And because of that, my newly returned King is coming undone.
He guides me into the house, and once inside, he presses me to the door and flips the lock behind me.
One, two, three.
He lowers his eyes with shame when he sees me take note of his actions. “It started when my parents died, and I had to lock Dominic in the house. I had to make sure he was safe. It’s a false sense of security, and the logical side of me knows that, it knows, but it doesn’t matter. Somehow, counting helps. When counting isn’t enough, running helps exhaust my racing thoughts. And smoking helps me at times in between my run and my first sip of gin.”
My heart is in the midst of exploding when he lifts volatile eyes to mine.
“Do you understand that?”
I nod, unflinching. “It’s a nervous condition and nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel uncomfortable talking about it.”
“It’s…” he lets out a resigned sigh, “sometimes it takes over.”
I cup his jaw, and he molds his hand over mine, seeming desperate for the contact, and my chest swells further with ache. “It’s anxiety that stemmed from a very hard and very traumatizing time in your life. When I’m stressed the most, that’s when the worst of my dreams manifest.”
“It got…so much worse when I sent you away,” he admits and closes his eyes. “Running, smoking, gin, nothing is helping today. Come,” he grips the hand he’s holding and drags me into my destroyed kitchen. Burnt veal cutlets sit on the counter, along with an empty bottle of gin and two Louis Latour bottles. Caked mixing bowls and utensils line the counters, and it looks like he fought a bag of flour and lost at one point. I wrinkle my nose as I survey the damage.
“Did you smoke in my kitchen?”
“I had one.” He holds up two fingers.
“Don’t smoke in my house.”
“Your house,” he parrots, and I feel the sting that comment causes him. He glances at the stove. “I made you dinner.” He furrows his brows. “Well, I burnt dinner, but I’ve got this!” He reaches for an empty bottle of Louis Latour on the counter and pours three drops into a glass before thrusting it toward me. “Saved you some.”
I eye it and bite my lips to stifle my laugh as he hangs his head in defeat. “This is not how this was supposed to go. Not any of this. Forgive me.”
I glance at the newly shredded book, which lays just below a fresh scuff on my wall. He follows my line of sight.
“Another one bites the dust,” I say through a sigh.
“That’s not,” he shakes his head back and forth. “That’s not us. That will never be us. I don’t at all like your perception.”
“All I see right now is a very drunk, very tired, very stressed-out Frenchman who had a bad day and needs to sleep it off.” It’s then I notice the absence of the other Frenchman in my life. “Did you leave Beau inside when you ran?”
His eyes bulge in fear before he races out of the room. A minute later, I hear an audible protest from Beau for being accosted. In the next second, Tobias carries my dog into the kitchen before presenting him to me in his palms like a trophy. “He’s here.”
I take Beau in my arms, and the confused dog licks my lips. I murmur my hello as Tobias snaps at the both of us. “I’m jealous. Of. A. Dog.”
I shake my head, unable to hold in my grin, and glance around the kitchen. “Looks like you had a more than productive day. I appreciate the thought.”
“I am not bored,” he says softly. “I’m…adjusting.”
He steps in front of me and runs his knuckles along my jawline. “I didn’t think it was possible to miss you more than I did before I got here, but I do. And I want to fuck you so bad,” the ache in that declaration and his tone is comical, but the sentiment hits hard.