Sometimes Stefan lets her chop herbs or stir his precious creations in a pot on the stove. She does it with a smile on her face and fulfillment in her eyes. She can’t possibly be happy here.
I’ve been too distracted by my own sneaking around, I haven’t been back to the Market, or EV at all for that matter, in the two weeks Thea’s been here. That’ll change in three days, though. I’ve been summoned for the Severing as my grandfather assumes his new role, one of the Eight. I snarl, forgoing the last few bites of chicken. I snatch my cloth napkin and wipe my mouth before tossing it down and stand to retire for the evening.
Tucking my hands into my suit pants pockets, I stroll from the room, eyeing the staircase. Before I can go up, though, Ihaveto see her. I may avoid her during the day, but at night …
I creep along the darkened hallway. Clatters and clangs emerge from the kitchen, and in typical Stefan fashion, a string of profanities follows. I pass the kitchen, chasing the only light that bleeds onto the wood floor from the crack in her door. It’s faint, only the light from her nightstand lamp, but every nightshe leaves it on, and each night, like a beacon, I’m drawn to it. To her.
I’m not proud of how I spend my nights, and if there were another way to rip this ache from my chest, I would. If there were another way to quell her tossing and turning while she sleeps, I would.
Her door is cracked, as it is every night—why doesn’t she close it? Surely, she of all people would want the comfort of a closed door. I press my hand to the wood and ease it open. My focus goes to her sleeping form curled up under her covers, facing the open window. It’s enough for the night sounds to slip in: the frog chorus that hums, the creak of the dock as the lake gently sloshes the wooden pilings, or the distant traffic. The warmth of the summer night is balmy as the moon’s light stretches across the floor.
As I do every night, I move to the side of her bed. The yellow light from her bedside lamp mutes the color of her hair to a sickly dull rust. Again, like every night, I switch off the light, leaving only the silver silk of the moon to illuminate her copper locks. They spill around her and over the silk pillowcase. She’s tucked into a ball, one hand under her head, the other curled close to her chest. The lines on her forehead are smoothed to perfection while those cool blue eyes are tucked away and moving slightly under her eyelids.
My chest tightens, and when she shifts, exposing a delicate lace cami that dips just enough to tease her flawless chest speckled with freckles, I have to step back.
I blow out a sigh. At the thin straps barely clinging to her shoulders, at the way the fabric hugs her creamy skin—having her like this, in my house, under my roof—it wrecks me.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be staring. But there’s not been a night that’s gone by that I haven’t succumbed to my baser instincts to look.
She rolls again, murmuring something. Bringing her arm up, she flings it over her forehead, granting me access to her ever-intriguing tattoo. Those stupid dandelions.
Sidestepping, I circle around to the other side of her bed. My form blocks the light of the moon, and my shadow is cast eerily long over the room. I look like an ax murderer, or worse yet, a Peeping Tom. Reaching up, I drag a single finger over the head of the dandelion, trying to envision what she sees in the weed. When she exhales and sinks a little deeper, I snatch my hand away, tilting my head.
Do couples get sick of one another? Do they look at each other after years and years of marriage and hate the way their partner looks? Do they get annoyed with the tiny snores, or random limbs encroaching on their side of the bed? In the dark recesses of my mind, I pretend I’m lying next to her, and if she’s mine, there’s no way I could ever want for another.
I could watch her forever and still not be ready to look away.
It’s sick, this obsessive need to care for her. Only now there’s a ticking clock somewhere in the void numbering her days.
My hand moves again, peeling a ringlet away from where it’s fallen in her face. Her hair coils around my finger and despite its coarseness, it’s smooth and silky. I’ll figure out a way. I have to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THEA
He toys with my curls—I’m fairly certain he believes me asleep, but I stay still. His shadow flickers across the inside of my eyelids as he moves, paces maybe. Either way, he’s watching. I fight the twitch tugging at my lips.
He’s been in here every night since he saved me. Well, more like kidnapped me from my kidnappers, but at this point this home has become less like a prison and more of a sanctuary.
Slade hasn’t been home much. He’s gone in the mornings, no matter how early I rise, and in the evenings, he floats through the door only to eat and then scurry off. He was so quick to bring me here, only to avoid me.
He doesn’t really, though. He comes in here, turns out my light, and stands watching over me for hours. Sometimes he sits in the chair by the window. Other times, he lowers himself to the floor under it and watches me from the shadows. Each time, he hovers in the dark.
This past week, he’s been touching me, if it even counts as that. I nearly squirm at his delicate touch, wanting more pressure. The way his finger traces my tattoo, or how his shaky hand almost always needs to touch my hair.
My stomach flutters as he twirls a tendril of my hair around his finger, the tug on my scalp ever so slight. I want to talk to him. I’ve been working up the courage for days to pop my eyes open and ask him everything I want to know. Why has he been avoiding me? How come he throws out all the dandelions I bring inside? Did he like the dinner I helped make?
I’ve run into him a couple of times, but he always looks pained. Like he’s muttering silent pleas to get out of the same vicinity as me. I swear before the Culling it took restraint for him to stay away.
It’s silly. We share the lake house. Edmond and Stefan seem to have no problem with me, so why does he? Perhaps it’s selfish to want to feel the gut-spiraling throbbing he brought to life in me, but I’ve never felt that before. With Tristan it was … well, not that.
Be bold, I tell myself each night. Yet, each night I fumble the mission.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I’m going to “wake up.”
I need something innocent to talk to him about, if he’ll speak at all. I’ve heard him once or twice call for Edmond, but he still keeps quiet.
