Page 78 of The Butcher's Wife
What can I give her?
I shift the bag of peas, grimacing through the pain. I thought getting the shit beat out of me would clear things up like usual, but this time, it’s only left me a headache and a black eye.
“Dom?” Annetta calls out from the top of the stairs.
I blow out an exhale. I was hoping for a good night’s sleep before we jumped back into our argument, but maybe my pathetic appearance will earn me a little sympathy instead.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
When she comes down the stairs, I take it as a good sign that she’s wearing my T-shirt. She sets the gun—the real onefrom my nightstand—on the kitchen island, and pride tears through me.
“I would have texted you first, but I thought you were asleep,” I say, nodding to the gun.
“What happened?” she asks, looking me up and down. The worry in her voice cuts into my ego. She shouldn’t worry about me, not when she’s got plenty to worry about on her own, and I’m some jackass who chose to do this to himself.
“I went to clear my head. Got myself into a fight.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Because of me?”
At least I’m capable enough to recognize a trap when I see one. “No. Because of me. You were right,reginetta.”
She quickly smothers her look of surprise with one of suspicion. “Right about what?”
“I shouldn’t have threatened your pianist. I made more work for you, and I’m sorry. I have a few ideas on how I can fix it if you’ll hear me out.”
A deep frown creases her mouth and sinks an ominous feeling into my chest. “That’snotwhat I’m mad about.”
A few hours ago, that would have made me frustrated, but I’m too exhausted to argue. My brain’s barely online. My only goal is to get in the shower and fall asleep wrapped around her angry little body.
“Then tell me what you’re mad about.”
“Are you going to run away again if I do?”
“You’re welcome to shoot me if so.”
That earns me a tiny little smile. She uncrosses her arms and lifts herself to perch on the edge of the kitchen counter. With no makeup on and her hair pulled up into a messy bun, wearing just my shirt, she’s fucking beautiful—maybe even more so than in the daylight. This relaxed side of her is the part of her that only I get to see. It’s just for me.
I guess I’ve resigned myself to being a deeply possessive man, at least when it concerns her.
“I don’t want you to solve my problems if I can solve them on my own.”
I scoff. “What do you want me to do instead, sit on my ass?”
She smirks. “Sometimes, the only thing I want from you is support. You know what that is?”
I lean back against the opposite counter so I don’t reach for her and piss her off more. “I want to say it’s when I go out and kill whoever looked at you wrong, but I’m thinking that’s not the kind of support you’re looking for.”
She crooks a finger toward me. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
Heat zips to my groin as I step to stand between her spread legs.
“Now you put your arm around me,” she says, and I splay my hand across the small of her back, “And you ask me questions like, ‘How are you feeling?’”
I grin. “How are you feeling, angel?”
She melts into me, pressing her face against my chest. “I was pretty upset you left in the middle of our argument.”
“I know. I had to go punch something first.”
