Page 48 of Penance

I go lax, melting into the cold marble counter as he finally pulls his fingers free of my quivering walls. I open my eyes to slits when I hear him groan, my eyes rolling onto him sucking his fingers into his mouth. His tongue circling the digits soaked in us. He winks at me, releasing them with a pop. He reaches forward, my arm flapping around like I’m trying to make a snow angel, I reach for him. My arm touching something cold and wet as I raise it, he clasps my hand, pulling me to sitting. I frown down at my arm, Huxley’s brow creasing as he twists it in his grip.

“Darlin’, you’re bleeding,” he says, almost like a question as I turn my arm, peering at the little red spot on my elbow.

“What is that?” I mumble aloud. “It’s not mine,” I inform him, confusion marring my tone.

In unison we both start to look around me, trying to find the source of the blood. Huxley steps around the counter. Coming around the right side, he bends low, lifting a white pastry box. I frown harder, seeing the small red stain on the bottom of it, the little bit that seeped through now smeared on my elbow. He steps up beside me, twisting to face him, he lays the box on the counter. His dark eyes flicker up to mine but I just shrug. I don’t know what it is either.

Huxley places his thumbs beneath the lid, flipping it off quickly. My shoulders deflate as I peer inside the box at a small dead swallow bird in a tiny patch of blood. It’s rich, inky blue feathers are clumpy and dry. The usual shine to its smooth body is long gone. I raise my hand to scoop the little feathered creature up when Huxley swats at me, slapping at my hand.

“Don’t touch it. It could have something on it,” he scolds me, leaving the box where it is and sliding me off the other side of the counter.

He places my bare feet on the floor, my t-shirt dropping to cover my thighs. I peer up at him, concern etched into his beautiful features. I frown harder, Huxley doesn’t worry about anything.

“Like what?” I ask, wrinkling my nose, “anthrax or something?”

“Maybe,” he answers coldly, glaring at the box like it killed his puppy. “Does Charlie ever bring dead things home?” Huxley asks me gently, hope heavy in his voice.

I shake my head, “notdeadthings. And not animals, he loves birds,” I say sadly, looking back over my shoulder to the ominous white pastry box. “This wasn’t Charl,” I state. “How’d that get in here?” I murmur, more a wonder than a question I expect an easy answer to.

“I don’t know, Darlin’, but I’ll find out,” he promises, dropping a kiss to the top of my head as I continue staring at the box.

“Someone’s been in here then,” I nod, “someone who isn’t us.”

Huxley grips my chin, gently turning me back to face him as my stomach clenches. His dark eyes instantly capturing mine.

“Put your trousers on, go get Nox,” he instructs.

Tapping his hand to my bum to hasten my pace, I pull them on as he collects my boots. I walk through the hall, sending Rubble to the kitchen on my way to the living room. Familiar piano chords grow louder as I approach, my heart thundering in my throat. Max sits with his back to me, his large body curled into the piano. His shoulders and back muscles straining against his t-shirt as he expertly caresses the keys.

I stop in the archway, leaning my right shoulder against the wall, silently admiring his reflection in the glass window. His eyes squeezed tight, head dropped slightly forward as his thick arms work their way across the keys. A haunting melody flooding the large room.

“Max,” I call, his hands stopping instantly, he spins to face me.

“You’re finished fucking then?” he bites, “erasingmy touch from your body.”

“There’s a dead bird in the kitchen,” I tell him.

My voice wobbling a little. Ignoring the words he spat, words that could have only been heard had he been there,watching.

“You fucked in the kitchen. Your fucking guard standing watch outside like some sort of perverted spectator and now you’re just popping in here to tell me about a dead bird. What the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve been sitting here waiting on you like some sort of mug, listening to you come forhim. For you to now decide you’ll grace me with your presence. What the fuck, Lala?”

“You’re an arsehole. He’s my boyfriend, it’s my kitchen. Fuck you,” I try to sound vicious, annoyed, angry, bite back, but my voice trembles.

I swallow hard as he stands from the little stool, my eyes latching onto where it sits behind him. Memories of him perching me beside him on my ‘big girl’s stool’ assault me. My skinny little hands always stabbing at the keys too hard. His larger ones covering mine, his fingers directing mine where to go. I swallow the dry lump in my throat, rapidly blinking my eyes as his shadow falls across me.

Surveying my face, “a bird?” he repeats with a frown.

I nod, “a swallow, a dead one,” I exhale. “Someone left it in the kitchen,” I tell him a little blankly.

Someone’s been in my house.

Completely violating me and my privacy, getting through security numerous times. There’re checkpoints, keycodes, handprint scanners, and more locks than I can count just to make it into the main lobby. Let alone get access to one of the elevators. My skin itches at the very thought, like a million insects dancing across my flesh. I wrap my good arm around myself, pressing hard into my side.

“Lala,” Max breathes softly.

His big hand coming up slowly, he drops it down on my shoulder.

“What can I do?” he asks gently, squeezing me comfortingly.

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