He repeated the self-deprecating words until they became a chant echoing in the hollow of his skull, seeping into the very fiber of his being.
Sometime during the long hours of the night, the fire reduced to embers, and the room grew cold, the moon disappeared behindthe winter clouds, and still Cassian sat, staring at nothing, the words thundering on.
You are better off alone. She is better off without you. It is better this way.
When the first pale threads of dawn crept through the gap in his curtains, Cassian blinked at the light as though waking from some fever even though he hadn’t slept a wink. He’d just merely laid in the darkness, hoping he would become one with it. Or perhaps something close.
His head ached, his throat burned, and the room smelled faintly of liquor. He ran a finger through his hair and exhaled, throwing his legs off his bed, then he looked down.
Empty bottles lay scattered on the rug around his feet. He had not even noticed himself finishing them through the night, but it made sense that he did.
He had requested the first bottle, hoping the gentle haze would coax his mind into quietude, into sleep, but sleep had refused him. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw her face twisted in pain and disbelief, her eyes shining with tears, the way she recoiled from him.
Every time he opened his eyes, she was there too, like a ghost he had conjured from the ruins of his conscience. He could not escape her, not in darkness and neither in the dim gray of dawn.
He stood, his joints stiff from remaining in the same position for too long, and pressed a hand to the back of his neck. The night clung to him like something alive. He needed distraction, something, anything, to force his mind out of that garden, away from Isabella’s expression, away from the shame suffocating his every breath.
He rang the bell, and Michael entered only moments later, his face composed until he saw the bottles sprawled on the ground, as though he hadn’t brought half of them in the course of the night.
“Your Grace,” Michael said cautiously, glancing from the mess to Cassian’s face, “shall I prepare your clothes for the morning?”
“No,” Cassian replied. “Take a bottle of brandy to my study.”
Michael hesitated, glancing around the room as if to say, ‘Haven’t you had enough?’
“Did you not hear me?” Cassian barked, the look on Michael’s face irritating him.
Michael bowed immediately, his unease clear. “At once, Your Grace.”
When he left, Cassian exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his face before dressing himself. He ignored the mild sting building behind his temples. The remnants of drink would fade soonenough. When he was done dressing, he headed to his study and plunged himself in work—which barely lasted fifteen minutes.
The ink on his ledger blurred. His hand, normally steady and precise, trembled each time he tried to write, as the memory of Isabella’s face cut into every attempt at concentration.
“This will not do,” he muttered under his breath and rose from his chair to the small center table on the side where the brandy he’d ordered sat. He picked up the bottle and poured himself a glass, chugging it down immediately. It did nothing. He went for a second glass. Still nothing.
The world refused to shift, refused to soften around the edges, refused to blur.
He shoved a hand through his hair, grabbed his coat, and strode toward the one place he had always been able to breathe: his workshop.
The familiar scent of sawdust embraced him as he entered. Tools glinted faintly in the morning light. He selected a piece of fine wood and positioned himself at the bench, desperate for the steady rhythm that usually grounded him.
He set the chisel to the wood, but the first cut slipped.
He frowned, adjusted, tried again, but the second was worse.
By the third, his fingers trembled so violently that the blade skidded off entirely and sliced into the side of his hand. It was a hot sting followed by warm droplets of crimson pattering onto the carving in irregular, angry blotches.
A grim, humorless sound pulsed in his throat.
He almost welcomed the pain.
Good. Let it bleed. It was fitting, was it not?
That his hands that had kept him alive in Scotland, hands that had fought for scraps, for a chance at life, hands that he had to force to carve instead of strike, should betray him again. Should remind him of exactly what he was beneath all the polish and title and wealth.
An uncontrollable, dangerous man made of violence.
Last night, he had used them as he had in the past, as he had sworn never to again, and Isabella had been there. She had seen him, and she had trembled. And now, he could not imagine how he might live with the memory of her expression.
