Sweet Desire (Tales of Dystopian Decadence Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

embroidery floss, sewing and knitting needles, and more in the living room. It took a moment for me to realize what I was looking at.
    It was a surprisingly generous gesture for him, and when I found some bolts of fabric that would only do for one thing – new clothes – I wanted to cry. I could make anything and everything with this abundance of supplies. There was enough for sheets, blankets, curtains, cushions, pillows, and anything else I might imagine. The motley assortment of textures and patterns looked very out of place in the stark living room. I had almost feared I would never see any textures but wood and drywall and snow again.
    Rather than let myself get carried away by the lavish display, I turned and walked into the kitchen to start breakfast. I sang as I heated water for oatmeal, set the table, and prepared the food. Since Nicholas never made any specific requests for meals, I usually placed honey, syrup, cinnamon, sugar, and brown sugar on the table for oatmeal days. Yet he eschewed those choices every time and ate his oatmeal plain.
    This time I mixed some brown sugar and cinnamon into both bowls, added sliced peaches on top while still marveling at the existence of the fruit that seemed to appear in the cooling chest every morning, and set breakfast on the table. I poured the milk into both bowls, sat, and waited for him to arrive.
    His brows lifted a fraction when he walked in and looked down at his place setting. Had I not been so accustomed to his poker face, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.
    But I did.
    I cleared my throat and said, “I’d like to thank you for the sewing supplies.”
    “No need.” He pulled out the chair and sat down.
    “Of course there’s a need. It’s called courtesy where I come from.”
    “Being polite won’t get you anywhere.” He picked up the spoon, but made no other move.
    I rocked back in my chair and looked at him, blinking. His gaze was down on the food as he scrutinized it. Was something wrong?
    “I wasn’t trying to get anywhere,” I said. “I was just being nice. That’s how people in civilized soc–”
    “Enough.” He shoved away from the table, rose to his feet, and strode out of the room.
    I sat for the next minute, staring at the spoon he had dropped next to his uneaten bowl of oatmeal and trying to make sense of his anger. It only produced more questions. So many more…
    ~****~
    Rather than dwell on the incident at breakfast, I did my housework for the day, eager to distract myself with something far more interesting. As soon as I could, I faced down the mountain of material bounty in the living room. It would feel good to sink my hands into something other than soapy dishwater, to think about something other than my strange circumstances.
    “This house needs more blankets,” I declared, because while the physical cold did not permeate the walls, the house still lacked visual warmth. I selected a red toile fabric with various pastoral scenes on it. It was thick and soft with a fleece-like texture, so I found a roll of batting and a white fabric of a similar softness with crisscross stitching on it. Before long I had the two fabrics measured, cut, stitched on three sides, and was stuffing the batting between the pieces to make a sizeable blanket to drape over the back of the wooden loveseat.
    Over the next week, I filled the cabin with handmade quilts, curtains, and cushions. The following week as I started on latch-hook throw rugs, I marveled at the transformation. The cabin was no longer sparse, plain, and forbidding. Warm colors and soft textures filled every room. I turned on my music device and sang as I worked, completing a simple rug in a shifting, waving pattern of yellows, oranges, and reds. It was like a desert sunrise – out of place in the wasteland, but an inviting sight when one walked in the front door. Granted, I had never seen Nicholas walk in or out of the front door, yet that’s what he did only moments after I stitched