Imperfect Affections

Reaching out gently, I wrap my arms around her and pull her against my chest. “I’ll never hurt you, Violet, no matter what happens or what you do.”

She trembles in my hold, her fear wreaking havoc with my heart. Surely she knows I’ll never touch her like that. I’ll never do to her what my father did to my mother. I still carry those scars. They’ll never fade. The idea that this is what she expects of me is like a knife being plunged into my stomach.

I tighten my embrace and kiss the top of her head. “I’m going to keep you safe. Understand? I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re mine now. You’re mine to protect.”

Sniffing, she pulls away, fighting my hold.

Not wanting to spook her more than I already have, I drop my arms to my sides. She pretends her little breakdown doesn’t matter, turning her back on me and sauntering to the kitchen like she has no care in the world.

This isn’t Violet. My girl is brave and feisty and hardheaded. It’s not like her to run away from a fight or not to face her fears. She’s hiding. She’s hiding something from me.

I let her go, following her with my gaze as I contemplate what just happened.

While she pours herself a mug of coffee, I put the gun away. When I get back, she’s drinking her coffee at the kitchen table.

I don’t bring up the issue of the gun. We need to eat. She needs healthier food than the omelet I whipped up in five seconds of weary fatigue.

Taking berries and yoghurt from the fridge, I place it with granola and honey on the table. I cut up melon, mango, and papaya, and serve the fruit on a plate.

“Eat,” I say, setting a bowl in front of her.

She doesn’t reach for any of the food, so I dish up a little of everything and put a generous helping of fruit on the side.

“Everything,” I instruct with a firm nod at the food. “You’re not leaving the table until your bowl is empty.”

She narrows her pretty eyes. “Are you having fun?”

“Feeding you?” I ask, dishing up for myself.

“Treating me like a child.”

I smile. That’s my girl. The old Violet is back. I’ll take a heavy dose of her sarcasm over her fear any day. I feel ten times better, and the fact that I find her annoyance an enormous relief says a lot about our relationship.

“I’m only taking care of you.” I pop a blueberry in my mouth. “Your wellbeing is my concern.”

“Now you sound like my mother.”

“Eat.” I spoon yoghurt into my mouth. “Then I won’t have to act like your mother.”

She rolls her eyes but dips her spoon into the bowl and lifts it to her lips.

I’m a fast eater. Today, I chew slowly and take my time to swallow, lingering to make sure she does as she was told.

When our bowls are empty, I load the dishwasher while she picks at the fruit on her plate.

Shooting her a look from over my shoulder, I ask, “What are your plans for today?”

“Job hunting.”

“What are you looking for?”

She bites into a slice of mango as she studies me. “If it’s a ploy to make me talk about my ambition again, it’s not going to work.”

I close the dishwasher and lean on the counter. “It’s not. I have a lot of contacts in the city. If I know what you want, I can put in a good word for you.”

She wrinkles her nose as if trying to smell the deception. “You’ll do that?”

Walking to her, I put my palms on the table, framing her beautiful face between my arms. “What did I say about taking care of you?”

A frown pleats her brow. She’s having trouble wrapping her head around the idea that I care, and who can blame her?

After considering her answer for several beats, she settles for, “Why?”

She’s questioning my motives. Fair enough. “Because you’re my wife. It’s my job to take care of you.”

She tilts her head. “I didn’t take you for the old-fashioned type.”

“Nothing about it is old-fashioned.”

It’s a question of honor. After how my father failed in that department, I promised myself to make damn sure I can provide for my family and give them a good life, the life they deserve. Besides, I like taking care of her. I need it. Just like I need her. She’s too special, too perfect to settle for mediocre. She deserves the best.

She stands, putting space between us. “I studied fine arts.”