Page 60 of The Gods Forbid

Maybe I should have explained to him that I wasn’t mad at him, or that he hadn’t shocked me. Yes, what he said was rude. Yes, he should have apologized.

But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t making progress.

I’d seen people lock up for years, with far less to feel guilty for.

The fact that he apologized in the first place, and that quick, was something.

I wouldn’t let him think that it was okay, but there was hope. He understood what the right thing to do was, I just needed him to see the value of it.

The way my body had reacted at the gruff, almost pleading tone to his voice was an entirely different matter.

Problem. An entirely different problem.

I’d been so caught up in my own head, trying to figure out a way to navigate the little opening of remorse he'd shown, while also trying to maintain my composure that I’d thought, last night at least, that it was better to head to bed early.

But based on the way Sebastian was inching around me like I’d lash out and bite him made me think that he thought I was irrevocably upset with him.

That wouldn’t do.

I didn’t want to lose the rapport we’d built. It was that need, and the fact that we had things to do today that were sure to be slightly tense, that had me reaching for the book in the center of the kitchen island.

He was quiet all morning, a mumbly, grumbly version of himself. That didn’t mean he was ignoring me. No, he was rather … attentive.

I had coffee in my hand within seconds of turning the corner to the kitchen. I felt his eyes on me all morning, like he was waiting for me to wince so he had an excuse to tend to an injury.

I guess that was how his guilt manifested. It was entirely unrelated that it made my stomach tighten.

Fates help me, this was so wrong.

As I reached for the olive branch in the form of a book, it also gave me a moment of reprieve from Sebastian’s hunched over shoulders, the blades flat against his skin while he painstakingly placed eggs onto the plates my father had given me as a housewarming gift.

When I’d walked out of my room this morning, ready to return to normal, he’d already been back from the studio. He looked like he’d been in there for hours based on the collection of paint splattering his clothes, some colors more dried down than others.

I’d noticed it a few days ago, but there was always a great deal of a grayish-purple color paint on his clothes. There was more of that color than anything else today.

I smothered the little trickle of curiosity before it could erupt into a flame that would have me crossing a major boundary.

I wouldn’t violate his privacy when I’d asked him to respect mine. It wasn’t like I was hiding any secrets behind that door, but I felt protective over it.

Shaking the thought from my head and picking up the book, I turned to him.

“Sebastian,” I tried, even though that hadn’t worked all morning. He was giving me nothing but small grunts and noncommittal responses.

Well, I wasn’t a fan of that.

“Seeing as it’s a losing game trying to serve myself in this house,” I said, hoping the light lilt of my tone would lure him out. “I’m gonna sit down, and since we don’t do thank yous either,” that was changing, but he didn’t have to know that, “I’ll just be kind and keep you apprised of my progress.”

I could see Sebastian turn right as my eyes dropped to the pages of the book in my hands. He started to say my name, but I didn’t listen.

I began reading out loud, picking up right where we’d left off while he was cooking. I guess it wouldn’t have been wrong for me to keep reading when I went to bed, but I picked up a different book any way.

Something clattered down onto the counter, briefly snapping my shoulders together, but I managed to keep my voice level as I moved through the chapter. This was a fun part actually, a scene where all of the characters were seated at dinner together, volleying quips and banter over the table.

I adjusted my voice slightly with each new character, hoping it helped him keep track of who was speaking. I made it through a page when a plate of steaming eggs, topped with small green herbs that I was sure Kostas had told me the name of at some point, and bread with butter and jam appeared in front of me.

It was the breakfast I used to make myself every morning, but at a severely lowered degree of skill.

I stopped reading, looking up to find Sebastian’s eyes darker than I was used to, like paint that was covered in aging varnish. “Did you know this was my favorite breakfast?”