“Your dad keeps secrets from your mom?” it wasn’t my business, and it wasn’t my place to get involved, but I had taken an instant likingto Wynter, molding to her. She was a mom; I was a child, and I was still craving that bond, even years after losing my mother.
“Who knows? He doesn’t say much.”
Apparently, that was a common theme for the men in this family.
“He says it’s work stuff. Stuff he wouldn’t want to stress my momma with. That’s probably a good thing.”
It wasn’t a good thing; it was a bullshit excuse that his father was no doubt using to disrespect his wife without her knowledge or any potential recriminations.
Before I could say any more words that I had no right to voice, and by damn, did I want to, Woodrow shot from his seat, like he all of a sudden felt I was standing too close.
He moved to the bed, lying back and making himself comfortable on the flat pillows that offered zero comfort.
Looking around, the whole room was flat. Decoration was minimal here. Nothing showed his personality. Though, that could possibly be because he had more than one.
“When did you get your diagnosis?” I wondered, figuring Woodrow would know more than Woody about this condition.
“It’s benign. My parents told you earlier. There’s no diagnosis.”
“I meant the other thing.” I stepped carefully. My head low, as I intruded his personal life and space, taking a seat on his bed. “The multiple personalities.”
He looked back at me, staring like I’d offended him in the worst possible way. I probably had.
I fingered his bedsheets, taking in the scent of woodlands that reminded me of our day together. He’d showered, his wet hair, falling down into his eyes, was proof, but somehow, he still smelt like the enchantment of forestry.
He noted my disquiet, and lowered his guard, letting me inside.
“I don’t have a diagnosis for that, either. My dad was a psychologist, once upon a time. He had suspicions. . . there’s no solid proof, you know, aside from the way I act. That’s proof enough. It’s not the only thing wrong with me.”
“How many of you are there?” I asked, eyes raising to his.
“Three, including myself, as far as I’m aware. They protect me in different ways. From my hurt and pain when it gets too much.”
“Likewhat happened today?” I whispered. “With your dad?”
He started fidgeting with his pillow, becoming less comfortable as each second ticked by.
“I’m tired now, Jolie.” He wanted me to leave, tiredness, nothing more than an excuse.
“Oh. . . I didn’t realize you go to bed early.” I glanced at the clock. It was only a few minutes before ten.
“I don’t always, but my throat hurts. My head hurts, too. Switching between alters does that to me.”
“Can I get you something?”
“Nothing helps.” His strained voice proved some truth behind his dismissal.
His steel gaze moved to the door, granting me unwelcome.
“I’m sorry if I crossed a line.” I put a hand on his leg, and I felt him stiffen beneath my touch.
“Don’t be. No one ever cares enough to ask anything about me.” A smile settled on his pretty lips. “Goodnight.” The smile grew, and I almost wanted to kiss his pretty lips.
I stepped from the bed, drifting to the door before such a stupid thought could even consider floating back into my mind. Pulling it open on my quick exit, had settled dust bouncing around the gloom. Cleaning up here would be tomorrow’s chore, and I wouldn’t even wait for the request.
I stepped forward, my loose socks slinking around my ankles. I stopped, turning back to him, taking in his image. He was grungy, almost Gothically ethereal looking. His pale skin glowed like that of the vampires in my favorite book. His heart pounded in his naked chest, his breathing fast, somehow causing my own to race.
“Sweet dreams,” he mouthed from the bed, fingers pressed to his throat. He was hurting again.
