Chapter 9: Domesticity of Violence
The days bled into one another, marked only by the comings and goings she couldn’t predict. He would vanish for forty-eight hours, seventy-two, a ghost slipping back into the world of ghosts. Then, the sound of three deadbolts turning, one after another, would pull her from a shallow sleep.
He never explained. She stopped asking.
This time, it was the smell that woke her first. Copper, salt, and the faint, sweetish odor of something that wasn’t soil. She lay still in the dark, listening to his movements in the small safe house. The heavy tread of boots dropped by the door. The rustle of fabric being peeled away. The sound of the kitchen faucet cranking on, water hitting the stainless-steel sink in a hard stream.
She pushed back the thin blanket and padded out of the bedroom. The fluorescent light in the kitchen was blinding, painting everything in a sterile, blue-white glow. He stood at the sink, shirtless, his back to her. Water sluiced over his shoulders and down the dense musculature of his back, carving pink trails through the drying spatter on his skin. New bruises bloomed along his ribs, a deep, angry purple against the dark canvas of his skin. The tattoos there—a complex pattern of geometric shapes and what looked like lines of script—were distorted by the swelling.
He didn’t turn. He knew she was there. He always knew.
Izzy leaned against the doorframe, the linoleum cold under her bare feet. Her eyes traced the map of his scars. The thin, white line along his shoulder blade. The rougher, puckered mark low on his spine. She had memorized them all in these fleeting, wordless returns.
On the counter beside him, next to the sink, sat a single, chipped ceramic cup. Steam still curled from the black coffee he’d made before he’d left. It was untouched, now stone cold.
“Long one,” she said, her voice rough with sleep.
He grunted, reaching for a towel. He dried his face, his arms, the motion efficient and practiced. When he turned, his eyes were shadowed, the dark brown almost black. The hunger in them had nothing to do with food. It was a void, and it was looking right at her.
He didn’t speak. He just walked toward her, the towel dangling from one hand. The intensity coming off him was a physical force. She didn’t move, didn’t look away, just held her ground as he closed the distance.
His hands, still damp and cool from the water, went to her hips. He backed her into the kitchen, the refrigerator door handle digging into the small of her back. He pushed the thin strap of her camisole off her shoulder, his mouth following the path of the fabric, his teeth grazing her collarbone. A sharp, bright shock of sensation.
This was their language now. This frantic, silent reclamation of something tangible. A way to scrub the outside world from his skin using hers.
He yanked the flimsy cotton of her shorts and underwear down her thighs in one motion. The cold of the laminate floor seeped into her soles. He lifted her, his hands under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her back pressed against the cool, humming refrigerator. The world narrowed to the points of contact: the hard plane of his stomach against hers, the bite of the appliance handle, the rough press of his jeans against her inner legs.
He entered her with a single, deep thrust that stole her breath. Her head fell back against the fridge with a dull thud. There was no gentleness, no preamble. It was raw and desperate, a battering ram against the horrors he wouldn’t name. She clutched at his shoulders, her fingers finding the raised welts of old scars, anchoring herself as he moved, a punishing rhythm that felt like both a punishment and a plea.
She came with a choked gasp, her body seizing around his, the pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. He followed, a low, guttural sound torn from his chest, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as his whole body shuddered.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the hum of the refrigerator motor. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
Slowly, he loosened his grip, letting her slide down until her feet found the floor. He rested his hands on either side of her head, his body still caging her in, his breath warm against her neck. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart gradually slowing against her chest.
This was the other part. The aftermath. The silence that was heavier than all the noise that came before.
He straightened, his eyes avoiding hers now. He pulled up his jeans, fastened them. He reached past her, his arm brushing her side, and opened the refrigerator. The light from inside was a warmer yellow. He pulled out a carton of orange juice, drank from it directly, his throat working.
She leaned against the fridge, pulling her camisole back into place, her legs feeling unsteady. Her eyes fell on the lone cup of coffee on the counter. It had been there for two days. A monument to a departure.
“You never drink it,” she said softly.
He lowered the juice carton, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at the cup as if seeing it for the first time. “I make it. For the ritual. By the time it’s ready, it’s time to go.”
He capped the juice and put it back. The domesticity of the action was so absurd it almost hurt. He moved to leave the kitchen, the moment of vulnerability evaporating like the steam from that first, forgotten cup.
“Silas.”
He stopped at the doorway, half-turning back to her. The light from the bedroom cut across his profile.
She wanted to ask if he was okay. She wanted to ask who he’d had to become out there. She wanted to tell him that the coffee was stupid, and that the way he looked at her sometimes made her feel like she was the only solid thing in a world of smoke.
Instead, she just said, “The data drives. The library. We can’t just keep carrying it around. It’s a target.”
He was silent for a moment, his gaze shifting from her to the black backpack leaning against the floral couch in the other room.
“I know,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, but it carried a new, different weight. A decision. “It’s time to use it.”
He turned and walked into the bedroom, leaving her standing in the cold kitchen light, the scent of their coupling and his abandoned coffee hanging in the air between the past and whatever came next.