Alcohol? I almost snap how she should know better with her meds, then clamp my tongue. She’s not taking them any longer. It’s nothing like it was with Craig.
My stomach unwinds, muscle by muscle, though the tension in my shoulders remains coiled tight. Her slow reaction still seems extreme. “Did you take anything else?”
“No. What?” She pushes herself fully upright, then pinches the bridge of her nose, wincing. “I just don’t drink often, that’s all.”
“What was in the—”
Shit.I almost saidthe drink that Bryan bought you, and how would I explain knowing that?
“I saw two empty mugs by the sink. What were they for?”
“Cocoa.” She rubs her cuff across her forehead, shivering. I close the windows and bump up the heating, snagging a rug from the backseat for her lap. “He brings me one every night. Do you have my glasses?” With every sentence she sounds more like herself. “I can’t see a thing.”
I hand them across, staring while she adjusts them, cataloguing the colour in her cheeks, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
“You scared the shit out of me.” The admission escapes without thought.
“Try being kidnapped at midnight.” The spark in her voice convinces me she’s okay more than anything else.
“You stood me up for seven hours. How did you think I’d react?”
She faces me, eyes inscrutable behind the dark glasses, then gives a soft snort. “I thought you’d probably break into my house and abduct me.”
Her gaze remains on the side of my face, assessing, calculating, and I wonder who she sees. The guy who carried her from her room in a panic, or the one who fucked her throat and made her lick his cum off the filthy concrete.
Maybe both.
The drive’s quicker at night and we soon reach home, the headlights catching the automatic gates as they swing open, metal groaning. Beyond them, the silver patina of weathered timber stretches storeys into the air.
I pull into the garage, the door rolling shut behind us with a mechanical hum. When I park, Ophelia hugs herself and peers along the row of vehicles, my father’s collection, voice a touch high. “Is anyone else here?”
“Just us.” I kill the engine and circle to her door, opening it before she can. “Come on. I’m making coffee.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want.” I pull her from the car, steadying her when she stumbles. “You’re going to drink caffeine and talk until I’m sure you won’t slip into an alcoholic coma the second I look away.”
The kitchen is larger than her house, all marble counters and appliances gleaming under the pendant lights. There’s activated charcoal in the medicine cabinet, but I no longer think it’s needed.
With Ophelia perched on a stool, I set about making coffee, movements sharp and efficient. The machine hisses and gurgles, filling the silence.
“I didn’t try to hurt myself.” Her voice is quiet. “Tonight, I mean. I just… fell asleep.”
“Okay.”
She accepts the mug I shove into her hands, wrapping her fingers around its warmth. “Mum used to say I could sleep through an earthquake.”
I frown at her continuing justification, distant alarm bells sounding. But with every sip, I’m more certain she’s okayfor now…any further questions can wait until tomorrow, when I’m sure she’s lucid. Instead, I focus on the growing animation in her face.
“Where were you, this afternoon?”
“Nowhere. At home.” Her eyes flick to mine over the rim of her mug. “I was upset.”
“Why?”
She’s silent for a long moment, steam curling between us. When she does answer, it’s in a flat whisper. “You know why.”
I dislike that I hurt her, but Ophelia’s sulky glower still makes satisfaction hum beneath my skin. The way she bristles, jaw tense, lips pouted, it fills me, pulse beatingmore-more-more.
