Page 26 of On Edge

Until I drop the dinner knife I was clutching with shaking hands, trying to hide it within the folds of my dress skirt. Severin looks up. His gaze locks on mine, his eyes zip up and down, taking me in, and then he glares.

My chair scrapes across the hardwood floor as I crouch down to retrieve the dropped utensil. And then, slowly, I sit back down, settling the knife on my lap.

There’s a heartbeat where all I can hear is blood pounding in my ears. And all the horror of who this man is worms its way under my skin, making me want to run far, far away.When Severin’s green eyes narrow as sharp as cut glass. And he opens his mouth to say something and then shakes his head as though dismissing the idea.

But then Mrs. Oakley walks in. She delivers Severin a plate with everything on it, along with a wine glass and a decanter containing a swirling, dark red liquid. As she walks back toward the kitchen, past where I’m sitting, she pauses.

Her brown eyes, usually stern, soften.“Do you want me to take that, dear?”

I’m not hungry anymore, so my bowl of salad that I asked for is mostly untouched. But it makes me feel awful for having others make food for me and not eating it, so I shake my head.

“I’m just about to finish it.” I stab my fork at a wedge of carrot and start munching just to please her. Old habits die hard.

Mrs. Oakley nods and struts off, her linen pants swishing as she does. When she’s gone, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind howling, and me…eating the crunchiest carrot there is.

I’m so annoyed that I can’t kill Severin that I purposely take big bites, enjoying the light sweetness of the vegetable, taking away the sour taste in my mouth.

After a few seconds, there’s a sigh from the other end of the table.

“Do you have to do that?” Severin puts his pages down to look at me.

I stop mid-chew, but then I can’t answer him, so I force myself to swallow. “Do what?”

“Eat loudly.” His tone is scathing enough that blood rushes to my face.

“Oh.” I want to say,this is a dining room. People eat in dining rooms.Instead, I bite my lip and spear a tomato with my fork. A tomato can’t offend him, surely?

But when I stick the red fruit in my mouth and bite into it, he gives me the darkest look.

He folds whatever he was reading into thirds and places it in his jacket pocket, then takes a swig of his wine glass, and mutters something like, “I was right about sending you home.”

“And you’re a dick.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Severin stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head, and I can feel the blood draining from my face. Did I…say that out loud?

“Nothing.” I shake my head and stare at my plate.

Oh God, why do I always do that?

Why?

Minutes tick by, and the sound of his knife sliding through bone makes my stomach turn. At least, Severin is no longer paying me any attention, carving his roasted pheasant (I hope) with such surgical precision as though he’s performed this ritual a thousand times before.

Nausea churns in my gut.

He doesn’t bother to look up from his methodical butchery. He finishes his food quickly and efficiently. The dining room feels cavernous with just the two of us seated at opposite ends ofthe mahogany table. So much so that when Severin isn’t paying me any attention, I feel I may as well be eating in Serbia.

But even so, there’s something almost normal about sharing a meal with someone, though we’re sitting at opposite ends of the table. This is so different from home, where I often ate alone, standing at the kitchen counter, or from hospital trays delivered to my room.

Mrs Oakley comes back in with a bunch of unopened letters and some newspapers for Severin: theFinancial Times, theExecutive Review, and theWych Observer, I note.

As she walks past again, she glances at me, or rather, my plate, with worry. Besides the carrot and the tomato segment, I haven’t eaten much.

“Shall I bring something else, dear?”

But the feeling of my grave being walked on has me looking over at Severin. His unsettling green eyes are locked on me with laser focus. How long has he been staring? I thought he was ignoring me.

“No, thank you.” I don’t glance at her. I’m too busy watching Severin watching me, as he takes the letters from the pile next to him, producing a blade from God knows where in his pocket, and slices the envelopes open one by one.