Page 75 of Whispers in the Dark
I reach for the bottle of body wash and scrub it over my chest and arms, letting the steam cloud my thoughts.
Have I been spending more time than usual at the gym?
Probably.
Is it because I’ve been deliberately avoiding my wife?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face, water streaming over my knuckles. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore.
Things were easier when we had rules. Clear lines. Boundaries that kept everything contained.
Then we crossed them.
And now we’re home, where the rules are back in place, but all I can think about is how badly I want to break them again.
Frustration coils tight in my chest as I lean my forehead against the cool tile. Every night since we returned, Alina lies beside me like nothing’s changed. Like we didn’t blur lines we were never supposed to touch.
But everything has changed.
And all I seem to be able to think about is her. Her scent. Her taste. The way she sounded as she came around my cock. My name on her lips as she screamed out in ecstasy.
But I can’t experience that again because of these fucking rules. I twist the handle with force until the water cuts off, steam lingering in the air as I straighten.
Stepping out, I approach the sink, wiping my hand across the condensation covering the mirror.
And then I freeze, staring at my reflection.
Wild hair.
An untamed beard.
And scars.
So many scars.
My eyes zero in on the prominent scar extending over my neck, my fingers coming up to trace it.
Why would Alina ever want to be with someone like me?
Heedlessly, I slam my fist against the glass, disregarding the sting that blooms across my knuckles as blood dribbles down my skin. And most importantly, ignoring the pain that stretches over my chest, binding my heart in a punishing grip.
The moment I step through the front door, I’m wrapped in warmth and… My nose lifts as I inhale an enticing aroma, stepping farther inside toward the kitchen.
Chicken? Garlic? Bread?
“Oh, good, you’re home!” Alina stands beside the stove with her back to me and a beige apron tied around her waist as she stirs something in a skillet. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be done with training, and I wanted to make you dinner.” She glances over her shoulder, a hint of nerves in her smile. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I figured Italian was a safe bet. Was I right?”
I nod, examining the space.
The kitchen island is set for us to eat with matching plates and cutlery. A glass of whiskey waits beside one place setting, a single ice ball slowly melting inside, while a glass of wine accompanies the other. A few lit candles flicker softly, music humming low in the background, turning the room into something intimate.
“Thank God,” she says before turning her attention back to what’s in front of her. “It’s a creamy Tuscan chicken pasta dish my dad used to make all the time for me. Garlic, sundried tomatoes, parmesan, heavy cream, and voila.” She slices the chicken and sets it aside as she adds penne and cream. “I hope it’s okay. I haven’t made it in a while.”
She cooked for me.
No one’s ever cooked for me before.
