by Bethany-Kris
She was going back to what was comfortable.
He felt foolish—a feckin’ gobshite—for taking so long to realize what was happening to Evelyn, while he had done nothing except stand back, watch, and let her regress. He’d always been careful with her—barring sex, as that was their one thing where limits didn’t exist—as to not push her too hard, or to make her talk about things she didn’t want to tell.
Connor faced reality head-on in that moment; it had been him who didn’t want to hear, and him who didn’t want to know.
“What are you doing, lass?” Connor kicked off his shoes, and hung his coat on the hook. He checked his watch. “Isn’t that show on that you like to watch?”
Evelyn shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I was waiting for you.”
Connor came to a stop in front of her, and bent down to put his hands on her knees. “Evelyn.”
“Hmm?”
“Look in me eyes, love.”
She did. “What?”
“Should I ask you that?”
Evelyn’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand, Connor.”
“You do, you understand perfectly well. You don’t have to wait for me by the door, like some lost puppy dog who misses their owner. You know this.”
“Sure, but—”
“It’s comfortable,” he interrupted smoothly. “It took me a bit—because I’m a feckin’ dumb shite—but I get it, now. When you’re not doing well in here …” He pointed to her head, and then waved his finger around them, adding, “That’s when you revert back to doing nonsense like this, because you understand it, and it’s a way to control. Will you tell me I’m wrong?”
Evelyn blinked, her frown growing more prominent. “I just … this is easier, Connor.”
He shook his head. “I don’t give a feck about easy, love. This isn’t supposed to be easy, all right? It’s going to take work. I don’t own you, and you need to stop behaving like I do. Figure out who you want to be, Evelyn, because you’ve got all the time in the world now. So, who is it going to be, the slave or the free woman?”
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right—I don’t. But you don’t explain, either.”
Evelyn wet her lips, and blew out a soft breath. “You’re gone a lot lately.”
“I can’t help that right now, Evelyn. I made a mess, and I have to clean it up before it gets worse.”
Understatement of the year.
“But,” he added just as fast, “that doesn’t mean you need to revolve around me and my nonsense like it’s the only thing you’ve got to keep you going. I already told you that I don’t own you, lass. You can be mine, but it’s not the same.”
Evelyn glanced down at her hands, refusing to meet his gaze again. “What if I don’t know how to do that, Connor?”
“Then I suppose it’s time to learn. And you’ve got lots of time.”
If she asked him to help, then he would.
If she wanted to do it alone, he would understand.
Connor just needed Evelyn to figure it out.
He couldn’t do that for her.
• • •
Connor found Evelyn in the kitchen when he finally got back to the brownstone a hell of a lot later than he expected to be home on a Saturday night. Whether he liked it or not, he was getting to the point where he knew living in Brooklyn was not going to be manageable while being a boss.
He didn’t want to move, but traveling back and forth to Jersey day in and day out to take care of business and handle the nonsense of men was eating precious hours out of every day. Hours he would much rather spend with Evelyn, though she seemed to be slightly better since their talk earlier in the week.
Looks were also deceiving.
He heard noise in the kitchen, and thought maybe she was trying to cook—not that she knew how to, apparently—or cleaning. Although, he didn’t expect her to do that, either.
Instead, what he found was … none of those things.
“What …” Connor’s brow furrowed as he stared at the image taking shape on the wall. “What in the feck are you doing, lass?”
Evelyn didn’t even turn around. “Making something.”
“Drawing, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
“On the wall,” Connor muttered.
“Yeah.”
“With markers.”
Evelyn looked down at the package in her hand. “Metallic markers.”
“I didn’t buy those for you to draw on the feckin’ walls!”
Her dainty shoulders shrugged, and she never once turned to face him, instead continuing her task—whatever in the hell it was. He could see perfectly what the image was, of course, but that didn’t help the fact she had apparently taken a good five-foot by eight-foot section of wall to draw a colorful, metallic feather.
Her love of feathers was going to be the death of him. Every time he got a peek at the beautiful tattoo she’d let him do on her back and shoulders, he damn near lost his feckin’ mind. She’d finally allowed him to put color into the tattoo, as well.
“Evelyn,” Connor said quietly.
“Sasha,” she corrected.
Since when were they going back to that?
“Goddamn it, your name is Evelyn.”
“And Sasha. I haven’t decided which one I like yet.”
“You’re Evelyn to me.”
“But maybe Sasha, too.”
She was like talking to a wall sometimes.
She drove him crazy.
She made him love.
He didn’t know what to make of her, him, them, the whole situation they were in, or what was going to happen beyond tonight or the next day. But Jesus, the woman was going to put him in a grave.
“This is … this is just grand,” Connor said, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That isn’t coming off, love. I’m going to have to paint over it.”
Finally, her hand stilled, and her back stiffened. Silently, she shot him a glare over her shoulder that frankly, hurt worse than a slap might have. He’d not once seen her really get angry about something, not truly angry.
Right then?
She looked right pissed.
“You can’t paint over it,” she said. “It’s mine. I made it.”
How simple her views could be at times.
Connor almost wished he could see life through the same simple, honest perspective, but he knew the truth was a lot harsher than perhaps Evelyn could handle. The world was brutal, and it did not care for any one person, or even for all the people. Sure, she had seen her own version of how awful the world could be—she was living proof of it, for feck’s sake—but her view was still limited.
So very limited.
“Love, listen—I get you’re bored and whatever.”
“I’m not bored. You just didn’t have a big enough canvas, and this wall was, plus it was white,” she replied with a brilliant smile.
He sighed. “You can’t draw on the walls.”
“Can’t and shouldn’t are not the same things, Connor.”
“Exactly, so why would you draw on—”
“It’s art, the same thing you have all over the house, except on canvas.”
“Where it belongs,” Connor said exasperated. “Children draw on the walls, Evelyn.”
What bit of anger was in her expression melted away, leaving a deep hurt in its place. A part of Connor regretted what he’d said almost instantly, but the other part of him knew it was true.
He understood that it was the same way for Evelyn, too. A large part of her was all woman—adult, grown, and a wee bit insane. But there was still a part of her that was a wee child, stuck in a time before all the terrible things had happened to her.
“That was uncalled for,” she said.
Connor scowled. “Drawing on the walls is uncalled for.”
“You’re just parroting things back to me.”
“Because I’m the one making sense, lass!”
Evelyn’s green eyes rolled
upwards. “Whatever, I’m finishing the feather, and it’s staying. It’s not like it’s fucking ugly or something.”
Connor eyed the feather, silently agreeing. It was a beautiful image, even if the majority of it was only the barebones of the drawing. Mostly blacklines forming what would be before all the color was added in. She had added some color toward the top, gentle strokes of metallic color that melted with other colors, and shimmered under the kitchen pot lights. He was sure once the light came in from the morning through the windows, the color would sparkle even more.
It was amazing.
He wouldn’t deny that.
But on his kitchen wall?
Surely, they had better things to be doing and talking about other than drawing on walls?
“You can keep the feather,” Connor said heavily.
It pained him to do so.
“You didn’t have a choice.”
Feck.
“But,” he added, “no more on the walls.”
Her head turned, showing off her beautiful profile as her lips pursed. “The ceilings are okay, then. I get it.”
Connor had the strangest urge to smack himself in the face. “No.”
“We’ll see.”
“Evelyn—”
“You’re no fun,” she said rather grumpily, tossing her package of markers on the nearby table. Shooting him with another one of her glares, she headed towards the sink, grabbing a glass from the cabinet as she passed. “I thought you would like it.”
Connor didn’t know how to respond to that. “I do.”
“Then why be an ass about it?”
He chose to stay silent and think about his words as she poured a glass of water, and drank it down in her own silence. He walked forward, stopping at the kitchen island just as she set her now empty glass into the sink.
“I will buy you whatever size canvas you want,” Connor said.
“And then you’ll hang them on the walls that I could have just drawn on anyway,” she deadpanned. “Don’t you see how that’s a little ridiculous?”
“No, what’s ridiculous is you drawing on the walls.”
“Connor.”
“Evelyn.”
“It’s pretty,” she whined, waving at it.
“It is—it’s great. You should let me copy it over and tattoo it up your hip and side. It’d look grand, love. It’ll even match the wings on your back. But not on the walls.”
Evelyn frowned. “I thought you would like it.”
“I said I do.”
“Not enough.”
All right.
Now this was getting rather dumb.
Connor was all for indulging Evelyn at times, even some of her more … eccentric moods, when they came on. Which he was learning could be at any point, as she’d spent so much time being forced to do the bidding of a man. This was too far.
“Don’t go acting like a right wagon about all of this,” Connor said, turning to walk out of the kitchen and go find something else to do. “I’m not asking for something feckin’ crazy here, just that you don’t draw on my goddamn walls, Evelyn.”
“What does that even mean?”
Connor, more exasperated than he was willing to admit, didn’t bother to turn around as he asked, “What?”
“Wagon. What does that even mean?”
If there was a God above, He was laughing at Connor. Laughing at his foolish arse.
The Irish had a terrible way of taking the English language and mutilating it for their own benefit, however they saw fit. Sometimes shite didn’t make sense, not that it had to, outside of the person using it or the person being insulted, but none of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. It was not as simple as saying the phrase meant one thing, when in fact, it could mean a lot of things.
This happened to be one of those times, but he figured it was self-explanatory.
But even as he had used the insult, he knew he would have done better to explain it in a different way to Evelyn at first. All of the Irish couples he had seen growing up had used those very same mannerisms as a form of affection, the same way they might outright tell their significant other that they loved them. Evelyn didn’t catch on to Connor’s nuances as easily or as quickly, and this had gone right over her head.
At the same time, Connor figured he might do both himself and Evelyn a major favor by letting her work this one out on her own. Especially after he explained exactly what the word meant, and saw how it made her feel. She was doing better at times—speaking up, demanding what she wanted, rather than keeping quiet, and even doing for herself instead of waiting. Sometimes, though, Connor still had to push her toward it.
He saw the growth.
It could be more.
This could be one of those moments, he decided.
Evelyn had enough Irish in her to look the part, with her green eyes, pale skin, reddish-blonde curls, and freckles every which way he looked. The sad thing was, life had practically stripped her of the nuances and culture, which was a feckin’ shame.
“Means you’re being trite, grumpy, or bitchy—take your pick. Whichever one fits, Evelyn.”
Connor only heard the clang of metal in just enough time to turn around and watch something fly at his feckin’ head. Sweet Jesus, she had one hell of an aim on her. He ducked, and the frying pan practically skimmed the top of his hair before it crashed into the floor just outside of the kitchen.
It took him all of three seconds to stare at Evelyn, check behind him where the frying pan was now laying, and then back at the crazy woman standing behind the island to realize what had even just happened. As shocked as he was, he was also pissed, and amused.
All five feet, four inches of Evelyn stared him down from across the kitchen like she was daring him to say something or move an inch. He swore he saw her hand twitch, too, like she was considering reaching for another one of the hanging pans to whip at him.
No, the wee thing didn’t sound Irish at all. She didn’t understand him sometimes, and he got a chuckle out of it more often than not. She was a wee bit insane—he sort of liked that, too. But standing there like she was, pink-cheeked, huffing, and ready to whip his arse even if she had to use a frying pan to do it, she was every inch an Irish lass.
Every feckin’ inch.
It turned him on like nothing ever had.
He wasn’t even sure how to deal with that.
A smart man—a frightened man—would have turned tail, and run from the angry woman in his kitchen, knowing he’d pushed her too far and he wasn’t going to get anything good from her tonight. Connor was apparently neither of those things, and he was going to blame that on his damn heritage, too.
A stubborn bastard, of course.
“Did you just throw a pan at me?” Connor asked.
Evelyn spluttered in her anger before spitting out, “You called me a child and bitchy.”
“I said ‘pick one.’”
“And I picked one. A pan, I mean.”
“You could have killed me.”
“Probably not. I think your skull is too thick for that.”
“Now you’re just trying to piss me off,” Connor said, his jaw clenching.
“Is it working?”
“Throw another pan at me, lass, and I’ll paddle your arse until it’s good and red, and you’re begging to be allowed to apologize.”
That was his one warning.
He’d given it.
She could make of it what she wanted.
Evelyn’s gaze narrowed. “Is that a promise?”
“Don’t do it again, Evelyn.”
And now his feckin’ cock was hard, so feck this whole goddamn day right to hell. Figuring his warning was enough, Connor headed out of the kitchen without a look back. A cold shower was in his very near future to get his lust under control.
He hadn’t even gotten out of the entryway before she threw the second pan.
God save me, he thought.
Connor turned back around.
&nb
sp; Evelyn’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open with an audible pop as Connor stalked toward her. “Wait—wait, what are you doing?”
“Oh, you know damn well what I am going to do, lass.”
“But, I …” Her gaze darted to the left, then up at the hanging rack of pans again, before jumping back to Connor like a frightened doe caught in headlights. “I didn’t mean it!”
“Liar, you did mean it. You even threw a second pan, just to show how much you meant it.”
“You were being mean!”
“Remember that when you’re stuffed full of my cock and your arse is red.” Heat colored Evelyn’s cheeks as Connor rounded the island. He smirked, adding, “And don’t pretend like that frightens you, we both know your cunt is probably soaking your knickers at the feckin’ thought.”
Standing only a foot away from him, Evelyn huffed, her glare as fierce as she could manage. “You’re an asshole.”
“Keep pretending like that bothers you, love. If it makes you feel better, I’ll even let you run a bit, try to keep some dignity in this whole thing. Just know that once I catch you, I’m going to drag your pretty arse back in this kitchen, and do exactly what I said I would.”
Evelyn scowled. “You—”
Connor tipped his head to the side. “Are you seriously going to argue with me, when we both know what you really want is to be bent over, with a stinging arse, and your cunt full of my cock? I mean, that was your point in throwing another pan, right? You wanted a reaction, now you feckin’ got it, lass.”
He moved forward an inch. “Ready, set …”
Evelyn swallowed hard. “You better make it worth it.”
Oh, he would.
Did she really doubt him?
Connor murmured, “Go.”
He didn’t need to tell her again. Evelyn bolted, heading around the opposite side of the island with an almost sly grin on her face as she dared to glance back at him. Connor didn’t move at first, letting her at least get to the entrance of the kitchen before he went after her.
Evelyn looked back again, slowing at the entrance.
Connor stalked around the island, already pulling his shirt over his head and letting it drop to the floor as he walked forward. Might as well make it easier on himself.