“Where is he?” The question tears out of me, more demanding than I want it to sound, but I’m desperate.
Edmond only blinks, stunned, and in his hesitation, I snap into motion. I bolt past him, my wet shoes squeaking up the hardwood stairs. I don’t even know if he’s up there, but I grip the banister nonetheless.
His suite door is shut, and I rack my brain for the time. It’s late, but not too late, and Slade doesn’t sleep with the door shut, unless?—
No. He wouldn’t have a woman in there. He can’t.
Everything hurts, fear and fury tangling together in a strangling web I can’t seem to unstick myself from. I’m glued to the spot outside his door.Open it, I chide to myself. Reasons to turn away scream back at me, but I can’t avoid this. I can’t live on scraps of memories or choke back the questions I’m too afraid to ask.
My hand hovers over the handle, and I gather what’s left of my courage, which is slowly dwindling. My body braces, and I throw myself at the door.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
SLADE
I exit the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my waist. Droplets of shower water still cling to my bare chest, but I can’t be bothered to swipe them off. Not when I’m about to fall into bed after a terrible day.
Thunder roars, and I swear someone’s pounding against the front of the house; however, I ignore it in favor of staggering toward my bed. After wiping my glasses clean with the edge of my terry towel, I put them on, my gaze seeking the new painting above my bed that is impossible to ignore.
It’s become my ritual every night before bed, lingering on the side she used to sleep and staring up at the replica of her tattoo. The black and white painting stretches across the vertical canvas. The lines wafting between bold, almost reckless, too thin and soft. The entire thing looks caught in motion, like the seeds in her tattoo do. I had the piece commissioned from memory, so there are a few discrepancies, but the petals stand proud and full of life, while some surrender into the void. It reminds me of Thea. Gentle and soft, yet willing to scatter and drift, carrying forward and not breaking.
I hold my breath, willing the emotion to abate as I slide my comforter down. I reach for the sweatpants folded at the edge ofthe bed and step into them. They settle low on my hips, loose, and I draw the drawstring tight, finger lingering on the knot.
The door crashes open, and I jump, dumping my towel on the floor beside my bed. Thea fills the doorframe, her hair wild, wet ringlets still dripping to the floorboards. Her eyes gut me—red rimmed, wide, and untamed, but they dart past me before I can even take a step to rectify the tears in her eyes. She snaps her gaze to the shelves lining the wall, the empty shelves. Chest rising and falling, she lingers, staring, and then drifts toward them. She says nothing, and my throat tightens as she drags her fingertips across the empty space where my comic books had been. I brace for something: questions, anger, more tears. But the silence that presses between us is eerie.
The room is dim, apart from the random flashes of lightning and the bookshelf backlights permanently on. Something festers inside me, seeing her here. In my room. And she’s … wet and shaking. Hell. “Thea,” I whisper, but she holds up a hand, still walking the length of the shelves to peer at them.
I take a few steps forward but pause when she whispers back. “No.”
My brow furrows, but I say nothing as she continues.
The sharp lines of her striped pajamas cling to every curve, and the shorts stick to her thighs in a way that’s impossible to look away from. Seeing her is like finally taking a deep breath. The obsessive pull that’s always raging in the back of my mind relaxes in her presence, and I let out an overdue sigh.
“Why?” she asks, spinning toward me. She narrows her eyes on mine, and her scent floods my nostrils as she takes two steps forward. “Why?” she asks again.
“Why what?”
“I saw him. I saw that Swedish man get off the plane on the news. And that book.Yourcomic book. Slade … why?”
“Does that really require an answer, Thea?” I move toward the door quickly to shut it before she can second-guess her decision to barge into my room. An adrenaline shot of pure thrill spreads through my veins at the idea that she’s here. Back in my sight.
Her shoulders roll back and stiffen as if she’s trying to remain strong, but her tears tell a different story. “You sold them? You sold them all!” Her sobs flow, and the moment her shoulders shake and face crumples into her hand, I’m undone.
I move, closing the distance and pulling her to me. The top of her wet hair brushes across my clenched jaw, her sobs dripping onto my bare chest.
“How could you? That was your collection, your escape. I can’t believe—Why did you make me leave you? Why can’t you love me enough to be with me?”
Never in a million years will I tell her I had to sell most of my collection for her. Never. Her fingers splay over my chest, over the scars. I hate that she’s upset, and I hate it’s because I did something. I wanted her safe and free, but she isn’t free if she’s trapped waiting for me.
I tilt her face up, my thumbs grazing her cheekbones and sweeping the tears away. Her eyes pierce me. “Listen to me,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “What is the point of escape if it doesn’t lead me to you? I’d sell every single piece of that collection, strip the shelves bare. You’re the only thing that makes this world bearable.Youare my escape, my home, my obsession, my everything. It’s not in those comics—it’s you.”
She trembles, face contorting into a snarl. “You pushed me away!” She emphasizes her words with a shove of her own.
I almost don’t recognize her growl, and it breaks me. “I had to. It guts me. Every day I followed you, watched you. I hated seeing you in the outside world without me, but loved seeing youin theoutsideworld, Thea. I couldn’t barter for your freedom only to tie you down.”
“I thought you didn’t want me …”
“Want you? I’ve only ever wanted you.” It’s the only truth I have left. It was instant when I saw her. I’ve always wanted her.
