“Your sister’s on the rag,” Dimitri says, gesturing to me with his half-eaten bagel, “and Tristian’s doing his most nauseating impression of a Prince.”
“Ah.” There’s no mistaking the hint of amusement on my stepbrother’s face. “Gotcha.”
“Ignore them,” Tristian says, immediately pouring a cup of tea. “The tea is hot, so don’t burn yourself. The health food store had a variety of teas for this time of the month, but I settled on the one with the best antioxidants. Make sure you drink the water, though, because it’ll help flush out the toxins, which, from my understanding, is what causes most of the bloating. I’ve also added a protein bar, a banana and a cup of berries.” He fusses with the heating pad, looking unbothered when I swat his hands away. “This should help soothe the cramping. If it gets too hot, you can adjust the temperature.” He tilts his head, scrutinizing me. “Do you find your cramps settle more in the stomach or lower back?”
“Jesus Christ, Tristian,” Killian grumbles, “She’s been having her period since she was fourteen. I’m sure she’s got this under control.”
All eyes in the room swing to him.
“Fourteen?” Dimitri repeats. “That’s awfully specific.”
“We shared a bathroom,” Killian says defensively. “You’ve seen her. She’s a slob like you. Left her shit all over the place.”
Tristian visibly shakes off that information. “Story is our Lady, and my job as her Lord is to see to her health and needs. Just because you monsters don’t appreciate her superior reproductive functions doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore it.” He turns back to me, stroking his hand tenderly over my hair. It’s really starting to creep me out. “You take the day to yourself, sweetheart. Text or call me if you need anything. I told Ms. Crane not to be such a major league bitch today, but it turns out she’s spending the morning at the doctor. Lucky you.” He frowns, forehead creasing. “I’ll need to clean up the broken plate she threw at me before we head out.”
It’s weird and overbearing and a little scary, and I must be a hormonal cesspit, because all I feel is strangely touched.
I look at him in bafflement. “That’s… uh, really nice of you, Tristian.”
When he leans down to kiss me, he keeps it light and chaste—sweeter than the chocolates he’s left for me.
And then he ruins it by saying, “I know.” Not catching my eye roll, he adds, “And I downloaded some movies for you. Rom-Coms, tearjerkers, whatever helps you feel better.”
“This is pathetic,” Dimitri groans, throwing his head back. “Chick flicks aren’t going to make her cramps go away, moron.”
Tristian throws him a dirty look. “She might need an emotional hormone purge.”
“There’s only one thing she needs,” Dimitri argues, licking the cream cheese from his finger. “I can have you that Percocet in thirty minutes flat. Say the word, baby girl.”
“No, but thank you,” I say, meaning it. After all the manipulation and revenge, it’s nice to just have someone want to take care of me.
Tristian hesitates and then bends, kissing me on my forehead. “Take it easy, okay?”
“I will.”
The guys leave the room, Killian giving me one last look before he shuts the door.
For a long time, I doze, the heat from the pad lulling me into a comforting stupor. Every time the cramps twist me up, I roll over, readjusting the heating pad until I repeat the cycle. The sounds of morning traffic contrast with the stillness of the house, making it appear as though I’m ensconced in a bubble. It’s easy to close my eyes and disappear inside it, if only in small snatches of time.
It’s been a long time since I felt this normal.
The next time I stir, I resolve to sit up and down the glass of water. The berries and banana are eaten more for the benefit of not taking the pain reliever on an empty stomach than any real sense of hunger, but the more I eat, the more I feel like I can actually get out of bed.
There’s a few minutes in the bathroom spent staring at the empty stretch of wall where my mirror used to be. Killian and I don’t talk about the night I cut my wrist, but sometimes—over dinner, in his truck, every time I hand him a drink—I’ll catch him looking at my wrist cuff, as if he’s imagining the thin scar that’s hiding beneath it.
He’s never mentioned having my mirror replaced.