104. BREAKFAST IS NEEDED

104. BREAKFAST IS NEEDED
Arianna

Nicole shrugged, flipping a piece of bacon with unnecessary force. “Well, you can always visit more often, or, you know, stay the night more often. It’s not like your…husband can forbid you from hanging out with your friends all the time,” she said, the word ‘husband’ dripping with a healthy dose of skeptical amusement.

There was a subtle undertone of sadness in her voice that I didn’t quite catch at first, then she added, “And I’m still in utter and complete disbelief that you’re actuallymarriednow.” She said it like ‘married’ was some sort of contagious and slightly embarrassing disease.

“Of course, not,” I chirped, perhaps a little too brightly. “Vincent is… pretty understanding.” Understanding, in his own, special, Vincent-esque way.

Which basically meant ‘understanding’ of the fact that I was his and the alarming number of ways the world could potentially try to steal me away. Protection issues, of course.

He’s just so concerned about my well-being.

I conveniently omitted the part about the obsessive freakedom and the GPS tracker that was in my phone, along with the habit to listen through it so he can hear everything I say or do.

At least, I left in the in the living room this time.

She didn’t need to know that he likely had a drone circling above us right now, monitoring bacon-cooking progress.

She wouldn’t understand our relationship, this…thing that pulsed with a darkness that I, admittedly, found strangely alluring. It ran deeper than any ‘normal’ relationship, you see.

This delicious, twisted darkness had been simmering in my heart since I first lost myself in the labyrinthine worlds of his books and the haunting strokes of my art.

And now? Now it was… amplified. Magnified. And, dare I say, even more…appealing. Don’t judge me, romance readers, you know you get it.

Nicole rolled her eyes, a gesture she had clearly perfected over years of dealing with my…uniqueromantic choices. This time, however, she added a laugh for good measure.

“Understanding? Honey, he’s like a mad puppy glued to your side, convinced you’re about to spontaneously combust if he takes his eyes off you for five seconds.

Don’t even pretend like I didn’t notice his eyes on you last night, through the lobby window. He looks like he wants to devour you whole, bones and all.”

I blushed, because, well, she wasn’t entirely wrong, and because apparently my skin has a pathological need to betray me at the most inconvenient times.

I coughed, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “It’s… not like that.” Technically, maybe it was a little like that. But not the ‘bones and all’ part. Hopefully.

“Whatever you say, darling,” she sang, clearly not buying it for a single second. “I bet he’ll come roaring up in that ridiculously expensive car of his to ‘rescue’ you once you’ve had your fill of bacon and waffles.”

I tried to shrug, a picture of nonchalance that probably resembled a confused sloth. “Um, he just… doesn’t want me to take a cab or a bus from strangers.

You know, safety and all that.” Excuses, excuses, we were both fluent in that language.

Nicole shook her head, a fond exasperation in her eyes, and expertly slid the eggs and bacon onto waiting plates, followed by the golden-brown waffles.

With a flourish, she spread the honey cream, its sweet scent mingling with the savory aroma of bacon, and winked at me.

“Excuses, excuses, my dear. Let’s just eat, because I’m completely and utterly starving.

And you look like you could use about ten gallons of coffee to even remotely resemble a functioning human being.”

“Me too,” I sighed dramatically, already envisioning the caffeine coursing through my veins. “Do you have coffee? Preferably the kind that can jumpstart a small rocket?”

“Of course! Anything you need! Especially if it means you’ll actually start telling me thetruthabout your ‘understanding’ husband and his… ‘safety protocols’,” she added with a mischievous grin that promised more playful interrogation over breakfast.

Oh boy. This was going to be a long morning.

But at least there were waffles. And coffee. Life could be worse.

Even if Vincent was probably already sending out search parties to locate my rogue self.

___

The lukewarm water of Nicole’s shower did little to dispel the lingering heat that clung to my skin, a phantom echo of the night’s passionate storm. Despite the fatigue that should have been dragging me down, a strange energy thrummed beneath my surface, a dark pulse fueled by the memory of Vincent’s touch.

I scrubbed harder, trying to wash away not just the sleep, but the intoxicating remnants of his scent that seemed to have burrowed into my very pores.

As the water cascaded down, I couldn’t help but replay the night in fragmented flashes – the raw hunger in his eyes, the possessive grip of his hands, the whispered promises that sounded more like dark commands.

It was a dangerous game we played, a dance on the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain, and I was always willingly, desperately stepping onto the dance floor.

Stepping out of the shower, I felt a little more grounded, a little less haunted by the ghost of Vincent’s presence.

I toweled myself dry, the soft cotton a stark contrast to the rough textures of the night before – his dress shirt, the stubble grazing my skin, the cool steel of his gun holsters that always seemed to be within reach, a constant reminder of the dangerous world he inhabited and pulled me into.

My reflection in the steamed-up mirror stared back at me, eyes still a little dilated, lips slightly swollen.

There was a wildness there, a flicker of something untamed that Vincent seemed to ignite within me.

I tried to tame it, to smooth it out, knowing that the world outside Nicole’s apartment was not ready for the raw edges of my Vincent-induced self.