Chapter 7

Evelyn

I'm sitting on the sofa of our back porch, a cozy blanket draped over my legs, basking in the comforting warm light of the morning sun tickling my skin while sipping my first steaming cup of coffee after my daily morning run. My eyes are fixed on Noah as he goes about his morning routine of tending to the doves.

Three couples just hatched their eggs, and while he was thrilled by the late nesting, considering it's already October, the excitement over the little squabs seems to have already worn off. Which surprises me, considering how disappointed he was in the spring and summer when the doves seemed to have trouble adjusting to their new environment and failed to lay fertilized eggs.

I hate to make assumptions, but since he refuses to properly communicate with me about how he is feeling and what is going on in his head, I can only speculate what is bothering him. The one suspicion that keeps popping into my head is that he's having a hard time adjusting. And I have this terrible gut feeling that it is getting worse, when for a while it felt like it was getting better and he was finally breaking out of his slump. Perhaps it's just my imagination, like Kyle said, but it seems like it's gotten so much worse again since his surprise visit.

I perk up at the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the wooden stairs, my head turning to find him walking toward me before dropping onto the sofa next to me. "Everything okay with the birds?" I ask with a smile.

"Yeah, I think so," he says as he sinks into the pillows, drapes his arms over the backrest, and tilts his head back before closing his eyes. I lean into his side, his arm slipping from the backrest around my shoulders while I pull the blanket up and cover his legs as well.

"Are you okay, babe? You look exhausted," I ask, resting my hand on his thigh, feeling the tension in his muscles as they flex against my fingers. With a gentle squeeze, I begin to massage him in circles, trying to relieve some of the tension.

"I had trouble sleeping last night, that's all," he says, keeping his head tilted back.

"You've been having trouble sleeping a lot lately. Is there something bothering you?" I give his thigh another squeeze, prompting his leg to twitch under my touch.

He sighs and tilts his head to lean against mine. "Maybe. "

"Is there any way I can help?"

"No." He shakes his head. "That's something I have to figure out for myself."

"Okay," I say with a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips and pull away from him. I raise my hand to comb through his soft hair, pushing the loose strands out of his face. This is good, it's not ideal, but it's progress. It's more of an answer than any of the other responses I've gotten from him in the last few days, and we're slowly approaching the subject, step by step; he will open up eventually.

Even after almost a year of being together, it must be challenging for him to openly communicate how he feels and what's on his mind, so I try to be patient. Besides me, he only has Kyle, and the two of them aren't really the affectionate type of friends. Although Kyle seems to know a lot more than he'll admit, I don't see them having many conversations about their feelings. From the bits and pieces Noah told me, I know that Kyle has been with him since middle school, but it wasn't enough information to figure out what Noah went through in his childhood that made him the man he is today. He is so adamant about keeping this part of his life locked away that I can only imagine how traumatizing it was. And every time I try to ask Kyle about it, he shuts me down and tells me that it is Noah's job to tell me and that he is not going to spill his secrets.

I run my nails over his scalp and smile as he relaxes into the touch, the tension in his shoulders melting away as they slump. Leaning closer, I pepper a series of soft kisses on his cheek. "How about I cook your favorite meal tonight?"

"That would be great, you haven't cooked it in a while." He opens his eyes and turns to face me.

"Yeah, because every time I make it, you refuse to eat anything else for days." I chuckle and flick him on the forehead with my middle finger.

Pushing the blanket off myself, I get up, take his hand in mine, and pull him forward, but he remains seated.

"Come on, you promised to help me clean the house, you have to earn your food," I say with another chuckle to which he responds with a groan and shifts all his weight into my hands holding his. I trip over my own feet and stumble forward as he slumps back into the sofa. "Noah!" A grin spreads across his face as I call his name.

Letting go of his hands, I straighten my posture and cross my arms over my chest. The only chore he truly hates is cleaning, but he was the one who wanted a big house, so he has to help with it, especially when he wants me to cook his favorite food.

The moment we got to work, the day passed like a blur. But now, for preparing dinner, I banned him from the kitchen, not only to make the meal a surprise, but also to keep him from stealing the meatballs right out of the pot. Instead, he sits on the sofa, reading one of his many books. A smile spreads across my face at the sight of him in a matching set of black sweats, his damp hair messy from the shower, wearing his glasses.

Compared to this morning, he looks calmer and more content. Perhaps keeping him busy helped to distract him from whatever it is that is bothering him.

I prepare two plates of food and carry them into the living room, setting them on the coffee table in front of him. "Dinner's ready. I was thinking we could eat here tonight and watch some TV."

He shuts his book and looks up at me, then down at the food and nods. "That sounds like a plan."

We fall into a comfortable silence as we eat, the TV running with a show that we both like to watch. After devouring one more serving and tending to the dishes as his daily chore, Noah settles down on the sofa next to me and welcomes me with open arms. Leaning into his embrace, I rest my head on his shoulder, my eyes glued to the TV as the familiar sound of the evening news fills the room.

The Lancaster Group, known for its past association with criminal activity, is making a comeback after the mysterious and still unsolved disappearance of its former founder, Conrad Lancaster, five years ago. His son, Ash Lancaster, has now taken the stage in a press conference and announced that he will lead the company back to its former success with the goal of clearing his family's name. This has caused widespread concern and speculation among authorities.

The news cuts to a segment on the Lancaster Group, detailing its involvement in drug smuggling, prostitution and other criminal activities. It also features interviews with former employees who wish to remain anonymous, as well as old recordings of the missing Conrad Lancaster. The moment the story delves into the mysterious disappearance of the former founder, Noah's arm wrapped around me tenses, his muscles flex, and the comfort of his embrace is no longer there. It's constricting, even suffocating. I try to shift, to break free, but his grip remains firm, leaving me no room to escape.

It is not until the report ends and they cut to the sports news that his grip on me loosens. Shifting in my seat, I look at him, searching for answers, only to be met by his stoic mask. Every muscle in his face is tense while his eyes are glued to the TV as if he is disassociating, masking every spark of emotion.

"Noah?"

Completely ignoring me, he pulls his arm from around me, pushes the blanket off himself and rises to his feet, walking around the coffee table to the cabinet that holds his whiskey collection. Like on autopilot, he grabs the bottle of his favorite brand and two glasses and pours two generous servings.

I watch him lift one of the glasses to his lips and he swallows the whole drink in one big gulp before pouring himself another. He then returns to the sofa with the two drinks and holds one out to me. "Drink," he says in a demanding but strangely pleading tone.

"I'm not in the mood for whiskey," I say with a frown on my face but take the glass from him anyway.

A sigh escapes him, and he raises his own glass to his lips, this time taking only a small sip from it. "Believe me when I say it's going to be easier on you if you drink. Do I have to force it down your throat?"

I look down at the amber liquid in my hand, the frown on my face deepening, my eyebrows knitting together. Without much room for protest, I accept my defeat and raise the glass to my lips. Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a big gulp and the alcohol spreads through my mouth, burning my tongue and throat. Whiskey has never been one of my favorites. This particular one isn't too bad, it's on the sweeter side, but when given the choice, I'd rather have something else. A glass of wine or some fruit liqueur, such as peach.

"Good," he says.

Opening my eyes again, I set my glass down on the small tray table attached to the armrest of our sofa and scoot closer to where he is standing. "What is going on?" I ask.

His head tilts to the right, where our TV hangs over the fireplace. "You were paying attention during the story about the Lancaster Group, right?"

I blink rapidly and steal a glance at the TV, where a compilation of highlights from a football game is being shown. "Uh, yeah, why?"

"I killed Conrad Lancaster back then," he says, the tone of his voice cold and distant. My eyes widen and a thunderous wave of realization crashes down on me. This is why he's been so on edge these past couple of days. He already knew about the plan to rebuild the Lancaster Group.

Lost for words, not a single one comes out of my gaping lips as I look at him with big eyes. "The ones who hired me back then," he speaks, and my heartbeat quickens at the chilling suspicion of where this is going. "They tried to contact me but couldn't, so they reached out to Kyle instead and he needs my help."

"No," I say and close my eyes. A million thoughts race through my mind, blinding my vision.

"What do you mean, no?"

I take a deep breath in an unsuccessful attempt to calm my racing heart, pounding against my ribcage, trying to escape the brewing rise of my pulse. "You're not helping him." After each syllable, my voice cracks and I open my eyes again.

Setting his drink down on the coffee table, he takes off his glasses with his right hand and rubs his eyes through his lids with his left. "He needs my help," he says in a more heated tone.

"I don't care, you promised me—"

"I know," he cuts me off, the muscles in my face tense up as my left eye twitches. "But—"

"What did you promise me?" I interrupt him in return.

"That I'm done, and that I'll turn down any future offers if someone finds a way to locate me."

"Exactly. I don't care if Kyle needs your help; you gave me a promise. He can find someone else to help him." I get up from the sofa, and with only two steps, I stand right in front of him.

"He has no one but me that he can trust."

"That sounds like a Kyle problem, not a you problem, not an us problem." Raising my hand, I place my index finger on his chest, pressing down and drilling into his sternum. His gaze shifts to where my finger meets his body where his chest rises and falls against my touch, and he lets out a sigh.

"I know what he's dealing with, and he can't do it alone, Evelyn. You have to fucking understand." He raises his voice.

My breath catches in my throat and my heart crumbles. He rarely raises his voice at me and never uses my full given name unless he has to, like in introductions. Even my nickname, Eve, which is what all my friends call me, rarely leaves his lips.

"Then he should not take the job, sounds like the only possible solution," I say between shaky breaths and pull my hand away from him, crossing my arms over my chest to shut him out.

"It's not that simple."

"Sounds pretty simple to me. He can call the client and tell them that both of you are busy." I turn away from him and walk to our dining table, picking up the bottle of whiskey to put it back in the cupboard, hoping that finding something to keep my hands busy will help me stay calm.

"He already accepted. "

I freeze in my movements, my grip on the neck of the bottle tightening. My blood runs cold and I turn back to him, looking at him with wide eyes. "You said yes without talking to me first?" I speak with a quiet voice while my mind shuts down as I process the news, in the calm before the storm.

"No, I haven't. I told Kyle I'd call him after I talked to you."

"Kyle was here a week ago! How long were you going to hide this?" I raise my voice, waving the bottle of whiskey as I lift my arm and point at him.

"Until I figured out a good way to approach the subject in a way that would convince you to let me go," he admits.

My lips part and my jaw drops as I look at him in disbelief. "Convince me?" I ask, closing my eyes against the sting of tears, fighting them back. "This is not just about Kyle not being able to do this job alone. Please, be honest with me, this is your chance. You miss your job, you miss the killing, the adrenaline and the fix. Am I right?" He remains silent and just looks at me. "You gave me your word!"

"Evelyn, please, it's not…" He circles the sofa and walks over to me.

"Don't even try and lie to me. At least be fucking honest for once that you're bored, that you're not happy with the way we live." I meet him halfway, dropping the whiskey bottle to the floor, which shatters before I crash into him, forcing him to back up until his legs hit the edge of the sofa.

"Evelyn."

"Don't call me that." Clenching my hands into a fist, I slam the underside into his chest, and without a word, he takes the blow.

"Dove."

"Don't call me that either!" I pound my fists into his chest again and again, and he simply takes the beating. The drumming against his chest drowns out the sound of the TV, his body rocking back and forth with each blow.

My movements slow and every muscle in my body stiffens as his long arms wrap around me, pinning me to his chest. "Let me go," I say, squirming in his grip, but instead of letting go, he tightens his hold on me, crushing me against his chest.

"You're right, in a way," he says in a calm and collected tone, burying his face in my hair. "I'm not bored, not with you by my side. But I can't deny that I miss the thrill of killing, the feeling of someone dying at my hands, the look on their face as the life drains from their body. I really try to find the same pleasure in killing animals, but it is not the same." His arms tighten around me even more, keeping me from falling apart .

While my body is being held together by his embrace, my heart shatters into a million pieces inside of me. Hearing him admit what I have suspected for so long is even worse than I imagined, because even though I had my suspicions, I held on to the small chance that I was wrong, that for the first time my gut feeling was failing. But the worst part of all this is not even that he still misses that lifestyle. No, it's that he kept not only the job but also his struggles a secret, that he didn't feel comfortable enough, didn't trust me enough, to confide in me.

"Why can't we just be normal?" I whisper, barely audible as I force the words out. "Why can't we just have a simple, normal life?"

"If that's what you want," he says, his tone raw, "I'm the wrong man for you. I will never be able to give you the complete normalcy you crave." His words cut through my heart, splitting it in half.

"Why?"

"Because this is part of who I am." One of his hands lands on the back of my head, his fingers combing through my hair as he palms my skull. "You can only really have this life if I'm not in it. Do you want me to let you go?"

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. The mere thought of going back to a life without him leaves a gaping void in my chest. Far worse than the heartache of knowing that he will never be able to give it all up, not even for me. I dig my nails into his chest and my silence seems to be enough of an answer.

"Good, because even if you wanted to," his voice drops to a possessive growl, "I would never let you go." His arms tighten around me. "You belong to me. Always have and always will. No matter where you go, no matter what you do, you'll always be mine."

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat more painful than the last. His possessiveness, usually so comforting, now feels like a double-edged blade, slicing open a scar I didn't even know was there.

"Please, give me some space," I say in a calm voice, not much louder than a whisper, placing my hands flat against his chest. He hesitates, but ultimately lets go, giving me the space to step away from him. "I don't want to talk about it right now; I need time to think about it."

"Of course."

I turn my back to him, cross my arms in front of my chest, and head for the door that leads to the hallway.

"Do you want me to sleep in the guest room tonight?" he asks.

I stop in the doorway and let out a heavy sigh. "No. We had a disagreement, yes, but let's not do that. Sleeping apart won't magically solve the issue. If anything, it'll create distance between us. We should face this, not completely retreat into separate corners." I turn to face him and there is a moment of silence as his gaze meets mine. "Just give me time, okay?"