When I blink up at him once more, he shakes his head. Wait. What did I ask him? Oh, right, damage. I flip it over, curious, and he steps closer, arms now more relaxed and at his sides. He stares at the comic, and I wonder if touching it bothers him.
“Is this one rare?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Expensive?” Oddly, my curiosity is piqued. Especially because there are like forty more of these in cases just like this and six times that just in plastic sleeves.
“Yes.”
“Huh.” I read somewhere once that some comics can cost thousands of dollars. I remember thinking that was insane, especially because they said you can’t even read them. “This is probably one of those several-thousand-dollar ones then.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I respond with a soft smile of my own. Then he crouches down in front of me, and I flinch back, caught off guard. He jerks a thumb into the air.
“Higher?” I ask.
He nods.
“Yikes. Twenty thousand?”
“Millions, Thea. Millions.”
My eyes widen, and I shove the comic back onto the shelf with a wince. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s probably akin to me riffling through someone’s million-dollar watch collection or probing an expensive art piece like it were a touch-and-feel toddler book.
He watches, those glasses slipping ever so slightly down his nose. He’s measured, logical, but then beneath it, there is something quietly endearing.
We stare at each other. I shouldn’t find him attractive—that terrifies me. But …
“Why am I here, Slade?”
He shakes his head, turning toward his extensive comic collection, and he fingers the edge of the shelf with his nail. He doesn’t meet my gaze.
“Because …” He swallows. “I couldn’t not save you.”
More silence stretches until there’s an ache deep in my chest. He won’t look at me, and maybe that’s for the best because I’m not sure what he’d see if he did. He says save me, but something in his voice is more like a confession than an excuse. Part of me wants to step closer, to believe he means it, but everything in me threatens to unravel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SLADE
If avoidance were an art, I’d be an artist. Two weeks go by, and I’ve crept out of the house in the early morning hours—not that I’m sleeping much with Thea’s sleepless nights—and Elliot keeps me busy enough until past dinner. The few times I’ve run into Thea, she’s politely smiled, either on her way to the kitchen or to the dock. Looking into her tired eyes makes me uncomfortable. My obsession is now drowned out by guilt because I’ve done this to her for my own selfish gain. So, I avoid her. Or try to.
Evidence of her is scattered around my house, as if she’s slowly becoming at ease in a place that shouldn’t feel safe. I scowl at the three dandelions occupying the glass vase in the center of my dining room table. “Edmond!” I bark, tossing my fork down on my plate.
Stefan made creamy Tuscan chicken pasta, and even though it’s past 9:00 p.m. he insisted on reheating some for me.
“Sir?” Edmond waltzes into the dining room, bow tie slightly cricked. I’m sure he’s noticed words come easier with Thea in the house, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Throw those out,” I demand, gesturing to the weeds on my table.
“Miss Thea picked those today.” He says it as though it’s supposed to change my mind, but all I picture is her on the first night she was here, staring at the dandelion with a warm expression spread over her beautiful face, and I don’t need reminders of her while I’m trying to stomach what I’ve done, or my evening meal.
My jaw clenches.
“Right away, sir.” He shuffles in, plucking them out. “Will there be anything else for you tonight?”
I shake my head. Then, picking up my fork, I stab a sun-dried tomato wrapped in wilted spinach as Edmond leaves the room.
Another dinner alone. It’s my fault, since I’m avoiding her. Occasionally I peek in on the security cameras to watch her laugh and eat with Stefan and Edmond in the kitchen. Never here, she doesn’t eat in here. She’d rather be with them. I bristle.
