Page 67 of Scarred King

“It means that there are two groups who want to harm each other.” He massages my shoulders gently.

“What kind of harm?” I take the bottle back and sip again.

“Mainly property. But there are also some wounded and some dead.”

“What?” I sit up in panic. “That’s impossible, I read the newspaper and no—”

“You’re funny,” he cuts me off and pulls me back to lean against him. “Most of the stuff that happens in our world doesn’t get the exposure in the regular media.” The tension is back, and its eating me up from the inside. He feels that my body is tense and continues rubbing my shoulders. “Don’t worry, we’ll win.” He rubs his nose on my neck.

“How can you be so calm about it? How can you be so sure you’ll win?” I look to the sides nervously and he wraps his arms around me.

“When there’s something important enough to fight for, losing isn’t an option.”

“But how do you win?” I’m insistent.

“You either hurt the other side hard enough for them to surrender or a third party arranges a compromise.”

I shudder and he holds me tighter. “Compromises are good,” I murmur.

“When you compromise, each side has to give up something important,” he sounds disturbed again. “And in this case, I don’t think I’ll be willing to give anything up.” He gets up from the reclining chair and holds my hand. We go back inside and return to the bedroom. “We have seven days of quiet now,” he says with a smile and I recall Mordechai’s request at the wedding party. “Let’s use them to make your pretty and clever head understand that you’re exactly where you should be.” He removes my robe and climbs on top of me.

“You talk about this stuff so calmly,” I say, confused as he starts to suckle my breast.

“You’re mine now,” he says plainly. “You’d better start getting to know your new world,” he throws his towel on the floor, “and learning the rules.” His head is between my legs, his soft, hot lips are touching me, and my mind shuts down.

26

I wash my long hair and think about what Liam told me yesterday. Wars… game rules… people killed… there’s no way I have anything to do with all that. I just want to study in peace. Why the hell does he have such a great impact on me? And how can I escape this chaos? Why can’t I imagine myself without the man who declared yesterday that I belong to him – without even asking me if I agree? It’s not just about giving myself to him physically, it’s also about truly giving myself to him mentally and emotionally. No, my mind refuses again to accept last night's turnaround. I better talk to him, I try to encourage myself. He’ll understand that I need time to process our strange relationship and decide what I want.

I braid my hair and go downstairs. Liam is sitting in the dining area, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. The complete contradiction between the animal side of his face and the angelic side, as always, makes my heart miss a beat.

“Good morning,” I say to him nervously as my body wants to devour him.

“Mmmm,” he grunts and doesn’t look up from the paper. I roll my eyes in despair.

“It’s weird living with a man who has a split personality.” I mutter angrily and open the cupboard for a glass. The cleaner has rearranged them and I cringe. I take out all the glasses and arrange them by height in two straight lines. “You really are Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” I chuckle to myself as I shut the cupboard door, satisfied. “The perfect man by night and a bundle of nerves by day.”

“Someone will be here any minute,” he says, ignoring my muttering.

“Who?” I ask and hear knocks on the front door. Liam gets up and opens the door.

“Dr. Cruz,” he greets her affectionately, and a short woman with brown, curly hair and casual clothes walks in. “Dr. Cruz is a psychologist I know. Let’s call her a friend of the family.” He says to me, and this time I get a smile from him.

“Great,” I shrug indifferently. “Maybe she can help you with your split personality.”

“She’s not here for me.” He comes closer. “She can help you handle your disorder.”

“Because of the glasses?” I shout and flinch backwards. “It’s not really a disorder, it’s all about aesthetics—”

“Not because of the glasses,” he says softly.

“The napkins?” I draw away from him again, until I feel the kitchen island behind me. “Because that’s also about—”

“Not the napkins, either.” He is standing close to me and I have nowhere to escape.

He raises his hand slowly and just before he lays it on my hair, I shake my head and shout “Not my hair!”

“Because of that,” he winks and turns around to the psychologist.

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