Souls of Fire (11 page)

I could understand his being hurt by my false accusation, although he should have been merely
slightly
hurt. What I couldn’t understand in the least, was the betrayal I had clearly seen in his eyes.

Why should he feel betrayed by me, or more accurately, by what I thought of him? I didn’t owe him my good opinion. We weren’t friends, we certainly weren’t more. And the bond I felt at times was nothing of consequence to me; besides, he couldn’t feel it anyway.

As far as I was concerned, I didn’t owe him a damn thing! So, why this act of feeling betrayed?

But even as I thought it, I knew I didn’t really believe it to be an act. I sensed it was genuine, which made me feel all the more baffled … and guilty, even if I had no idea what I was supposed to feel guilty about.

Even as I was pondering what to say, I heard his quiet voice interrupt the silence.

“You’re free to leave whenever you feel like it … I … had no intention of keeping you here … against your will,” he said softly, his back still turned.

I didn’t know what to respond. All I felt like doing was disappear from his radar. I was now convinced that he meant me no harm. Had he wanted to rape me, he could easily have done so by now.

All of a sudden, I felt terrible, ashamed of having falsely accused him. On top of that, I felt utterly embarrassed by the weak state I was in and by my grimy appearance.

I had no recollection of how I had ended up in his room, and couldn’t explain why I smelled as if I hadn’t showered for days, and I fully intended to get an explanation from him ― someday ― but at the moment I only wanted to escape.

I got up, pushing myself slowly off the floor by my arms, and walked shakily toward the door. I hadn’t taken more than four steps when the room suddenly began to spin, and the floor threatened to rise up and meet me.

Before I even had a chance to cry out, the strong arms of Aaron Chambers, who had obviously anticipated my next move and had seen this coming, were supporting me.

I let him steer me back toward the bed without complaint. I didn’t need him to tell me I had to sit back down, that I was weak. I felt it strongly enough. I definitely was in no position to walk anywhere!

“Thanks,” I said awkwardly ― my eyes carefully lowered to the bedspread ― when he had finished heaving me onto the bed.

“Sure,” he responded dryly, equally refusing to meet my eyes, moving in the opposite direction and busying himself with papers that were lying on his desk, making me once again uncomfortably aware of everything that had happened between us. No longer able to take the charged silence, I cleared my throat loudly and addressed him.

“I’m sorry,” I started out, not getting to finish what I had intended to say, interrupted as soon as the first two words had escaped my mouth.

“Sorry for what exactly?” he started out enraged.

“That you didn’t make it to the door? Or for accusing me of being a rapist, for making me feel like scum when all I wanted to do was help you?” He paused for a moment before continuing.

“Or for scaring the shit out of me with that creepy dream of yours? Or hitting me in the face?” he said angrily. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific!” he added in a heated tone.

I felt completely stumped by his outburst and needed a moment to gather my thoughts. Finally, I had collected myself enough to reply.

“If you had given me the chance to get past ‘I’m sorry’ then I just might have been able to do so!”

It was my turn to be angry. However, I gradually regained my calm; after all, I’d been in the wrong, and he deserved an apology, at least for my accusation. As for hitting him in the face, I felt I couldn’t have acted any other way under the circumstances; I was not about to apologize for an action born out of reflex.

“If I may finish my sentence now …,” I said, pausing to give him the chance to say his piece if he had anything more to interrupt me with. When he said nothing, I went on.

“I’m sorry,
truly
sorry, that I accused you of wanting to … harm … me.”

I couldn’t say the word ‘rape’. It sounded so harsh now, in light of knowing that he wouldn’t do such a thing. For, whatever I’d thought before, I knew the truth now; I had seen it in his eyes, how much it had hurt him that I’d believed him to be capable of something so vile.

He seemed to be considering my apology, and his expression stated clearly that he hadn’t missed the way I had glossed over the word ‘rape’, or the fact that I hadn’t apologized for hitting him.

After a minute or so, he finally responded.

“Apology accepted … but if you hit me again … you’re in for a spanking,” he started out seriously, his mouth turning up ever so slightly and seemingly involuntarily at the corners when he reached the part about the spanking.

I was smiling a little myself, when my still sluggish brain finally caught up with something else he had said before, which I hadn’t pondered on at that instant because it hadn’t made sense. Now, however, I was curious about its meaning.

“What did you mean just now when you asked if I was apologizing for … ‘scaring the shit out of you with some … horrible dream’ ― I believe you put it?”

When he didn’t answer right away, hesitating, and wringing his hands in a nervous gesture, I knew I had caught on to something he hadn’t intended on mentioning. His tongue must have slipped while he was angry. For it was apparent that he was very uncomfortable with the subject at hand.

“Forget about it … it’s not really important … Hey, are you hungry? I could make you some soup. Or I could get you something else to eat, if you’re not a soup-person. What would you like?”

Oh-oh, change of subject! Now I’m interested,
I thought, trying not to let on that I’d noticed how much my question had unsettled him.

I would persevere. In the end, there would be no possible way ― save for being rude ― to refuse to tell me what he so obviously didn’t want to talk about. Then again, I thought, maybe he didn’t care about being rude, in which case I might never get an answer.

“Oh, come on,” I said sweetly, “if there’s another apology I need to make, then I have to know what I’m apologizing for … it’s only fair,” I said, keeping my face carefully empty, trying not to appear to be pressing the issue, and trying not to let him see how desperately I wanted the answer.

“So you’ve decided to press the issue,” he said, making me jump.

Even though I was sure he would find me out eventually, I hadn’t believed to be so obvious that he would see right through me; and I hadn’t thought he would come right out and confront me with it! Usually the game was played by beating around the bush until one of us lost and gave in to the pressure of civility.

“Aren’t you supposed to discreetly change the subject on me again? Isn’t that how it’s played?” I sighed.

“I don’t believe in playing games … what’s more, I’m too old to play games,” he said pointedly, reminding me that he was older, and at the same time suggesting that I was young and immature in his eyes.

I didn’t miss his meaning. Even though I had no idea how old he was, I guessed there were at least ten years separating us.

“If you pride yourself on being so
mature …
,” I spoke the word ‘mature’ especially slowly and pronounced with a fuming edge to my voice, “… you should behave like the grown-up you claim to be and stop evading the issue. So, just come out and say it. Tell me what you think I’m not ready to hear. I’m sure I can take it ― can you?”

I was deliberately goading him, furious that he had made me out to be an immature little girl, when I already felt that way most of the time in his presence. That was no reason, though, to rub it in my face! I felt degraded and insulted! He hadn’t said much, but it had sufficed to convey a very clear picture of the way he saw me: and it wasn’t flattering at all!

Aaron Chambers was beside me in a heartbeat, his expression hard. He leaned toward me until we were face to face, though remaining at a safe distance.

“So …,” he said slowly, his voice dark and intense, with a slightly frightening quality to it, “… you think you can take it, do you.”

It sounded less like a question and more as though he was suggesting the opposite.

I gulped, clearly intimidated. Nevertheless, I was determined to get an answer out of him.

“I guess we’ll find out,” I said evenly, standing my ground, not moving a muscle, not lowering my gaze. I just stared at him ― waiting.

His expression had changed from challenging to surprised. It was plain to see that he hadn’t expected me to challenge him back.

Evidently, Aaron Chambers ― good-looking, charming and self-assured professor that he was ― was not the kind of man used to being challenged.

I could clearly see the indecision in his eyes. He was obviously not completely decided against telling me. That didn’t mean he was for it either! I hadn’t won the argument yet.

“Let me ask you something,” I demanded, looking deeply into his eyes, and getting so lost in them that for a moment I forgot what I wanted to say.

Luckily, he broke off eye contact, brushing his hand through his hair while letting out a very audible frustrated sigh. Finally he asked “What?” with an irritation he didn’t even try to hide.

Remembering what I had wanted to ask, I caught his gaze again and said in a low voice “Was I in this dream you mentioned?”

“Perhaps,” he said noncommittally, beating around the bush, even though he had declared such tactics as immature and unbefitting his age mere moments ago.

Except when it suits his needs,
I thought with an audible snort.

“What?” he challenged in reaction to my snort.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “So …,” I continued, “… if your dream had to do with me, and since you seem to believe that I need to apologize for something I did in that dream …,” I added slowly, “… then I have a right to know what you’re talking about!”

Even though he didn’t look the least bit convinced by my speech ― and I had to admit, my reasoning sounded incredibly flimsy ― he seemed to consider giving in to my demand, if only just to get me off his back.

“Alright, I guess you’ve got a point … after all, it
does
have to do with you,” he admitted in a resigned voice. “
All of it
has to do with you,” he added so quietly that I was sure he hadn’t meant to let me hear it.

Nevertheless, I had heard. And I was confused about his meaning, not knowing how to interpret his tone. Sensing, however, that his last words weren’t something he intended to discuss, I decided to let it go, trying not to worry about it at the moment.

Waiting expectantly for his next riveting words, for the answer I had demanded, I was disappointed when he just continued to look at me, apparently unable to decide how best to embark on the subject. After a minute, he gave me a level look.

“Listen, this will sound completely ludicrous,” he said in a serious and strained voice, seemingly unwilling to go through with it after all.

When I just glared at him obstinately, arms crossed in front of my chest, fingers tapping against my arm ― openly demonstrating my impatience ― he sighed and continued.

“I’m
not
trying to get out of giving you an answer, okay? I swear by my dead parents’ grave that I
will
explain everything! Just let me take you somewhere first. There’s someone I want you to meet …”

“Your parents are dead?” I blurted out, regretting my outburst instantly, feeling terribly awkward about having been as insensitive and nosy as to enquire about an issue he would not likely want to discuss, let alone with me ― such a personal issue at that!

“I’m sorry! It’s none of my business … I shouldn’t have asked. I was just … surprised … is all,” I apologized at once, embarrassed by my own immature behavior, and irritated with myself for giving him even more incentive to regard me as a child. He looked unaffected by my snooping, though, and just shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s okay, really. Don’t worry about it!” he said.

For reasons beyond me, he seemed to feel the need to justify his not feeling offended by my allusion to his parents’ death, and went on explaining.

“It’s just a phrase I’ve come to use over the years. It’s no big deal. I’ve gotten so used to saying it that it didn’t occur to me not to mention it. The truth is: I never knew my parents.

Whoever they were, I guess ― looking back ― I’m probably better off having been dumped at an orphanage after birth than I would have been living with parents who clearly couldn’t have cared less.

At least I was cared for in the sense of being provided with a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and the chance to receive an education, which is all anyone could ask for! Anyway, it was probably better than living with parents who couldn’t love me and would have just shown it every day, making me feel unloved and unwanted.”

The unspoken phrase ‘even more’ seemed to hover in the air. ‘Even more unloved and unwanted’ was probably what he had really wanted to say; instead, he chose to play it down.

“When I finally found out who my parents were, many years later, I was informed about their accident. Apparently, their car went over the side of the road, and they were both killed on the spot. Never having known them, I can’t in all honesty feel sorry for their loss.”