“I think.” I swallowed, couldn’t believe the words forming in my mouth. “Maybe you should stop. This should stop.”
He went very still. The kind that wasn’t quite human. His breath caught, like I had reached into his chest and pressed my thumb hard into something raw.
“I can’t handle this.” My arms tightened around my body. “I can handle every other harsh reality. I have been adjusting so far, really. But I refuse to add someone who isn’t stable to it. Someone who disappears when things get heavy. I’m only human. I can’t handle everything.”
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
I didn’t look at him anymore. Because if I did, I would take everything I said back. And I refused to do such a thing. So I turned away, letting the shadow swallow half of my face.
“If you are going to keep disappearing like this, then it’s better if you stopped coming. So please, stop coming.”
The wind rustled and moaned as if mourning this moment. And somewhere down the street, the streetlight buzzed out.
How cinematic.
My legs felt heavy, but I moved them anyway, towards the house, away from him, away from the man I was almost–if not already–falling for.
In my head I saw him reach for me, desperately, trying to grab my hand, to make me stay because he yearned for me just as much as I yearned for him. But in reality, he was just standing there, silent, like my words had cut him in places he didn’t know he could bleed.
Like every other thing I had desired, Callan Raskov was just a moment, moving through my dreams, and disappearing the moment my eyes opened.
Mother was still standing in the kitchen when I returned to the house. I would give anything to be able to just walk to my room without having to give her audience. Only if wishes were horses.
“I was beginning to think you wanted to sleep out there in the yard tonight,” she said, her tone almost playful. It was a trap, and I knew.
There was not going to be a warm moment between the two of us right now. We were not going to sit across from each other and share a nice thought.
The writing was on the wall, bold and clear. Mother was frustrated. Mother was tired. Mother needed a punching bag.
“Come here.” The shift in her tone was expected; sharp, instant, and commanding.
Taking a deep breath, I began to walk to the kitchen, my body bracing for her treachery.
“Who was that?” she asked, not breaking her gaze from the glass bowl in front of her as she massaged dry herbs and seasoning into freshly cut chicken breasts. Yes, only Elodie Anne would be in the kitchen at nearly 1 am, cooking.
“Who?” Playing dumb wouldn’t work. It never did. But I tried anyway.
She paused her action and turned around to face me, her eyes a canvas of malice. “Now, did you seriously think I didn’t see you talking to a strange man?”
I stared at the floorboard, even though the pattern wasn’t suddenly intricate and intriguing. I just wanted her to get it done already.
“Are you going to answer, or do I need to beat the truth out of you?”
There it was.
I took in a sharp breath. I had learned to break down her beating, to measure the pain. It took five minutes usually, ten, if she was really enraged.
“Speak!” she roared. “Who is the man you are buzzing around like a damn fly again, Beth Fraser?!”
“He was just a friend,” I murmured.Wasbecause he was gone now.
“A friend, right?” She took steps closer, so close I could smell the aroma of ground ginger and nutmeg clinging to her hands, and her perfume that was sickly sweet, suffocating. “And you stepped out into the night to meet him? What happened to meeting during the day like normal friends do?”
I said nothing.
“Answer me!”
A burning slap snapped my head to the side, my vision titling as a dull headache exploded behind my eyes.
