Page 62 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)
Wyatt
Six weeks. It’s been six fucking weeks since Nolan nearly kicked me to death, and I’m still not back to my usual self.
A ruptured spleen, the doctors said when justifying why they had to cut me open and play Operation with my insides.
Why I had to spend two damned weeks in a hospital, hooked to a million machines.
It’s also what they said when trying to convince me to stay longer, but I’ve had enough of their “hospitality”.
I can lie in bed at home just as well as in the hospital.
I’ve been injured before, many times, but never this badly, and I find that I don’t have any patience for this “recovery period”.
The only thing making this bearable is Amy’s presence.
Yet, she’s also the main reason these weeks in bed are unbearable, because I should be the one taking care of her.
I should be the one spoiling her, cooking for her—or rather, ordering takeout because I can cook like five meals and none of them are healthy—helping her dress and bathe and comforting her and doing everything else for her.
Instead, she’s the one taking care of me like I’m a child.
Or a cripple. A useless fucking cripple who nearly got her killed. Whom she had to save .
I don’t understand why she is still here.
Can’t she see how useless I am? I couldn’t even save her.
She had to kill Nolan herself, and then somehow wrangled Slava into helping her, a feat I would have considered impossible, all while I was taking an undeserved nap.
Then she drove me to a hospital and threatened the staff with bodily harm if they even thought about calling the police.
It must have been quite a sight, her covered in Nolan’s blood from head to toe, taking on the arrogant doctors and surly nurses.
My precious Amy, brave like a lioness. And me?
I snort, grateful that the action no longer makes pain lance through my abdomen. All I did was walk straight into Slava’s trap like an idiot, and then nearly got beaten to death. Hail to the fucking hero.
“Hey.” Peeking inside the bedroom, Amy gives a dazzling smile when she realizes I’m awake. Yeah, I’ve been taking a post-lunch nap like a fucking toddler.
I force myself to smile. She deserves better than being the lightning rod for my surliness.
So much better. “Hey. Getting ready for your driving lesson?” It was my idea to get her a driver’s license.
If Amy’s going to live in the middle of nowhere where I dragged her, she needs to be self-sufficient.
That cunt Slava stole my fucking Ferrari, but there’s still the SUV, and I’m planning on buying something new just for Amy.
She’ll need it if she takes the job at Samantha’s café.
What she won’t need is a dead weight like me holding her back.
Her smile turns nervous. “Yeah, Mrs. Flagstone is picking me up in ten minutes. I just came to see if you needed anything before I go.”
My reply comes a little sharper than I intended. “Cupcake, I can take care of myself.”
She masks it quickly, but the hurt flashing in her eyes stabs me like a blade. “I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No. It’s me who should apologize.” A million times over and it still won’t be enough. “I’m just not used to being idle for so long. I’ll be fine. Go learn to drive. Don’t hit any bears! ”
A little chuckle is all I get for a joke I’ve probably repeated too many times already.
Approaching me, Amy dutifully kisses me, but is there hesitation in that kiss?
Regret? Disgust? I can’t even tell anymore and every second I spend cooped up in the house with no outlet for my restless energy is making me doubt everything we have.
If we even had anything to begin with. I kidnapped her, after all.
From the kitchen, I watch her greet her driving instructor.
A female driving instructor. That part was Amy’s idea, one I wholeheartedly agreed with.
She correctly guessed that a male instructor wouldn’t live long enough to get her through the road test. I might not deserve her, but I’ll still kill any fucker who looks at her for too long.
Or will I? Do I still have that in me? After all, my last attempt failed spectacularly.
I was reckless and stupid and it nearly cost Amy her life.
My chest constricts around my erratically beating heart as I imagine something like that happening again.
Why am I even thinking about this? Amy already has all the reasons to hate me.
I don’t need to add more by slaughtering people for the terrible crime of admiring my beautiful wife.
I mean, it’s totally justifiable to me, but I’m sure she wouldn’t agree.
Logically, I know it’s a terrible idea, but the itch is still there.
Not to kill, but to go out there, to hunt, to prove that it’s still me, that I’m still capable of doing the one thing I know how to do.
Because if I’m not a killer, then what the fuck am I?
A grumpy old recluse sitting in a swing chair on his back porch while his wife cooks, cleans, and brings him beer and cookies?
Just shoot me now. Amy deserves so much better.
Better than me.
The thought is startling in its clarity.
I’m a selfish bastard. I took Amy because I was obsessed with her, not once asking for her opinion.
I barely even considered the fact that she might not want to abandon her life in Kansas City, that she might not want to move to the ass end of beyond, and that she might not want to marry a killer who kidnapped her.
That she might not want to have sex with him .
I fucking raped that woman. How am I any better than her asshole of an ex? They should bury me next to him.
I know what I have to do. I might not like it. Hell, I hate it already, but for once in my fucked-up life, I have to do the right thing. Something I should have done weeks ago when I first met Amy.
I have to let her go.