I turned the shower on as hot as it would go and stayed under it until my fingers started to prune. I was scrubbed clean and had delayed as long as I could.
I wiped the steam from the mirror with a towel. The top layer of skin was gone from my right cheek. It would heal just fine, but a scrape looks like hell until it heals. There was a small scrape on my chin and the side of my nose. A knot was blossoming into brilliant color on my forehead. I looked as though I'd been hit by a train. It was amazing that anyone wanted to kiss me.
I peeked out the door into the bedroom. No one was waiting for me. The room was empty and full of the whir of the heater. It was quiet, peaceful, and I couldn't hear any noises from the kitchen. I let out a long sigh. Alone, for a little while.
I was vain enough that I didn't want Richard to see me in my usual nighttime attire. I had had a nice black robe that matched a tiny black teddy. An overly optimistic date had given it to me. He never got to see me wear it. Fancy that. The robe had died a sad death covered in blood and other bodily fluids.
Wearing the teddy seemed cruel since I didn't plan on ha**ng s*x with him. I stood in front of my closet and didn't have a thing to wear. Since I consider clothes something you wear so you won't be naked, that was pretty sad.
I put on an oversize T-shirt with a caricature of Mary Shelley on it, a pair of grey sweatpants--not the fancy ones, either, the kind with a drawstring in them. The way God intended sweatpants to be. A pair of white jogging socks, the closest thing I owned to slippers, and I was ready to go.
I looked at myself in the mirror and wasn't happy. I was comfortable, but it wasn't very flattering. But it was honest. I've never understood those women who wear makeup, do their hair, and dress wonderfully until after they're married. Suddenly, they forget what makeup is and lose all their thin clothes. If we did marry, he should see what he'd be sleeping beside every night. I shrugged and walked out.
He'd combed his hair out. It foamed around his face, soft and inviting. The candles were gone. So was the apron. He stood in the entryway between kitchen and living room. His arms were crossed over his chest, shoulder leaning against the doorjamb. He smiled. He looked so scrumptious, I wanted to go back in and change, but I didn't.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What about?"
"I'm not completely sure, but I think for presuming I could take over your kitchen."
"I think it's the first meal that's ever been cooked in it."
His smile widened, and he pushed away from the door. He walked towards me. He moved in the circle of his own energy. Not that otherworldly power, but just Richard. Or was it? Maybe a lot of his drive was from his beast.
He stood staring down at me, close enough to touch but not doing it. "I was going crazy waiting for you. I got this idea to cook a fancy meal. It was stupid. You don't have to eat it, but it kept me from running down to Guilty Pleasures and defending your honor."
It made me smile. "Damn you, I can't even pout around you. You always jolly me out of it."
"And this is a bad thing?"
I laughed. "Yes. I enjoy my bad moods, thank you very much."
He traced fingers down my shoulders, kneading the muscles in my upper arms. I pulled away from him. "Please, don't." Just like that, the cozy domestic scene was ruined. All my fault.
His hands dropped to his sides. "I'm sorry." I didn't think he meant the meal. He took a deep breath and nodded. "You don't have to eat a bite." I guess we were going to pretend he had meant the meal. Fine with me.
"If I said I wasn't hungry at all, you wouldn't be mad at me?"
"I fixed the meal to make me feel better. If it bothers you, don't eat it."
"I'll drink a cup of coffee and watch you eat."
He smiled. "It's a deal."
He stayed standing, looking down at me. He looked sad. Lost. If you love someone, you shouldn't make them miserable. It's a rule somewhere, or should be.
"You combed your hair out."
"You like it loose."
"Just like this is one of my favorite sweaters," I said.
"Is it?" His voice held a teasing edge to it. I could have the lightness back. We could have a nice relaxing evening. It was up to me.
I looked up into his big brown eyes and wanted it. But I couldn't lie to him. That would be worse than cruel. "This is awkward."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing. It's not your fault. It's mine."
He shook his head. "You can't help how you feel."
"My first instinct is to cut and run, Richard. Stop seeing you. No more long conversations. No touching. Nothing."
"If that's what you want." His voice sounded sort of strangled, as if it cost him dearly to say those words.
"What I want is you. I just don't know if I can handle all of you."
"I shouldn't have proposed until you'd seen what I really was."
"I saw Marcus and the gang."
"It's not the same as seeing me go beastly on you, is it?"
I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "No," I said, "it isn't."
"If you have someone else you can call to wait with you tonight, I'll go. You said you needed time and I practically move in. I'm pushing."
"Yeah, you are."
"I'm scared that I'm losing you," he said.
"Pushing won't help," I said.
"I guess not."
I stood there staring at him. The apartment was dark. The only light from the kitchen. It could have been, should have been, very intimate. I told everybody that lycanthropy was just a disease. It was illegal and immoral to discriminate. I didn't have a prejudiced bone in my body, or so I told myself. Staring up into Richard's handsome face, I knew it wasn't true. I was prejudiced. I was prejudiced against monsters. Oh, they were good enough to be my friends, but even my closest friends, Ronnie and Catherine, were human. Good enough to be friends, but not good enough to love. Not good enough to share my bed. Is that really what I thought? Was that who I was?
It wasn't who I wanted to be. I raised zombies and slew vampires. I wasn't clean enough to throw stones.
I moved closer to him. "Hold me, Richard. Just hold me."
His arms enfolded me. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat, fast and strong. I held him, listening to the beat of his heart, breathing his warmth. For just an instant I felt safe. It was the way I'd felt before my mother died. That childish belief that nothing can hurt you while Mommy and Daddy hold you tight. That utter faith that they can make everything all right. In Richard's arms, for brief moments, I had that again. Even though I knew it was a lie. Hell, it had been a lie the first time. My mother's death had proven that.
I pulled away first. He didn't try and hold on. He didn't say anything. If he'd said anything remotely sympathetic I might have cried. Couldn't have that. Down to business. "You haven't asked how it went with Jean-Claude."
"You were almost mad at me when you came through the door. I thought if I started questioning you right off the bat, you might yell at me."
He'd made coffee all on his own. That earned him at least two brownie points. "I wasn't mad at you." I poured coffee into my baby penguin mug. Regardless of what I take to work, it is my favorite mug.
"Yes, you were," he said.
"You want some coffee?"
"You know I don't like it."
How do you trust a man that doesn't like coffee? "I keep hoping you'll come to your senses."
He started dishing out his meal. "Sure you don't want some?"
"No, thanks." It was some small brown meat in a brown sauce. Looking at it made me nauseous. I'd eaten later than this with Edward, but tonight, food just didn't sound good. Maybe getting my head bashed into concrete had something to do with that.
I sat down in one of the chairs, one knee drawn up to my chest. The coffee was Viennese cinnamon, one of my favorites. Sugar, real cream, and it was perfect.
Richard sat down opposite me. He bowed his head and said grace over his meal. He's Episcopalian, did I mention that? Except for the furry part, he really is perfect for me.
"Tell me what happened with Jean-Claude, please," he asked.
I sipped my coffee and tried to think of a short version. Okay, a short version Richard wouldn't mind hearing. Okay, maybe just the truth.
"He took the news better than I thought he would, actually."