Page 18
Except perhaps the heathen.
And the only reason he doesn’t is it’s not his job to lay blame. He talked about grief being a monster, but I think I’m the monster, in a way. Because if I weren’t here, Alexius wouldn’t be fighting for his life.
I snap the book shut.
What I need is to take the bottle of whiskey or rum or whatever it is in the drawing room, have a bath, and drink myself to oblivion.
Maybe waking up with a hangover tomorrow will distract me of yet another shitty day that’s ahead.
Rising, I leave the room, grab the bottle, and?—
“Stealing now?”
“Phone-napper,” I snarl at him. I don’t turn. I keep going, past his room to mine.
I can’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, I might crumble to dust. But he follows me, shoving his foot in the way as I go to slam the door.
Caelian barges in and pushes me against the wall, his fingers on my chin, and I drink that touch down deep. “Phone-napper?” he says, lifting a brow.
“You stole my phone.”
“Would a phone-napper not be someone who sleeps with his phone or takes them without asking? I did ask for your phone, didn’t I?”
“Not very politely.”
“Politeness is just a formality for those who doubt their charm. Besides, you secretly love it when I’m a little bold.”
I’m not going to smile. “I’m not in the mood, Caelian. Go ignore me some more.”
“I would. I want to. I do. But you stole an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch.”
“Caelian…”
“My name, don’t wear it out.” He inches back, and I look down at his shirt, the tie missing.
He’s in black. I’m in black. The whole fucking world’s in black, and I want to cry. Him and his idiotic, juvenile jokes. I’ve missed them.
“Here.” I hand him the bottle.
He hands it back. “I don’t want it.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I had a feeling you were moping about.” He shrugs. “Call it an attentive husband’s intuition.”
“I call it an invasive intrusion,” I reply flatly and move to push past him. He doesn't budge, though, his arm forming a barrier in the narrow space.
“Can you blame me? You were going to drink my best scotch.”
I frown. “So, you want the scotch, then?”
“I don’t want the damn scotch.”
“Oh, my God, then what do you want?”
“You.” He freezes, and so do I. “What I meant is,” he continues slowly, “I don’t wantyouto drink alone. Gimme the damn scotch.” He grabs it, unscrews the cap, and takes a swig.
Everything in me is in freefall. When Father Kent told me to just talk, it sounded easy. Now, this close to him, it’s like a foreign language I don’t know.
