Page 76 of Heathen

That always positive voice in my head is taking a hit today.

She's smiling and I've heard a handful of laughs come from her, but she isn't happy. She's faking it. With every stupid joke that Rooster tells over coffee while I'm cooking the two of us breakfast, I can sense her fake happiness waning.

She's counting the seconds until she can escape, and I have no idea why I'm postponing the inevitable.

I knew she was awake last night when I climbed into bed with her. There was no missing the jolt in her body when I reached out and wrapped my arms around her.

I should've kept my fucking mouth shut instead of ruining everything, instead of just letting it all work itself out. My confession put a clock on her being here, and now, in the light of day, it wasn't as good of an idea as it felt like it was last night when I was four drinks deep.

I grind my molars together with my back to her when I hear her flat chuckle again.

"Do you not feel well?" Rooster asks, finally fucking catching on that she isn't exactly interested in his stupid jokes and banter.

"I'm fine," she says, but the silence between them now is thick and heavy with her lie.

Whispered confessions never work. They always blow up in your face. I don't know why I thought things would be different with her.

She didn't want this marriage, and as turned on as she can be for me, that doesn't equate to a life together. I am such a fool.

It still doesn't hedge the urge to drop to my knees in front of her and beg her to stay, to assure her that I can make her happy. I consider telling her that she owes me at least a week or a month to prove how good our lives can be together, but I didn't marry her with conditions. Helping her doesn't give me the right to demand anything else from her. If anything, doing it makes me just as bad as the men who treat women like possessions. Still, those thoughts enter my head, making me feel like just as big a piece of shit as that Troy guy.

I don't want to be the villain in her story, and keeping my mouth shut may be the only way to prevent it.

When she excuses herself from the kitchen, it takes every ounce of reasoning I still have to keep from following her out.

"What the fuck did you do?"

I turn toward Rooster's accusation.

"Nothing," I lie.

At this point, I'm just glad I didn't tell her I love her.

"She was fine yesterday," he says, a hint of protectivenessin his tone that strikes me the wrong way.

I growl at him, feeling like a snarling dog whose territory is being encroached on. I swear, if he pushes the issue, I might take all my anger and sadness at the way she's acting out on him, and where would that leave me? No doubt I'd be released from Cerberus's organization, and, honestly, I'm already going to lose Kaylee. I can't lose that too.

"You better fucking fix it," he snaps before leaving the kitchen in a huff.

If I knew a way to make all of this right, then I'd jump on it in a heartbeat. There's no sense in clinging to pride when it doesn't have the ability to keep you whole when the dust settles.

Pride is such a foolish notion. It has started wars and led to so much death and destruction. I want no part of it, but I'm alsonot the one to take a step forward and volunteer to get trampled on when I can easily see the stampede heading my way.

I do my best to convince the rest of my mind and body that the way I feel for her isn't love. Love for me isn't possible. It's simply my body's way of urging me not to lose her because there's so much tension between us. This is lust. It's a hundred percent sexual. Since I haven't had her, my psyche is trying to convince me that losing her would be the worst thing in the world, because every inch of me wants inside of her, wants to consume her, experience the clench of her body.

It's physical. That's it.

I can handle denying myself physically. I've done it many times. I just have to power through.

If she didn't like what I had to say last night, then it's not my place to argue with her about it or try and manipulate her into changing her mind. She's had enough of that in her life, and I refuse to contribute to it.

She's sitting on the bed, gnawing on one of her cuticles, when I make it to the room, and the bag I took from her house is sitting beside her, bulging with her belongings.

"You're packed?" The words are quite possibly the stupidest thing I could say. Obviously, she's fucking packed.

"You bought most of the clothes," she says, her eyes refusing to meet mine. "I can leave them if you want me to."

"What use do I have for them?" I mutter, feeling like the giant asshole I told myself I wouldn't be.

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