Page 113 of Filthy Little Regrets
Breaths shallow, heart thrashing, memories reeling, I try to stop feeling. I race into the bathroom, rip off the cap from the orange bottle and take a pill. My fingers are numb as I send a message to Orion and then one to Tony.
The world around me zips by. With a dizzying frenzy, the room spins. Life is moving.
But I don’t want to.
Everyone dies, I tell myself as I crawl into the bed. Closing my eyes, I pull the blankets over my head. I wait for it to stop.
The grief burning through me. The sadness thickening the air. The years that go. A decade of memories without him. Rolling over, I tuck my knees into my chest and wait for it all to...
Just stop.
Hours later, strong arms envelop me, pulling into warmth I’ve come to crave. I turn, burrow in, finding comfort in the arms of a man I swore I used to hate. Mace smooths his hand up my spine.
He doesn’t ask, but he doesn’t need to. He was in the classroom the day I got the news. I didn’t expect him to remember. Then again, there are a lot of things I didn’t anticipate to find here in his arms. I’ve lived alone for a long time. Fought this sadness for so many years on my own.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs.
The only thing that I want, I realize with startling clarity, is for him to stay. “This,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Just don’t leave.”
“You have me for better or worse, baby.” Mace’s hold tightens. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from telling him he shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Because the truth is...everyone I love dies.
Head groggy, I’m slow to wake, blinking and taking in the twilight sky. Mace is still holding me.He stayed. My chest tightens and I turn in his arms, studying his sleeping face, the slope of his nose. The set of his jaw. The features I used to despise because they were so fucking perfect.
His eyes peel open, and a smile stretches across his face, the dimples that foreshadowed my damnation snagging my attention. I bring one hand up, trace the hollow, and smooth my finger over his lip, a tremor running through my heart as his eyes flare with an emotion I confused with annoyance, but now I understand it’s so much more.
He’s found himself wandering from lust to something more. I look away, too afraid to acknowledge what more could be.
“How are you feeling?”
I glance at him and shrug. “I’ve been better.”
“Chef is making dinner.” Mace smooths his palm over my hip. “You can stay here. I’ll bring you the food.”
“Dinner in bed?” I shake my head and push through the heaviness in my bones, sitting up and scrubbing my hands over my face. “I can get up.”
“You can, but you don’t have to,” he says.
The permission to rot in bed makes my stomach flutter, but I’ve learned the longer I linger, the harder it is to get up. Even though I want to fall back and sleep more, I get up. I pull on yoga pants and grab a shirt I stole from Mace, pausing when I catch him watching me.
“What?”
He walks toward me, and like it always does, my breath catches as his hands find their way into my hair to tip my headback. His mouth is gentle. The barest caress that fills me with warmth from my head to my toes. He pulls away, eyes roving over me. I brace myself for hollow consolation. The obligatory words everyone says. I don’t want those meaningless pleasantries from him.
But he surprises me when he lifts an eyebrow. “We shouldn’t be late.”
A relieved laugh catches in my throat, and appreciation flits through me. “She does get a little fussy.”
He smirks and grabs my hand, linking his fingers in mine, keeping his promise. He’s not leaving me to face the world alone. Savory scents wrap around us as we make our way downstairs, Chef appearing right as we enter the dining room. I wait for a reprimand. She takes one look at me, my red-rimmed eyes, and softens.
She spins on her heels and heads to the stove. Mace and I take our seats, settling in right as she appears with two plates full of...chicken. She sets my dish down first. Slices of lemon lie on top of a breaded and fried fillet, and a small serving of noodles coated with the same sauce lies underneath the cut of meat.
My eyes fly to meet hers. “Chicken?”
“I burned the first dish,” she says. The air is absent of the putrid smell of burned food. She’s lying. She was adamant about chicken being a no-no. It’s too much of a coincidence for it to just be on a whim. She knows what today was...and she made me Chicken French. Chef sets Mace’s dish in front of him and smooths her hands over her apron, eyeing me and my watery smile. “Are you going to stare all day, or are you going to eat it?”
With a shake of my head, I pick up my fork and take the first bite. It could be the significance ofChef breaking her own rule and making something she knew I would like, or it could be the absolutely divine flavors bursting across my tongue that has a small tear slipping out.
