13. Teysha

13

TEYSHA

Sleep no longer comes easy, but I don't mind when I'm lying in bed beside Logan.

He snores. Not all the time. Only when he rolls onto his back. But it's become a sound that I can listen to for hours. Along with the sound of him breathing.

Comfort noises like when people listen to those sound machines with the ocean waves or pouring rain.

It's not the first time I've listened for them—in our cabin at the Chosen Saints compound, sometimes it would be so quiet at night, I could hear him then too. Sleep was the only time Believer Logan put his guard down, usually so exhausted by a long day of grueling work, his body gave out.

I watch him now like I watched him then.

Before it was from halfway across the cabin. Now it's lying beside him in bed.

One night turns into two and then into three.

On the third night, as I sit on his bed and he approaches, still toweling himself off from his shower, he lets out a deep sigh.

"Teysha, it was one time only. "

The three little words he hates almost roll off my tongue— I'm your wife . I catch myself this time and ask instead, "But why?"

"You have your own bed."

"But I like this bed."

"Then I'll take the other room."

"I don't want to be in here alone."

He scrubs a hand over his face. "Teysha, nothing's going to happen. The doors are locked. I'm here. I'm strapped. If somebody tries something they'll have a bullet in their skull."

I come up empty on my rebuttal. Instead, the ache I've grown familiar with in recent times returns. A reminder that no matter what I do, it'll never be filled. I might as well be searching the desert for water.

Turning my head so he won't see me blinking away tears, I make a small noise. " Oh ."

Part of me hates that I'm so pitiful. Part of me feels manipulative because it always ends the same.

I sniffle despite myself and get up to head for the door. Logan's rubbing his brow like he's pained by a headache. Crying women make him uncomfortable. Another reason why a part of me feels unseemly doing it in front of him.

I know all these things, yet I still let emotion win out. I let tears brim in my eyes, my damaged heart on my sleeve for him to see.

His rejection hurts a little bit more each time.

But then there's the part of me that relishes how he inevitably stops me. As I make for an exit, he reaches for my hand. He concedes .

"One more night."

My damaged heart sings .

It beats with hope that it means something. He cares if he's stopped me. If he doesn't let me go when I leave.

…he feels sorry for you. That doesn't mean he cares.

And the toxic cycle begins all over again.

On the fifth night, he stops at the foot of the bed and sighs. "What're you gonna do once it's annulled? Sleep with a teddy bear?"

"Maybe," I answer, smirking. "I could have a life-sized teddy bear of you specially made."

The instant crease in his brow earns a quick giggle out of me.

"Only kidding, Logan Cutler. You can take the stick out of your behind."

"You mean ass?"

"Same thing."

"No drinking. No cursing. Is there anything you do for fun?" He pulls back the covers on the bed, his broad, tattooed chest on display. He tends to sleep in his boxers, though he's hinted at sleeping in the buff when I'm not around. "Don't tell me you read the Bible."

"I do," I say, then hurry to clarify. "There's nothing wrong with reading the Bible. It's a perfectly fine past time."

He snorts. "Sure sounds like it."

"I like cooking… and baking… and knitting."

"What are you, sixty-five?"

I realize I've started trailing behind him as he readies the room for bedtime. As he dims the lights and turns up the air conditioning, I'm following, racking my brain for any cool hobbies.

Something that would impress a rebellious biker like him.

"I… uh… I've got nothing. Alright, fine! So I'm a sixty-year-old trapped in the body of a twenty-year-old! I'm not very spontaneous and I don't do crazy things. Don't blame me, blame growing up in a place like Boulder!"

Logan's broken out in gruff laughter. The deepest, longest laugh I've ever heard out of him. It convulses through him 'til he tips his head back in laughter and wipes at his eyes afterward. I'd be more amused if the joke wasn't lost on me.

I stomp my foot. "Are you going to tell me what's so funny?"

"Ain't it obvious? You ." His pinches at the apple of my cheek. "I've got to give it to you. You sure know how to be downright fucking adorable. Must be why I also find you so downright fucking irritating."

My hands come to my waist, recognizing his biting humor. "Anyone ever tell you that's not how you compliment a woman?"

"It is in my world." He lays back on his side of the bed, his arm curled under his head. "In my world, a woman's either a groupie or an old lady. There're no candlelit dinners and there damn sure ain't no roses. If you can't cut it, then it's onto the next one. Still want to be married?"

I roll my eyes and then crawl onto the bed beside him. While he's only in his boxer briefs, I'm in a satin negligee. One of my purchases when I went shopping with Sydney and Korine. I bought it because I wanted to be more enticing. I wanted my husband to see me wearing it.

So far, Logan hasn't so much as touched me.

But I've caught his wandering eye. His glances at my chest and thighs when he thinks I'm not paying attention.

Now is one of those times as I climb onto the bed—my negligee rides up and Logan catches a quick peek of my panties. He immediately looks away, his expression tensing up .

I settle in place beside him, pretending not to notice. "I still want to be married."

"Seriously?"

"You're the husband I've been given," I say earnestly, shrugging. "I figure God works in mysterious ways. I'm with you for a reason."

He barks out an incredulous laugh. "Sure you are. You just don't know it yet."

"Maybe not. But soon."

"You shouldn't," he says, reaching for the bedside lamp. "A girl like you should want better."

The light goes out, leaving us in the dark. Logan rolls onto his side so that his back faces me. He'll be out any moment.

I don't bother trying to keep him up.

My head reels with all the thoughts that have formed. I'm caught between wondering how selfish it is that I've guilt-tripped myself into Logan's bed and whether he's right that I should want better.

Mama and Grandma Renae would agree. They've always been perfectly clear they expect me to marry a good man of faith.

Logan Cutler couldn't be more opposite.

Yet here I am. Wanting to stay. Lying in his bed. Hoping and praying he changes his mind.

The rhythm of his breathing becomes the lullaby that eases me off to sleep.

I'm up and moving the next morning. I change into another sundress I bought and head into the kitchen to get started on breakfast. Yesterday I talked Logan into taking me grocery shopping, which means we're stocked up. A smile graces my face as I draw the fridge open and find it so full. I pull out the carton of eggs and packet of bacon.

The eggs finish quick while the bacon's still popping in the pan.

I'm rolling up biscuits I've made using Grandma Renae's secret recipe. The tray goes in the oven to bake a while.

Plates are set out and the coffee's hot by the time Logan appears.

I smile at him. "Good morning. Hungry?"

He's squinting, still half asleep. "What's all this?"

"I made breakfast. Bacon, eggs, some buttery soft biscuits. My grandma's recipe. Everybody loves them. Coffee?"

"Why?"

"I told you I like to cook?—"

"You don't have to around here," he interrupts. "I don't need you cooking dinner or getting up early for breakfast. 'Til you showed up, I survived off beer and burritos. You don't need to clean up around here either. Stop trying so damn hard."

I flatten my hands over the skirt portion of my dress and let out a shaky breath. "You know, Logan, you sure try hard at making me feel like a fool. You should take your own advice."

"Teysha, hold up."

Logan catches me on my escape attempt. As I try to flee the kitchen and pass him on my way to the hall, he loops an arm around my waist to hold me.

I twist to free myself. "Don't try to hold me back?—"

"Look, it's different, alright? You being here. I'm not used to it." Logan's hands grip my shoulders tightly and he forces me to stand still. I have no choice but to meet his steely blue gaze and feel the funny flip in my stomach. "It's a lot at once. A lot of shit in general. I'm not good with change."

"I like cooking. I cooked a few meals. What is there to complain about?" I ask.

Humor flickers in his stare. "Abso-fucking-lutely nothing, baby. Happy?"

"Yes, actually. I'm glad you see things my way."

I duck out of his arms before he can seek revenge. But as I turn back toward the kitchen and he spins around, I sense he wants some. He's tempted to make it happen.

Be playful in return and grab hold of me all over again.

My heart flutters faster at the mere thought. I've been working hard to keep his attention. I've been hoping he would give me the affection he did in the Chosen Saints. Praying he'd change his mind and tell me he wants to be my husband.

I make it across the kitchen untouched.

But I don't let it get me down. Logan drops into one of the chairs and cleans every crumb off his plate when he's done. He goes back for seconds with Grandma's biscuits. By the time the meal's over, he's squeezed my shoulder in thank you.

Later in the evening I'm waiting for him with dinner, and we sit down for another meal. I shower and find his bedroom door cracked open as if just for me. Within minutes of the lights going out, I'm falling asleep to the same lullaby as the previous nights.

It becomes our routine.

Logan letting me sleep with him. My meals waiting for him. Our conversations mundane, like we've accepted our new living arrangement .

Logan leaves the toilet seat up and my hair gets everywhere. I put the TV volume on blast while he never tosses any of his clothes in the hamper.

"I have to wonder what you did before me," I confess one morning. Shaking my head, I drop one of his flannels into the dirty clothes pile. "Did you just expect the laundry fairy to sort it all out?"

He cocks a brow at me. "You're one to talk considering you've made a hobby of filling up the drain with clumps of hair."

"I always clean up after myself!"

"Yet more hair keeps popping up. Blows right across the bathroom floor like a tumbleweed."

My jaw drops in offense. "I wouldn't know. I've been too busy wiping down the toilet when you pee all over it."

"You're welcome to use the bathroom in the hall, babe."

"Don't call me babe?—"

"What are you going to do about it?"

As I go to shove him in the chest, he catches my hands and links our fingers together. We're locked into an unplanned dance. My steps backward. His, forward.

Tiny little sparks shoot through me at his skin touching mine. He's warm, radiating a raw heat that's energy encircling us.

His hand drops to my hip and awakens something deep inside. Something I don't know how to describe but feels like an intense ache.

Logan seems to come to his senses. He lets go of me with a clear of his throat and a mention about heading out.

It's far from the first time I sense it out of him. Desire he's holding back.

I wake a couple mornings later to find the bed empty and Logan in the bathroom. My sleepy mind assumes he's taking a morning shower 'til I hear a grunt from the other side of the door. I stay still and listen for the sound again.

It's the first of several.

I crawl out of bed, tiptoeing over.

Logan groans a final time before he goes silent. I leap back onto the bed, pretending I'm still asleep, just in time for the door to open.

Confusion knots up my insides as I wonder if he was doing what I think he was doing. Yet he's barely laid a finger on his wife…

He hasn't touched me since we were in captivity. The last time was the night Abraham first had me. Is it because he's repulsed by what happened? He doesn't want me now that Abraham's used me in that way?

The rejection takes on a life of its own. It stays on my mind throughout the day. Korine offers to swing by and take me for a mani-pedi, but I decline. I break out the steaks we've bought from our last grocery trip and prepare a big dinner.

I light candles and bake a red velvet cake. I'm in the only dress Logan hasn't seen me in yet—a revealing dress that's tighter than the others.

Mama would claim it's a dress scandalous women wear. The kind of woman with no self-respect for herself who lets too much skin show, but what she thinks doesn't matter anymore. I have a husband to seduce.

The slinky, skintight ensemble stops Logan in his tracks when he walks through the door. His eyes flick up and down, head to toe, and he scrubs his jaw.

"Since when do you dress like that?" he asks.

I pop a hand to my hip. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Candles? "

"Sit down. I hope you're hungry."

"Yeah… I am…" His gaze wanders over me.

I strut—or do my best interpretation of a strut—into the kitchen, trying to be sexy. Desirable.

Both things I've never felt or known how to be.

I've never been the sexy woman. I've always been too intimidated, too fearful and compliant with the beliefs instilled in me.

That was reserved for my husband and my husband only—when I did finally get married. I just never counted on it happening so soon.

Logan sits down at the table, his body language lax. Every move I make is studied. He can't take his eyes off me.

Go for it.

Inhaling a shaky breath, I forget about dinner. I strut toward the dining table with swaying hips and an expression I hope is flirtatious. Logan leans back in his chair as I plant myself in his lap. It's as if he wants to protest but can't bring himself to. I slide onto his lap and come in closer, trailing a finger along his rough beard.

"I've been thinking about you all day," I murmur.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I answer, a spark of adrenaline shooting through me. I rock my hips back and forth in his lap. The hem of my dress rides up. "I was thinking about how I wanted you to touch me."

He swallows, his throat tight. "Yeah?" he chokes out again.

"Yeah… all over."

My hips slide back and forth some more. More of my dress bunches up. The strap slips down my shoulder, but I don't fix that either. I tickle my fingers along his jawline and let our lips align in an almost kiss.

So very close.

"I wanted you so bad," I purr, "I didn't put on any panties."

"Fuck… Teysha…"

My skin's flushed, though I don't let myself think too much on it. If I did, I'd lose my nerve. I'd start second-guessing and feeling silly. So far I've managed to block out those thoughts; I've channeled how I imagine a bombshell type of woman would behave.

I press my lips to Logan's while my hands set to work on his belt. "I want to feel you inside me."

It's like once the seal is broken, Logan loses all rational thought.

He growls as he fists my hair and deepens our kiss. I'm barely able to keep up with the intensity that washes over us. His tongue pushes into my mouth, making his dominance known from its first lash.

Heat spreads across my skin as it suddenly occurs to me this is our first real kiss. The first real time Logan's unleashing the part of himself I know he's held back.

His lips claim while his tongue plunders. His fist tightens in my hair as he kisses me like he's been waiting a lifetime for the chance and now he can't control himself.

It's a dizzying thought sitting perched in his lap, trying to match his passion. I've never been the girl who impressed guys with my sexual skills. Mostly because I have none. Any kisses I gave were innocent, more like kissing frogs in search of my prince.

But kissing Logan Cutler is like coming alive in a whole new way. It's the instant, intense, spine-tingling epiphany that this is what people mean when they say they felt fireworks .

I feel many of them. Tiny sparks that crackle inside of me.

I'm left hot and dazed as Logan kisses my lips swollen. Then he's peppering them elsewhere, kissing any other parts of me he can, like my throat and shoulders.

He's hard . The bulge in his pants feels like steel between my thighs as I sit astride him.

"Oh… oh more… please," I pant, my eyes closing at the feel of his lips on my throat. "Please… Logan, make love to me."

He goes still as if waking from a dream. His fist loosens in my hair. His lips leave my throat, making it feel naked and exposed. He won't look me in the eye.

"We're not doing this. Get up."

I'm nudged out of his lap. I tug on the hem of my dress in confusion.

So lost I'm not even sure what to ask.

Logan strides out of the room. His bedroom door slams shut, sounding twice as loud in the silence.

My phone vibrating does too.

I glance at its lit up screen notifying me that I have a voice message. Still numb with confusion, I reach for it and play the message.

"Hello, Mrs. Cutler? This is Rita Lewis-Castillo with the Pulsboro Clerk's office. I'm calling because I finally got a chance to speak with my supervisor. She believes we may be able to process your annulment after all. If you would like to discuss this matter further, please give me a call back at 391-476-9235. I tried reaching your husband, but his voice mailbox is full. I hope you enjoy your evening."

A beep sounds in my ear before an automated voice comes on asking if I want to repeat the message, save the message, or delete the message. I listen to it a second time with my heart racing and my gaze trained on Logan's closed bedroom door, wondering if I'm ready to give up.

Mind made up, I press option three for delete.

Not yet.