Page 76 of Ice Queen

I look down at Maggie. “Wanna go outside?”

She runs to the door, tail wagging a mile a minute, when she stops in front of it. “Guess so,” I say on a laugh, making sure I grab the tennis ball from the basket before opening it.

“Fetch girl,” I say, launching the yellow ball into the backyard.

Time for playoffs, huh? I guess I should actually watch a game then.

It’s dark out when the garage door opens and closes with a soft click, a complete juxtaposition to the heaviness of Markus’ footsteps as he comes around the corner. His chest rises and falls in time with the flare of his nostrils, fury coiled tight throughout his body, only held back by the way his hands clench by his sides.

“Why the hell is there no alarm at the store?” He snaps, the words land hard enough to make me flinch.

He stalks toward me, his heavy footsteps pulling me back in time to a place of helplessness. His eyes narrow, locked on me like I’m prey to be devoured. They’re malicious, swirling with unbridled anger. And God help me, I’m suddenly back in my old room.

Wyatt’s shadow looming in the doorway. The sound of his dress shoes squeaking against the hardwood, the way the air always seemed to dissipate when he was mad. It’s all here.

“W-what?” My back hits the counter behind me before I’ve even realized I’ve moved. My hands fly up in front of me, elbows tucked in tight, my body folding in on itself as if it can shrink just enough, it can disappear altogether.

He freezes, and a sharp inhale lands like a bomb in the quiet of the room as it passes through his lips. The transformation is instant, the anger drains from his face so fast it makes my head spin.

“No,” he says once, taking in my crumpled form.

“No, no, no, no…” The words fall from him, each one softer than the one before.

He closes the distance, but not like before. His movements are careful. His fingers curl gently under my chin, thumb resting against the front, warm and grounding. A tear involuntarily slides down my cheek, lungs burning, and it’s then that I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe.

“Princesa,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I would never hurt you.”

His eyes search mine, a silent plea for me to believe him.

His mouth opens, but when he tries to speak, his voice cracks, leaving only heavy silence between us. There’s so much swirling in his gaze. Fear. Regret. And something far worse. Recognition. He saw it, the way I flinched. The way I covered my face. He knows exactly why I did it. He knows that's what he saved me from.

His hand trembles against my skin, his eyebrows slowly fall from where they’d been pulled nearly into his hairline. The fight completely bleeds out of him as he rests his forehead against mine.

“I’m sorry, I just…” He lets out a shaky breath. “I went to get the dress, then there was no alarm, so I shoved everything you had into the suitcases in your room.”

“You packed my stuff?”

“I can’t stand the thought of you not being here,” he says without a second thought. “Especially with no alarm there. It’s not safe.”

Safe.

The word used to mean staying silent, keeping myself in line, and doing what was expected of me. Now, it’s starting to feel a lot like the man in front of me.

The thought terrifies me a little. Going from the “safety” of one man, just to find myself only feeling truly safe in the presence of another, is mental gymnastics of the elite level.

“I have an alarm, Markus,” I whisper. “I just forgot to set it, apparently.”

His lips press to my forehead, lingering for a bit, pulsing once, twice, before he pulls away.

“Still,” he murmurs. “I’d love it if you’d stay here. My travel schedule is about to get hectic, and truthfully…” His throat bobs with the force of his swallow. “I’d love to be able to come home to you and Maggie.”

My eyelids flutter closed, and I take a deep inhale, trying not to focus on the fact that he brought all my stuff over here without asking. That isn’t nothing, it’s a line. And lines matter.

I spent years with a man who made every decision for me. Who dictated what I wore, where I went, and who I could be friends with. A man who chipped away at my autonomy until I didn’t recognize who I was.

Markus isn’t Wyatt, though. I know that. Unfortunately for me, trauma doesn’t give a shit about logic. It cares about patterns.

Go to war without asking a single question. Hannah’s comment floats through my head.