“Go for a Frappuccino?” He looked at her like she was insane.
“Don’t do that,” she snapped at him, slamming her coffee cup on the counter and storming toward the stairs to head back up to the loft bedroom.
“Don’t do what?” he asked.
She kept going but he caught her by the hand and pulled her back to the sofa.
“Don’t say ‘Go for a Frappuccino’ like I’m crazy the way you said ‘call you a cab?’ to me after the first night we met.”
“I’m only slightly less likely to go for a Frappuccino with you now than I was to call you a cab that day.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she clipped and got up and headed up the stairs.
He followed.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t call you a cab?” he whispered behind her ear as she reached over to make the bed.
She felt a twinge.
“Of course I am,” Regret surged through her at her attitude.
“Baby…please understand. I don’t want you out there, vulnerable.”
He proceeded to reiterate that he was busy and unnecessarily repeated that he wanted her safe and he could better ensure that if she stayed in.
She nodded, saying nothing, then moved to rummage through a basket of clean laundry she’d just done in order to match up socks. She knew he was right. Deep down, she knew. But she couldn’t help but feel like she was going a little stir-crazy.
He worked from the condo all that day but went out for two hours in the evening. And while he was gone, Kyla paced like a caged tiger.
When he was back, she tried to act normal. They had ordered in pizza and they cuddled up in front of the TV in the bedroom and watched three episodes of the first season of Game of Thrones.
And she fell asleep cuddled up to him.
A good night’s sleep did nothing to improve her claustrophobia. So, stupidly, the next morning, she snuck out right after he left to go to the office for a meeting.
Stupidly.
Yep, Kyla knew it was stupid. It was stupid dangerous. But she took her Taser, her purse, and her cell phone, lifted her dagger out from under the pillow, and she snuck out, thinking it was logical to do it that way and she’d only dash out for ten minutes. Her right hand was in her jean jacket pocket and she’d held the hidden dagger the whole way to the store.
Ten minutes to get some steaks for dinner and then back. And she wouldn’t keep it from him. She’d told herself she’d tell him and he’d know it went okay, and then he’d chill out a little bit regarding her being out of the condo.
She’d rationalized that she’d just be zipping to the small gourmet supermarket less than two blocks away, she’d buy some steaks to cook him a nice dinner, and then get back in. No biggie.
It’d get her some air. It’d make her feel normal for a half an hour. She knew it was a bad idea but she did it anyway. It was almost as if it was a compulsion that she had no control over.
So, the trip there was fine. Uneventful. It was great to be out, alone, breathing fresh air like a normal person. And she was alert but felt completely safe.
But on her way back from the market, with nothing strange happening, everything totally ordinary, just as she’d stepped outside the door of the store, her cell phone went off and it’d been him calling.
She was fumbling with her wallet and the bag, and it only rang three times and stopped before she was able to answer it. She was about to call him back but then she felt the thrumming of him tracking her inside herself and an intense emotion inside. Panic and anger.
Uh oh.
The panic was hers. But the anger?
The anger was his.
She hurried back toward the condo building, eyes darting to and fro to ensure no one was tailing her.
He was on his way out of the elevator as she approached it. His eyes went big and dark and he grabbed her wrist and ducked back into the elevator. In her fumbling she heard a clatter. The wrist he’d grabbed was on the dagger and she’d dropped it. She looked down it was on the floor between their feet and very close to the elevator door, where there was a gap that was big enough to swallow it up and where it would’ve happened had it skidded just a few more inches. She winced, crouched, nabbed it, and then got it back into her pocket.
He was about to speak and she could feel that whatever was about to come out would do so in an animalistic roar because he had an “Are you fucking kidding me?” expression on his face but a hand stopped the elevator door from closing and then a couple, about their age, stepped in. Tristan’s mouth snapped shut and he glared at her. She winced, chewed her cheek, and leaned over and pressed the button for their floor and then leaned back against the mirrored wall.