Page 164 of Illicit Games

“We should eat.”

Before he can say anything, I slip out from underneath his arm and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I stay hiding until I hear his footsteps recede.

He wants me to express my feelings, speak my fears out loud. As if that’ll fix me.

I wish it were that easy.

He doesn’t deserve this version of me. A shell of a woman. Hopeless and bitter. Ungrateful and cold. But it’s what I’ve become.

Even the thought of him blaming himself for what happened isn’t pushing me enough to break out of this funk.

That’s how broken I feel.

I love him. I don’t regret taking a bullet for him. I want to spend my life with him. I just don’t know how to bring back the old me.

That woman is the one he deserves.

Turning the knob, I reenter the room and sit against the headboard on the bed. Kian shows up, holding a tray in hand. He takes a step toward the coffee table.

“I can eat over here, Kian,” I tell him.

His eyes collide with mine. “You don’t eat in bed.”

“I think you were right. It’s a stupid superstition,” I throw back his words at him about my beliefs of not eating in the bed unless you wish to get sick. “A lot of good it did me.”

“No.” He places the tray on the table.

“Come on, Kian.”

He briskly stalks to my side, slides one arm underneath my knees and the other behind my back, and picks me up. “We don’t eat in bed.”

Sitting down on the couch with me sideways on his lap, he leans over and grabs the bowl of vegetable soup. Spooning a sip, he blows on it before raising it to my lips.

“Open, baby.”

They part of their own accord at his command and I drink the hot liquid as he feeds me without looking away from my eyes. Feeding me a second time, he says, “I know you feel lost, like a stranger in your own body, and broken. But you’re still you, Iris. Still my little rainbow. Beautiful. Strong. Mischievous. Possessive. Loyal. A force to be reckoned with. Nothing and nobody can change that.”

A lump forms in my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it’s stuck.

Pushing aside the bowl, he pulls me closer and tucks my face against his chest. I curl my fingers in his black T-shirt as he massages my arms, then my back, in soothing circles. “You’re a survivor. You will get through this.”

I cling to him and close my eyes, letting his strength become my haven.

***

Forcing myself out of bed after sticking to it for three days, I venture out of the master bedroom to explore the rest of the place. The longer I stay cooped up inside, the darker my thoughts are becoming.

Both nights I’ve woken up, sweaty and shivering, in Kian’s arms from a nightmare. It’s the same scene where Yukta pulls the trigger on Kian over and over. Only I never make it to him in time and she kills him. Then Bianca and Rosalie until I’m drowning in a scarlet river.

Kian would calm me down as I touch him all over, making sure he’s safe and sound. The only way I can sleep after is by lying over him with his heartbeat in my ear.

Shoving down the memory, I look up and down the long corridor, with two doors on each side. The opposite of ours is another bedroom, similar to ours with hardwood floors, but smaller and without a balcony.

Backing out of it, I stroll to the one right next to us and unlock it. It’s dark, so I touch the wall, finding the switch, and turn on the light.

I have to clutch the wall to hold myself up as my heart constricts, as though thousands of needles are stabbing into it.

The room isn’t a bedroom.