she calls.
“I’ll be in the home office, then I’m going outside to get some fresh air. Join me if you like. Or don’t. It’s up to you.” I keep my tone neutral as I slide open the door to our stone patio outside and allow the warm ocean breeze to ruffle the curtains.
Then I turn and walk into the hallway, leaving the bedroom door open behind me. She’s now in a wide-open space. The house and grounds are hers to explore. They always were, but maybe she’ll be willing to try if I’m not there watching over her.
Leaving her feels like a march to the guillotine. I do it, one quiet footfall at a time.
I reach the study without turning back and ruining my grand exit. The room is more of a home library with two walls of bookshelves and comfortable seating, including the oversized green chair Sydney and I used to curl up in together to read.
I brought the Helena Newbury romantic suspense novel she was in the middle of when she was taken. She didn’t look at it in the bedroom, so I had the staff bring it in here. It sits on the table beside the chair waiting for her to come back to it . . . for her to come back to herself.
I frown and pick it up, turning it over to read the back cover. The book, titledLying and Kissing, is a romance about an undercover government agent who falls in love with the subject of her investigation. I hadn’t stopped to wonder if what she’s been through would change her reading preferences.Will she still like books with danger and suspense, or will they feel too close to home?
I slide the novel onto one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that line two of the walls. Behind me, a tinted glass wall with sliding doors leads to a wraparound deck.
Lowering myself into the leather office chair, I fire up the computer on my desk. For the next two hours, I dive into the emails and reports waiting for me, checking in with my executive assistant and the people who’ve stepped into my shoes for these last months.
Sweat trickles down my temple, despite the comfortable temperature. I wipe it away and stay on task, the work a welcome distraction.
I can give her a little more time. If I haven’t seen or heard from her by noon, then I’ll have lunch as a reason to check on her.
I remain at my desk, unsure whether the lack of sound from our bedroom is a bad thing or not. She may not be in that room at all. For all I know, she left the house and took a walk outside.
“And that’s okay. There’s security here. They won’t let her out of the gates without telling me and following her. She’s fine,” I mutter to myself, even as I snatch a ballpoint pen off my desk and click it over and over and over again.
I want a drink. Eight years sober, and I can picture it clear as day. Decanting the whiskey. The rich amber color. The sharp bite of scent. Pouring it over ice that crackles when the room temperature liquid hits it. Lifting the Glencairn as condensation beads on the surface of the glass. The warmth of it. The comfort. The relief. I’d choose one with a nice oaky flavor profile. The old me would have brought it to his lips, leaned back in this chair, and lost track of every fucking thing.
When my phone flashes an incoming video call from my brother, I rub my chest through my shirt and pick up the phone with my other hand. “Good timing.”
Henry, standing in his kitchen with his infant son sleeping in the cradle of his arm, glances down at my hand still pressed to my heart. Frowning, he lifts his gaze to mine. “That bad?”
“I’m being melodramatic.”
“I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use.”
I fake a grin. “Come on. I live for that shit.”
