I settle back onto the carpet, legs folding beneath me as I flip through the pages. There’s a charcoal portrait of a dog, its ears far too big for its head, its eyes shining through the smudges. Beneath the sketch is a scribbled name.Milo. I press my thumb against the page, half expecting to feel the ghost of a pawprint as my throat tightens.
The next page is a half-finished drawing of the manor fountain, the stone cracked and mossed in the corners, the kind of detail only someone who spent a lot of time staring at it would bother capturing. A bored, lonely kid wandering outside, trying to draw something stable because nothing else in his life was. My heart punches inside my ribs. There are hundreds of sketches of the fountain, each individual part cast in small drawings that merge across the pages. I close the book and set it aside, blinking up at the screen to keep the tears at bay.
Of course Rhys wanted to hide this. He shoved all these pieces of himself into a box and buried them in the same way he hides his true nature behind his facade. Collecting myself, I return to the box, my fingers skimming the other items held within.
A stack of ticket stubs, warped with age and moisture, stacked with absolutely zero organization. A wooden bird,carved badly enough to be charming. There’s a knitted cardigan which has long lost its scent to the staleness that coats it, and tucked beneath everything is a washed-out photograph of a little, barely toddling Rhys and a woman with his chestnut hair and blue eyes. My chest warms in a way I’m not prepared for.
Suddenly, my hair is shifted, and the metallic click of my receivers snaps into place. I flinch, dropping the photograph at Rhys’ feet.
“Shit, Rhys. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Well, I kinda knew…I just…” I stare at the box and the contents I’ve spread out across the carpet. There’s no excuse, I was snooping. Permitting myself access to Rhys’ heart without waiting for him to grant it. Picking up the photograph, Rhys lowers to sit beside me, his back leaning against the leather chair.
“It’s fine,” he says, but it absolutely doesn’t sound fine. He sits with a stiffness that looks painful, and I’m certain it has nothing to do with his hangover. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. His thumb drags along the edge of the photograph, toying with a corner that’s already worn soft from years of being stroked. I tuck my knees beneath me, resisting every urge to talk over his silence. I refuse to interrupt his thoughts.
“This is the last picture she ever took with me,” he murmurs at last, his voice flat in that way that’s somehow worse than anger. It’s devoid of all emotion. “Father says my mother hated having her photo taken, but I don’t know what’s true. Maybe she just didn’t want to be seen with me.”
“I don’t believe that,” I shake my head, causing my hair to ruffle around the receivers. “There must be a reason that she wasn’t present for you. She must have been coerced or bribed or scared–” Rhys sighs, his eyes glued to the photograph.
“You don’t have to make excuses for her. People like us don’t rationalise our actions. We just do whatever we want and waste no thought for those we hurt.” My heart cracks at his words.People like us.He truly believes, after everything we’ve been through and all he’s done for me, that he’s no better than his father, than the monster he’s convinced himself his mother is.
“You’re not like that.” I brush my fingers against his forearm. His skin is smooth, his hair curling slightly from a shower. I inhale the scent of the expensive bodywash coating him like armor.
He sets the photograph on his knee, but his eyes stay fixed on the curtain, the screen, anything except me. I track the movement of his jaw, the tic beating there the only indicator that he hasn’t sealed himself shut completely. I lean just close enough that my shoulder touches his, giving him the option to pull away but praying he won’t. Slowly but surely, his knee tilts toward mine.
“She left when I was six,” Rhys continues, quieter now as if it pains him to talk about it. “I don’t know the whole story. Ran off in the middle of the night, didn’t leave a note, didn’t take anything except her purse. My father told everyone she was unstable.” He snorts, shaking his head once. “In this house, that basically means she had emotions.”
My breath catches. I want to reach for him, to find the right thing to say, but instead I remain still and let him choose the pace. Rhys runs a hand through his hair, the exhale that follows causing his fingers to shake slightly.
“I kept thinking she’d come back for me. Every damn day, I’d sit out by that fountain after my tutors had left and wait for the headlights. I sketched it so many times, waiting for the day I could include her in the drawing.” His throat bobs beneath the layer of ink covering his Adam’s apple. “It’s pathetic.”
“It’s not,” I whisper, though I barely trust my voice to stay steady. “It’s human to feel emotions, Rhys.” He doesn’t acknowledge the words, but something about the way he folds the photo into his palm tells me he heard them. Rhys draws hisknees up, bracing his arms over them. “Either way, she didn’t come back. Nor did she send help. She must have known what he was like, and she left me here to rot.”
“She might not have had a choice,” I try to argue, my mind racing to make sense of it all. “Or–” I start before cutting myself off.
“Or, what?” he eyes me. I swallow, not wanting to say the thought out loud, but his stare is unrelenting. Surely, he must have thought it himself at some point.
“I…I was in a house with her belongings, Rhys. Her documents, her clothes, ornaments and board games.” I hesitate, hoping he’ll connect the dots so I don’t have to.
“So?”
“So maybe she…I mean, is it possible that she didn’t leave? Maybe she…died?” I wince at the last word. It’s a horrible thing to say, and despite Rhys’ insistence that he doesn’t feel emotion, I see the flicker behind his blue eyes. How that thought takes root and causes doubt to trickle behind his features. There’s a thick pause, one I struggle to bear. Cautiously, Rhys picks up the photograph and returns it to the box. Then the sketchbook, the ticket stubs, the carved bird. It’s all concealed by his tattooed hands closing the lid and pushing it back into the alcove beneath the curtain.
“If my father finds this stuff, he’ll burn it. Sentiment is the ruin of all good men,” Rhys says hollowly. Standing, he walks to the door, and I push to my feet. “Breakfast is ready.” I watch Rhys leave, the muscles in his back tense, his hands balling into fists.
Left behind alone, the weight of Rhys' sorrow and confusion rips through my being, and the tears finally spill over. I crumple into a chair, clutching my chest as the sobs rack my shoulders. It wasn’t just a box of old junk that I found. It was the remnants ofRhys’ soul. The existence of a boy who deserved better. The heart of a broken child who never had permission to cry.
Chapter Twenty One
If my skull were any tighter, I swear it would crack. I groan into the pillow, roll onto my back, and then immediately regret it. Bile curdles in the back of my throat, the little contents of my stomach churning, and my dick... fuck, it throbs. Images flash behind my closed lids, Harper squeezing my cock tight enough to cut off the bloodflow. Last night was… whoa, it was really something.
And now I’m feeling the aftermath. My ribs ache, my thighs ache, my jaw aches from god knows what. I rouse from the mattress, finding myself alone. That gives me time to consider vomiting, attempt stretching, and definitely stagger naked towards the bathroom. Pushing the door open, the stream rolls out, the sudden heat washing over me. If hell had a spa, it would be it.
I brace a hand on the doorframe, blinking through the fog that blasts against my face. The tiles are warm under my feet, the air thick and swirling, and when I finally drag my gaze upward, I’m greeted by a sight I absolutely, one-hundred-percent did not want to see. The state of my blurred reflection in the mirror. What a mess. Ignoring the toilet and the state of my hair stickingout in all directions, I step straight into the shower. Dew pebbles the tiled walls, the scent of body wash overwhelming, but I manage to catch myself just in time before turning on the shower at the current heat. I might as well say my goodbyes and set myself on fire.
Switching the temperature to freezing cold, I sigh in contentment as the water hits. Ice glides straight down my spine and pours over my head, and it feelsglorious. My overheated skin prickles, steam ripping away from my body as if I’m shedding the last twelve hours one goosebump at a time. I brace both palms against the wall, head dropping forward as the water pounds the nape of my neck, and for the first time since waking, I don’t feel like my organs are trying to quit.
The cold slices through the haze, sobering me and reminding my body how to function. Not completely, but enough to stand upright without the throbbing pain in my skull. I stay in there until my heartbeat steadies and the knot in my ribs has loosened, and then I remember what day it is.
“Shit,” I curse, shutting off the water. I skid in my haste, grabbing a towel and hastily wrapping it around my waist. The marble flooring is slick beneath my feet as I make my way back to the bedroom, still hungover, still aching everywhere a man can ache, but at least the urge to curl up and die has passed. Pushing my hair back from my face, I work out a few of the tangles as I hunt for my phone. I find it under a pair of discarded boxers, and just as I pick it up, the device starts to vibrate. I hiss against the light, blindly accepting the call.
