Chapter 2: Cold Air Between Them
The question stayed between us after Dante spoke it, heavier than the rain against the windows.
I did not answer. My hands remained clasped behind my back, though my fingers had begun to shake. The freezer drawer stood open beside me, breathing a strip of white cold across the tile. Its stainless-steel edge held the faint reflection of my nightgown and the dark shape of my face. In that reflection, the bruise looked larger than it felt. Or maybe the cold had simply made the rest of me numb.
Dante did not come closer. He watched the injury, then the locked door, then me again. His hand left the deadbolt and fell to his side. The movement was quiet enough to seem deliberate. Nothing in him rushed to fill the silence.
I turned back to the freezer.
The drawer was packed with wrapped food, metal containers, and a shallow bin of ice. I reached in and took out two cubes. They slipped against my palm, melting immediately. When I opened the cabinet beneath the sink, the dish towels were folded in a neat stack. I pulled one free and wrapped the ice inside it.
The towel grew wet at once.
I pressed it to my left cheek.
Pain spread beneath the cold in a sharp, clean line. My eyes watered again, but I kept my face turned toward the open drawer. The blue light from the window above the sink lay across the marble counters and caught on the hanging copper pots. One of them moved slightly in the draft. It touched the pot beside it with a faint metallic tick.
Dante remained near the door.
I could feel his attention without looking at him. He did not ask the question again. That restraint gave me no relief. It made the unanswered thing more solid. If he had raised his voice, I could have met anger with anger. His stillness left me only the facts: my cheek was swollen, the kitchen door was locked, and I had work waiting somewhere beyond it.
The ice began to numb the skin. I shifted the towel, covering the bruise more completely.
The first duties of the morning would not wait for an explanation. The thought came with its own pressure: floors, counters, the long order of things that had to appear untouched when the house woke. If I stayed in the kitchen too long, someone might notice. If I left with the bruise uncovered, someone might notice that instead.
I folded the towel into a narrower strip and held it against my cheek with one hand. With the other, I pushed the freezer drawer shut.
The heavy drawer rolled inward and sealed with a muted thump. Cold air vanished from my legs. The sudden warmth was not warmth at all, only the return of the kitchen's damp night.
Dante's gaze moved to the towel.
I lowered it briefly and checked the surface in the dark reflection of the freezer. The swelling was still visible, but the purple-black color had softened under the blue light. I wrapped the towel around the back of my head and tied it loosely, making it look like something practical rather than an admission. The knot pulled at my hair. I left it there.
Then I gathered the loose ice water in my palm and wiped it onto the towel's corner. I would have to replace it before anyone saw.
At the door, the deadbolt stayed engaged.
I walked toward it, slowly enough that my bare feet made almost no sound on the tile. Dante shifted aside, but not far enough to make the passage feel open. I stopped before him, the wet towel against my cheek and my hands lowered now, empty.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Behind me, the copper pot gave another faint tick.
May you like
The work beyond the door was still waiting. So was his question.
Dante looked at the towel, then at the lock, and kept his hand away from both.
