𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 | 𝟏𝟖+

37 | Torn

Cato still hasn't returned yet.

It's odd. He's usually on time, but whoever called him this afternoon while I hung the bedsheets sounded desperate. I try not to overthink the situation. Maybe Cato's distracted with paperwork in his study, a more common phenomena than the other.

I wait in Cato's bedroom. I guess one could call it our bedroom, since I haven't used the spare since Cato and I fell in love again. I wash up in Cato's tub, using his expensive shampoos and conditioners that he bought for me that smell like fruit. When I take one brief glance at myself in the mirror, I see the face of a new woman: velvety blonde waves, clean skin, an elegant nightie (that I discovered Cato adores).

I slip beneath his bedsheets. They're silk, smooth against my skin as I await for him to return. I clench my legs together at the thought of him and I. Just be prepared to stay up all night, he told me. I love his intimacy so much that I haven't thought about much else all afternoon.

But I wait for him. And wait. Until waiting drifts me to sleep.

Then the door clicks open. A soft, almost inaudible noise. I can tell by the delicate steps that it's Cato, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. I open my eyes, catching the outline of his body in the moonlight.

I stroke the sheet in the empty spot where he usually lays. "Come to bed," I breathe into the night.

He keeps his back turned to me. "I need to clean up first."

"Clean up later," I breathe. How can I be such a needy woman for this man?

"Says the one who kicks me out of bed when my breath smells bad," I can feel the warm smile from his lips just from the tone of his words.

I watch as Cato makes his way over to the bathroom, but something catches me off guard. In the darkness, I see him step with a slight limp, a limp that healthy Cato Leveque did not have prior to his departure.

I meander out of bed. By now, he's shut the door to the washroom.

I swing it open, stifling a gasp.

Blood.

So much of it. So much on him.

"Cato?" I breathe.

He stands in front of me with blood-saturated clothing, a slight cut on his cheek dragging across his skin. Those green eyes widen when I enter. Is this why he came back late? What on earth happened?

I reach up and cup his cheeks, forcing him to look into my eyes. "Cato... bloody hell, what happened?"

"Relax," he whispers. "It's not mine."

"You left and you came back covered in blood," I mutter. He seems oddly calm for the situation. It's like he walked straight out of a horror film.

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. It's in that brief moment I catch a hint of his inner weariness about the situation. Whatever happened actually frightened him, but Cato's supposed to be strong. He's the reason his family is staying afloat. He's the one with the grandiose reputation. He's doing it for science. For me. For him.

"There was just an incident at the warehouse," he murmurs as he touches my chin, bringing his lips against mine for a feather-light kiss. "I promise you that it's been taken care of."

"That doesn't explain anything."

There's a brief hostility about his posture, the way his muscles tighten and eyes avoid mine. It's clear he doesn't want to talk, at least not with the evidence of his unknown mistake staining his clothes.