Page 9 of Taming Liberty

I turn and watch as he disappears into the wine cellar, his steps pounding on the solid wood. He comes back up and walks straight to the cabinet, taking out a wine glass then pulling a corkscrew from a drawer.

I frown when I don’t spot hesitation in his movements. Once he removes the cork from the bottle, he pours me a glass and walks it over to me.

I hesitantly take it when he holds it out for me, my eyes never veering from him. He sits and curves his fingers around his glass, but he doesn’t raise it. He leans back and watches me, like he’s daring me to take a drink.

That’s his only tell. He had me nearly convinced that this little exercise was me being paranoid, thinking his every move revolved around things we talked about before we met, but no, I see it now. If he has a tell when he’s lying, I didn’t spot it. But he certainly doesn’t hide the challenge in his eyes.

He knows. He knows I can’t drink this.

He thinks I won’t try.

When I raise the glass to my lips, the lines around his eyes tighten. My stomach turns as wine splashes into my mouth, and I have to focus on my breathing not to puke.

I don’t really have an allergy. That was the excuse I gave Robert while we were dating so he would stop trying to introduce me to different wines. I’d practiced the lie so many times by that point that I regurgitated it without another thought.

I can’t stand the taste of wine, but it’s more from psychological reasons than physical, and that’s a truth I’ll never share.

A truth Angel has no clue about. For all he knows, my tongue is about to blow up like a balloon.

Forcing myself to swallow, I cough and set the glass down, closing my eyes as I do. I uselessly try to shove out the memories that assail me, instead imagining what I’d be feeling if I was having an allergic reaction.

I imagine my airway narrowing and cough again. It isn’t hard to do considering the panic that’s setting in stronger each second my brain registers the taste in my mouth. My lungs contract like some imaginary force is using it as a punching bag, and I cough more. I suck air into my tiny tube of a throat and make a sound that reminds me of a dying animal.

Angel’s face is pinched with concern, but he doesn’t say anything. Not until I pick up the wine glass again and bring it to my lips.

“Jesus Christ, Lib,stop it.” He jerks the glass away from me, some of the red liquid sloshing on the table in the process. “What the fuck are you trying to prove?”

Angel pushes out of his chair and stomps out of sight. I focus on getting air in and out of my lungs while trying not to vomit. The putrid taste on my tongue is worse than bile, so I lift up Angel’s glass of whiskey and pound it back. It helps some.

Angel returns and hoists me up, rather roughly, then drags me with him through the living room and down a hallway to the bathroom. The shower runs, humidity thickening the air in the room.

He closes the door behind us and guides me to the shower where steam billows from the scalding water. I get close to it without it touching, and I inhale deep breaths into my lungs. After a few minutes, my panic gradually lessens, and I wonder just how close I got to mimicking an allergic reaction.

Angel stands behind me, his hand rubbing circles on my back, but despite the comforting gesture, I can feel his irritation.

Another minute goes by before breathing no longer feels like a chore, and I step away from the shower, my back pushing against Angel. He leans around me to shut off the shower, and when he stands straight, he slips a hand off my shoulder.

The sudden silence in the room draws out each second, and I wait with my back to Angel, refusing to be the first to speak.

“You know, don’t you?”

When I don’t answer, he gingerly spins me to face him, lightly cupping my shoulders. “Lib?”

“Yes,” I reply, my eyes stinging. “Last night. I figured it out.”

He sighs and pulls away from me, running his hand over his stubble like this is stressful forhim. Like he’s the victim. Which I guess, in a laughable way, he is. This spoils his plans. Not that I know what those plans were.

“How?”

I swallow then suck in a shallow breath, the panic attack no longer the cause. “Sawyer told me it wasn’t him I was speaking to all that time… I figured it out after that.”

He nods solemnly like he’s accepting it. He lowers his hand and lets out another sigh. “It’s better this way,” he declares with certainty. Like it’s his right to decide. “Especially now.”

No apology? No guilt? Not even anyregret?

I fight back tears and shake my head. “What do you mean, especially now?”

His face hardens, and I watch him pull away from me, trying to hide his vulnerability. Or maybe he’s just finally showing his true self.

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