She wanted to be angry. It would help keep everything else bottled up. She wanted to shout at him, to throw him bodily out of her house. Instead she sat because her knees were too weak to hold her any longer.

What had happened to her control? For ten years she’d been running her own life, making every decision by herself, for herself. For ten years, she hadn’t asked advice, she hadn’t asked for help. Now something had taken control and decisions out of her hands, something she knew nothing about. Her life was part of a game, and she didn’t know any of the rules.

She looked down and saw the tear drop on the back of her hand. Quickly, she reached up and brushed others from her cheeks. But she couldn’t stop them. One more decision had been taken from her.

“Can you eat some toast?” Jonas asked her as he dumped the contents of the soup in a pan. When she didn’t answer, he turned to see her sitting stiff and pale at the table, tears running unheeded down her face. He swore and turned away again. There was nothing he could do for her, he told himself. Nothing he could offer. Then, saying nothing, he came to the table, pulled a chair up beside her and waited.

“I thought he’d kill me.” Her voice broke as she pressed a hand to her face. “I felt the knife against my throat and thought I was going to die. I’m so scared. Oh God, I’m so scared.”

He drew her against him and let her sob out the fear. He wasn’t used to comforting women. Those he knew well were too chic to shed more than a delicate drop or two. But he held her close during a storm of weeping that shook her body and left her gasping.

Her skin was icy, as if to prove the fact that fear made the blood run cold. She couldn’t summon the pride to draw herself away, to seek a private spot as she’d always done in a crisis. He didn’t speak to tell her everything would be fine; he didn’t murmur quiet words of comfort. He was simply there. When she was drained, he still held her. The rain began slowly, patting the glass of the windows and pinging on the roof. He still held her.

When she shifted away, he rose and went back to the stove. Without a word, he turned on the burner. Minutes later he set a bowl in front of her then went back to ladle some for himself. Too tired to be ashamed, Liz began to eat. There was no sound in the kitchen but the slow monotonous plop of rain on wood, tin and glass.