I pause outside his door, leaning close to listen for any sound from within. When there’s nothing, I hesitantly knock. “Thayer?”
The only answer is the sound of paper shuffling, crumpling. I knock again. “Have you eaten today?”
There’s no verbal answer yet again. I wait, hoping that this time he’ll come to the door, he’ll let me comfort him as best as I can when I’m just as heartbroken as he is. But there’s nothing. Balancing the tray on one arm, I try the door. Locked.
There’s a sound on the other side, that borders a growl, like an injured animal warning off someone trying to help. And that is exactly what he is. What I am.
I have a key.
I could let myself in, set the tray on his desk and make sure he puts something in his body that isn’t scotch or caffeine. But I’m still trying to respect their boundaries, all of them. We’re all grieving in our own ways and I know I need to let them do it. Otherwise we’ll never be able to heal from this.
Would that be a bad thing? Do we deserve to heal from this?
The thought makes my stomach cramp. I lift my hand and try again, knocking before calling, “I brought tea and biscuits? Thought you might use a pick me up.”
Finally, there’s a weary sigh from inside. “I’m fine, Piers. Thank you. I’m just working.”
Working. Sure. That’s what he’s doing. Definitely not distracting himself from the hurt we caused, from the reality of our lives stretching ahead of us.Isadora.
The queen hasn’t pressed us to set a bonding date, but I know we won’t be able to avoid it forever. I almost wish Forsythe would just do it, just get it out of the way, and then we would know the date of the end of us.
I shake my head at the macabre turn of my thoughts. It happens more and more these days.
The end of us started long ago.
We’ve just been stretching it out.
I press my forehead to the wood separating me from my alpha. “Okay,” I say hoarsely. “I understand. I’ll just leave it here in case you change your mind.”
“Thank you, love,” he says after a long drawn out pause.
I swallow thickly and then bend to place the tray on the floor, but I don’t walk away. I can’t.
I’m fucking lonely as hell, and my pack have been avoiding me. Been avoiding everyone, and I just… I need to feel close to someone.
My eyes flick to the door of Courtland’s bedroom. I’m certain he’s in there. I heard him come in during the early hours of the morning, halfway hoped he'd slip into my bed, pull me close and hold me as he slept. But he didn’t.
I heard his shower turn on. And then off. And he never came to me.
The late hours and stumbling in at three or four am are normal when he’s working. But avoiding my bed is not.
And I can’t help but be hurt by it.
Almost like he can hear my thoughts, Courtland stumbles out of his bedroom, still wearing the pajama set Florence made for him. He hasn’t taken it off in days. Refuses to let the staff wash them. They don’t even smell like her, they never did, but he’s become more stubborn in recent weeks. And slovenly. As evidenced by the paint smearing his forearms.
“Court?”
He stumbles to a stop, lifting blurry bloodshot eyes to mine. “Piers?” His voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in days… or he’s been screaming for hours. With the way we’ve all been feeling for the last few weeks, I suppose it could be either. “You need something, baby?”
I swallow thickly and reach out to him, stroking my fingers over the embroidery on his chest.Pretty boy.“I need to know if you're okay?”
A harsh laugh falls from his mouth and he sags against the wall. “No. I’m decidedly not okay, Piers. But I think you know that.”
I’d halfway expected Court to throw himself back into his wild lord, fuck boy lifestyle after we sent Florence home. He’s always seemed so elastic to me, bouncing back from nearly everything that part of me had expected—worried— that this would be no different.
But of course, he wouldn’t. He can’t. None of us can.
Losing Florence wrecked us.
