She shuddered. Betsy didn’t want that.
At least he only called her quirk nonsense—other times he used more foul language. It didn’t matter that she had her own theories about why she did what she did—sex addiction. She’d read that phrase somewhere and couldn’t help but wonder if it applied to her. Every once in a while, she just had to…do it. The compulsion to fuck overwhelmed her. Even though she knew that meant she was going to hell with a capital H.
But that didn’t matter now. She didn’t want Nathan sexually—at least not for the moment. And even though he’d blackmailed her into this arrangement, she might be able to find redemption by his side. Her father said Nathan was so holy.
Now, if she could just remember that—instead of killing him in his sleep—everything would work out fine. She really did need redemption. From moment one, she’d been living a sin-filled life. Surely her commitment would help her fix things.
She sighed and made her way into the kitchen. Usually, Nathan’s mood improved if she fed him. Her love of cooking and ability to create a fantastic-tasting meal was the one thing about her childhood that had turned out well for her as an adult. Her mother could cook, and she’d passed on the love of it to her daughter.
Betsy smiled at the thought. The hours spent together in the kitchen working side by side were her most treasured memories. Of course, she’d had no idea what her parents had been doing in the basement while she’d been upstairs stirring soups. If she had, she would have run for the hills.
“How does brisket sound?” Her mother had always called it pot-roast. She hadn’t even known it had another name until she moved to Manhattan. The things a country girl could learn.
“Perfect.” He spoke from the living room, and she knew he had sat down to start working on his emails. She let go of the breath she held. He’d be distracted for a while and maybe one of those correspondences would finally be the agreement to free her folks from their imprisonment in his family’s compound.
Her mind swayed to the man from the coffee shop. She still had his card in her pocket. Cyrus. It was an unusual name that certainly fit the man himself. Did that sort of thing happen in New York all the time?
He’d been handsome; she’d give him that. Even if he was stranger than an owl perched atop a church in the middle of daytime during summer. He had almost made her fall off the no-sex wagon. She’d noticed him the second he’d come through the door. And when he’d walked over, she’d stopped breathing for a moment.
What had he called me? Lilliana? Weird. She shook her head and started chopping onions. Had she preset the oven? She had this luxurious kitchen, but her mind was always somewhere else, it seemed.
Cyrus had smelled good. She closed her eyes and stopped chopping for a second to let herself revel in the memory. She’d told him his scent was one of power. That had been an odd thing to say. Only it had been the first word to come to mind when he’d asked her such a strange question. Why had he done that?
“Betsy.” Nathan’s harsh use of her name jolted her, and she lost her grip on the knife. Her eyes flew open at the same time she cut her finger. With a gasp, she jumped backward and stuck her finger in the mouth.
“What are you doing?” he yelled at her. He always yelled. Even something as benign as her cutting her own finger aggravated him.
Nathan yanked her finger out of her mouth and pulled her to the sink. The cut had already stopped bleeding. She never stayed hurt very long. Cuts, bruises, and even broken bones all disappeared with very little effort. One time when she’d hit her head, she’d been dizzy for a few hours, but other than that, nothing ever seemed to linger.
A doctor had once called her an anomaly. Or maybe her father had made up that story. Not that she recalled seeing doctors during her childhood. Now, at least, she understood why.
He turned on the sink. “Put your hand under the water.”
She could have told him she wasn’t burned. She’d been bleeding, but she’d long since learned there was absolutely no point in disagreeing with Nathan on anything. She stuck her finger under the cold water and tried not to wince when Nathan moved close to her ear and whispered in it.
“I think your attention is not where it is supposed to be today.”
She swallowed. “You’re right.”
“I think you were bothered by that stranger in the coffee shop. I think he made you feel things, inappropriate things that you shouldn’t be thinking about. I think that’s why you cut yourself.”
His voice was no more than a hiss, but she shuddered from the sick, creepy, crawling feeling that travelled up her spine—everything inside of her rebelled against Nathan touching her. She wanted to pull free. Standing by the sink with Nathan pressed against her and her hand stuck under the water was the hardest it had ever been to endure his presence. What had changed? It had to be her encounter in Starbucks. What else could have suddenly made Nathan so repugnant?