Page 99 of Heartless Game

“Well, those I’ll read. Thank you, Isaac, but this is too much?—”

“No such thing,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and picking up the bowl. It was so hot it burned my fingers, but I didn’t give a shit. “Here,” I said, scooping up broth in the spoon and lifting it to her lips.

“Isaac—”

“Eat.” There was no room for argument in my tone.

She complied, opening her mouth and swallowing the broth. I repeated the process, and some part of me hummed in contentment that I was providing for her this way. Torturing her had felt good, in some ways—but taking care of her felt much, much better.

Finally, she pushed my hand away. I handed her a water bottle and some pills, which she took with some grumbling about howshe had her period all the time and none of this was necessary, which I ignored.

“Heating pad or hot water bottle?”

“Hot water bottle,” she said, and I silently thanked Lawson for coming through.

After filling it up in the kitchen, I came back out, climbing back into bed with her and pulling her against my chest.

“What do you want to watch?” I asked, looking at the TV.

“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”

“Nothing about you is stupid,” I said emphatically.

“House Hunters International.”

I raised an eyebrow, not expecting that, but I grabbed the remote and turned the TV on, locating the show on a streaming app and starting it up.

We settled in, watching for a bit as Americans and Canadians traveled to foreign countries and tried to find apartment rentals, complaining about how small everything was, how there was no air conditioning, or asking why the fridges were college dorm sized. Clearly, none of these idiots had done their research before they’d moved.

“My favorite part is when they say they need an oven to cook a Thanksgiving turkey. Like, why are they cooking a turkey in Thailand?” she giggled in my arms, making something in my chest ache at the easy happiness in her voice, and the absence of pain.

I’d done that. I’d made her feel better. She was happy, because of me. That heart I’d been so sure I didn’t have, that had shattered so long ago, when my mom had been killed…slowly, it began to stitch back together.

“Why do you like this show so much, then?” I asked her.

She sighed. “It’s the combination of them finding a home, a place that’s theirs, a place to just be safe in, and the freedom to go wherever they want. I’ve never had any of those things. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Fucking hearts. Maybe I didn’t want one after all, because mine squeezed painfully. It was insight into her life she hadn’t given me before, but she sounded so sad, I didn’t want to push. So instead, I held her, watching this dumb show, determined to give her a home and freedom—even if I’d never, ever, give her freedom from me.

“Where would you want to live if you could?” I asked her.

She brightened. “Oh, that’s easy. I have a whole bucket list. Paris, London, Kathmandu, Lima, Ushuaia, Jackson Hole—” she glanced over at me, “What? I love a mountain.”

A smile played on my lips.

“Noted. Where else?”

“Todos Santos, Melbourne, Tokyo, and Prague.”

I stroked her hair. “Why those cities?”

“They seem equally like places you could get lost in and find yourself.”

We were quiet for a bit, before she asked, “So, why major in linguistics? Why so many languages?”

Fuck, this hurt to confess. Emotional intimacy was a pain in the ass.

I cleared my throat. “My mom studied linguistics in college. She spoke like, ten languages. She’d wanted to be an interpreter, but instead she met my dad, and…” I shrugged, clearing my throat again, but the tightness didn’t go away. “Well, he wouldn’t have let her. And she never got the chance, anyway.”

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