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A feeling I can’t quite place rushes over me as I lean on her doorframe, watching her sleep soundly.

“Nik,” she says it again. I have infected her mind already. After a few seconds she calls again; she must know I’m here, so I respond before one question leaves her lips. Without the inhibition of full consciousness, I suppose.

“Why didn’t you want me?” she asks, vulnerability dripping from every word. I feel sick to my stomach thinking that’s what she feels.

“I did. Get some sleep,” I tell her, and with a gentle groan she delicately drops back to her dreams.

I still watch for a minute. I always watch. Seeing her gives me some kind of comfort I’m unaccustomed to. The feeling rushes through me. I take up position and do battle with my intrusive thoughts.

Hiding the fury in my footsteps I shuffle as fast as my wounded body allows, making my way back to the spare room. The only room in the house where his presence and damage do not exist. Closing the door firmly behind me, careful not to slam it and disturb her peaceful slumber.

Pursing my lips I push out a slow, deep exhale. Massaging my furrowed brow I resolve to resign to my chamber. Contain, suppress, contact, control.

My demons continue to wage a war of attrition against my steely resolve. The desperate urge for release, for retribution against those who harm her and me, those who threaten our domain. The more I explored this house, the more I recognised the dungeon it truly is. The more remnants of his lack of control become obvious.

A shower so hot it turns my skin red almost instantly. A face scrub that turns into me clawing at my own beard, my hair, almost pulling them out if not for their rich thickness. My forehead thuds against the cold tile, but sense cannot be knocked in. I enjoy my madness.

The next best thing is to grip and pull against my ache, mixing pleasure and self-inflicted pain. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. As I spill my overflowing frustration onto the tile my thoughts slow enough for me to focus.

The next actionable step.

Thirteen

Sawyer

I wake up the next morning with only vague memories of the night before, I remember cuddling in, I remember feeling contented, and I remember being carried to bed.

Then my cheeks blush as I remember asking Nik why he didn’t want me. But he did. I’m sure he said he did. I’m also sure he told me to go to sleep, and I just did. For some reason every fibre of my being just felt settled, and contented to do as he told me. I can’t fathom why I feel no objection to doing as he says. I always did what Dan said, whether I wanted to or not.

Nik’s different, it’s not even that I want to do as I’m told, it’s just that everything he tells me to do seems to be the most natural thing in the world, so I’ve no inclination to object. I smile, because it’s a funny idea.

Speaking of Nik, where is he? It’s not like he has some obligation to be here the moment I wake up or anything, but like, it’s nice to see him. I’m so sure he said he wanted me, too. So why reject me? It doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s just because he thought I was vulnerable or something and didn’t want to overstep?

That means all I have to do, is make him see that I am choosing him. He just needs to know I am a fully consenting adult, and I want him. I’ve never wanted someone so much. I guess it’s one of those old sayings, you want what you can’t have. But then the other old saying is that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but that’s definitely not the case with Dan. So maybe the old wives are telling nonsense tales!

I feel good, like I’ve solved some kind of riddle that my brain has been stuck on. No man makes food and carries a woman, and saves her from her own stupidity in the shower platonically, right? No, definitely not, Sawyer. And we know he wants you, too. Go get him, get your man, girl. Make sure he knows you want him, and not because you’ve done something dumb or are in some vulnerable state. You’re a strong, independent woman, making a choice.

I laugh at the idea of putting on some kind of sexy two-piece matching set. Somehow I think that Nik would see right through that and find it just as cringe-desperate as I would. We definitely need a bit more than tracksuit-chic. But not too try hard.

Brushing your hair might be a good start, babe. I roll my eyes at my own intuition. It takes me way longer than it should to look completely normal. The differences are subtle, nice perfume, an off-the-shoulder cardigan with sleeves to my hands, and a vest top that just happens to show way more chest than usual. And some shorts, comfy shorts that happen to just make my assets pop.

So I gingerly make my way down stairs. Not because I’m not feeling confident, because I feel probably more confident than I have done in a long time. But because my knee still kills. As I hobble my way down the stairs I can hear the clattering of tools and shuffling and scraping sounds. What the fuck is he doing?

I stop in my tracks when I get to the doorway. Obviously because my knee needs a break. Definitely not because he’s stood there in just his jeans. Topless. Glistening. Stretching his back with his hands behind his head. A light splattering of construction residue on his hands and forearms. His muscles flex with his stretch, it’s unlike him to not notice me coming down the stairs. At an art gallery you stop and admire, it would be horrifically rude for me to not show his tattoo artists the same courtesy.

He steps to the side and turns to face me, side on now, bringing his abs into full view. I swallow, hard and try to control myself. My knee pain is the least of my worries as my legs turn to jelly. He looks, different. I can’t put my finger on it. His aura is giving different, transformed. Honestly, it’s kind of giving hubby. Not that I’m going to, or want to, marry this strange Viking probably-murderer guy that I got saddled with. I’d ride him a few times, for a while, but marriage is wild.

Wait, what’s he been doing? I look around and my jaw drops, and not at him. At the absolute campaign of reparations that Nik has embarked upon. A sole tear falls from my cheek as I sit with the fact, just for a moment, that there are no punch holes left. At least not in the kitchen diner. I can’t speak for the feelings that rush through me. Truthfully, I can’t even name them right now, but some small piece of my soul just feels more whole again.

“I have to wait before I can patch the paintwork” he says, matter-of-factly “but it’s a bit better than it was”

This man doesn’t even know what he’s done, and I could run away with him right now. His look burns through me, setting me alight in all kinds of ways. I’ll admit it, okay, I am swooning. I think he knows. I just stand here, motionless. Waiting for him to do something, to sweep me off my feet or make some romantic gesture. Instead he just, goes back to inspect an earlier fill.

I have never known someone to do so much, and expect so little, if anything, in return. It is unfathomable to me. Everyone wants something. It’s almost too good to be true. I can’t let myself believe that it is, I’ve been caught before. And this is not what it looked like, it’s not what it felt like. I don’t think it is, anyway.

Smitten and lost for words or what to do now, I default into ironic autonomy.

“… tea?”