When I wake up, the sky outside the windows is steely gray. The clock on the nightstand reads 8:00.Shit.Did I only get four hours of sleep? I yank the duvet over my face, but it’s too late. I’m up. My body is so stiff it creaks. Pain in my jaw radiates up through my ear to the top of my skull. There’s blood on the pillow. The industrial-sized Band-Aid is soaked through, despite the zipper of stiches underneath.
On the bright side, my toe’s feeling better.
I knock on the bathroom door.
When there’s no answer, I let myself in and wash up. The room still smells faintly of Cadence and her girly soap. My temperature goes up as I remember the glimpse I got of her last night. The pale, smooth surface of her stomach. The soft curve of her hips. The black cotton of her bra, straining to hold in her breasts.
Putain.I’ve got to get myself together.
I look like Frankenstein’s monster with all the stitches and cuts and lumps. I change my bandages, put on yesterday’s clothes, and head downstairs for something to eat. When I get to the kitchen, I see the magical house elves have been at it again; a large platter of freshcroissants,pains au chocolat, and butteredtartinescoated in chunky strawberry jam sits on the island, along with a butcher board laden with cheeses and paper-thin cold-cuts. So this is what life is like for the De Morels . . .
I’m gullet-deep in apain au chocolatwhen Cadence breezes in.
At the sight of me, she jolts like she’s just been electrocuted, and then her mouth twists into something that’s more grimace than smile. “You’re up.”
I swallow the pastry, lick the melted chocolate off my teeth, and give her my most disarming grin. “Good morning to you, too.”
A blush rises in her cheeks, and she hurries over to the coffee machine on the stainless-steel counter. “Espresso?”
“Hell, yeah,” I say.
She fiddles with the machine, keeping her gaze pinned to the little cup under the spout. “Papa’s in physical therapy with Jacqueline right now.”
Like I give two shits where her dad is at the moment. “Sleep well?”
“Not as well as you. Papa said you’d be tired, but I didn’t realize he meant out-for-over-twenty-four-hours tired.” Without making eye contact, she slides the cup in front of me on the island, then retraces her steps to make herself one, brow crinkled as though facing a puzzle instead of a one-buttoned machine.
“Wait. What?”
“You missed all of yesterday. It was a red-letter day, too. The sun broke through the fog for a full five hours.”
“Holy hell.” I didn’t even know it was possible to sleep that long.
“Sylvie—the doctor—said it was perfectly fine, so long as you showed signs of life today.” She slides her bottom lip between her teeth. I sense she’s nervous, but why? Because I slept so long she thought I was dead? Not likely. Because I saw her in her underwear last night . . . or, well, the night before? Possibly.
A thought suddenly occurs to me and makes my chest seize up.
What if she knows I sawherin the well? What if she thinks I’m some twisted deviate that gets obsessed over a girl he barely knows?
I mean, shit, I’ve only known her forthree days. Or four, actually, though I’m not sure yesterday counts.
I’ve fallen for objects I wanted but never for a person before. Unlike Bastian. Shit, the girls he’s blubbered over. The nights he tossed and turned because he was trying to interpret a look or a conversation or a text from a girl. Now, I’m the one analyzing every facial twitch and mood swing, every spoken word and fleeting look.
Something’s appallingly wrong with me.
I need to get back to normal, aka arrogant, crafty, and apathetic. And I need things to get back to normal with Cadence, too.
“What’s up, Mademoiselle de Morel?”
She finally looks away from her cup. “Up?”
“You’re usually chattier.”
Her pupils tighten against their exquisite blue backgrounds.
“Did seeing me without my shirt get you so hot and bothered that being in my company now flusters you?”
The black pins expand, usurping the blue. “Get over yourself, Slate.” She sucks down her espresso in one quick shot.
