Page 31 of Broken Bonds

What a bastard…

“Don’t tempt me,” I warn as I point my finger at him. “You’re getting closer to sleeping on the couch, Kral.”

Lionel places one of his hands on my waist, trapping me against the gray granite of the counter. With him looming over me, it’s too much, I need to retreat.

The scent of his cologne fills my senses and my mind begins to spin.

For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, so I close my eyes and moisten my parched lips with the tip of my tongue.

“You have to think about what you really want, Stella,” he whispers, I don’t see it, but I can feel his breath in my ear. “Something tells me that for you nothing is impossible.”

Then he walks away humming the song.

I see him leave the kitchen while I keep thinking why can’t I fly?

Dammit.

Chapter 11

I’m a coward—a big fat chicken.

I’m like an ostrich with my head buried in the sand. Here I am in the kitchen pretending to study when in reality, I’m hiding so I don’t have to face him in his bedroom. I know, we’re alone at his house, but somehow it would feel more intimate if I was in there with him.

One of the practice books rests on the counter, a legal pad, and a pencil moving between my thumb and index finger, but I haven’t written down a single word. I’ve read the same paragraph at least twelve times and I still don’t understand a single syllable.

The letters are blurry and are starting to dance with each other. I might as well get myself some good glasses or better yet, a crystal ball because what I need to sort through goes far beyond this test.

I read the same page again, but without being able to avoid it, my mind wanders off to the man in the room upstairs. If I continue like this, I’m never going to score four hundred points, and that will make it impossible for me to be admitted into any college.

It’s already past ten, how much longer can I stay down here before he comes looking for me? And there isn’t much to do either. Lionel doesn’t have anything here to keep me busy. I mean, the only television I saw is the one upstairs in front of the old couch. I can’t even make an excuse to clean the kitchen because before I got the chance—using only one hand—he helped me to do it.

Yet another change. Before, my husband always waited for his food while sitting on the loveseat with his feet raised on the coffee table, watching one of those reality shows that he loved so much. Telling me how he wants to enjoy the weekend with his wife after a long week at work. Sure, after I had taken care of the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. Being his wife was like a job, but unlike a nine-to-five schedule, mine was twenty-four-seven when he honored me with his presence.

Even if I decide to sleep on the sofa, my suitcase is still in his walk-in closet. So unless I want to sleep in the clothes I’ve been wearing all day, I have no other choice but to face the music.

I get my shit together, organizing the books on a small desk next to the kitchen, I suppose dedicated to home management. Either way, it works for me. Once everything is in order, I walk up the stairs slowly and quietly, calling on my inner ninja. Maybe I’ll be lucky and he’ll already be asleep. The last thing I want to do is wake him.

When I get to the hall, I realize the doors are ajar and the light is on. It seems the odds may not be in my favor. Unless he took the painkillers, and they knocked his ass out.

“I was about to send a search and rescue party.” Dammit, no luck.

Lionel is cool as a cucumber, sitting on the bed with his back resting on the upholstered headboard. Shamelessly shirtless, he’s doing the exercises with that little gel beanbag the doctor had recommended wearing those thick black rimmed glasses I like too much.

“Your house is big,” I reply with an attitude, walking toward the dressing room. Well, my feet go straight, my eyes not so much. The traitors stop to take note of every muscle in his sculpted chest. “Next time I’m going to have to use GPS to get to the room.”

He’s getting better, but those pink lines are a reminder of the incident.

“I’m going to put a chip in you like one of those ‘where’s my phone’ apps,” he adds.

“The next million-dollar idea, ‘where’s my wife’ app.”

“First thing tomorrow, I’ll call my attorney to file the patent,” he continues sarcastically. “With this, we can ensure that our grandchildren will live like royalty without moving a single finger a day in their lives.”

I’m about to enter the dressing room, but I stop to look at him. He’s doing the same, looking at me with a smirk pulling up his lips.

“Ahhh, your fabulous idea would have worked wonderfully for me.” There it is. If he was looking for a fight, he just found one. “You always took me for granted, keeping me as the adoring wife you wanted. Always ready to serve, always attentive. At every moment you knew where you could find me, at any time. What about me, Lionel? I didn’t even know your real family situation. Where’s my wife? Why should you be worried? Who’s my husband? It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Fuming after my little speech, I can hear my pulse in my ears, beating like a drum.

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