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13. One Thing That Wasn't to be Touched - Edward

Specter

The Widow. My mark. My precious secret. The one thing The Collector was never supposed to touch. He has his fingers in every other aspect of my life. My work. My debts. My brother. My sleep. My fear. Every wretched corner of my existence carries the stain of him.

But not her. Never her. I hurl the crystal tumbler across the kitchen. It shatters against the far wall, scattering glittering shards across the hardwood. And now I have lost her.

“What’s this about?” Alcott strolls into the room with such infuriating nonchalance that it makes my teeth ache.

“None of your business,” I seethe, and the second glass leaves my hand before I have decided to throw it. It strikes the wall behind his head and explodes. He does not flinch. Naturally.

Alcott merely glances at the broken glass, then back to me. Then to the glass again. Then back to me once more, in the exaggerated manner of a man attempting to irritate me into an early death.

“Hm,” he says. “I would argue it is very much my business, considering that was one of our best crystal sets. A tragedy, truly. I shall mourn it deeply.”

“Leave.”

He places his books upon the countertop and slips onto a barstool.

“To my educated guess, this little tantrum concerns the woman.” Alcott smiles.

My spine stiffens. Alcott’s smile widens disturbingly. “Olive.” Her name in his mouth sends heat crawling up my neck.

“Do not say her name,” I warn.

“Oh, you are smitten.” His words are playfully thrown in my face.

“I am warning you.” I grab another crystal tumbler, readying it.

“Tsk, tsk.” He waves one finger at me. “This temper of yours will not win back your toy.”

“She is not a toy.” My words come out too quickly.

Too viciously. Alcott’s eyes sharpen. I turn away from him before I do something unforgivable. My hands brace against the sink as I twist the faucet. Water strikes my skin, cold at first, then warm, then scalding. I do not pull away.The burn gives the pressure somewhere to go. Something to focus on besides the ache beneath my sternum and the image of Olive walking out of that shop after telling us we would go our separate ways.

“I really am the brains of this family,” Alcott says.

I remain silent.

“You know you are a killer, yes? A criminal? A man who has disposed of bodies with more care than most men arrange flowers? What precisely is stopping you from going to her?” He speaks to me as if I’m an incomprehensible child.

The ringing begins in my ears. Low. Persistent.

“You know where she works,” he continues. “You know where she eats. I imagine with minimal effort, we could discover where she sleeps.”

My grip tightens around the edge of the sink.

“Stop.”

“We could speak to her. Court her. Kidnap her if conversation proves dull. She could assist with jobs from the Collector. Imagine it, Edward. One happy little household of murderers.” His last few words force me to erupt.

Enough.

I move before thought can restrain me. My hand fists in his collar and drags him forward until his smug face is inches from mine. He wanted this. He wanted the explosion.

The satisfaction glittering in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. This is not my brother. Not entirely. This is Darkness. And I did not want Darkness knowing about Olive. She was mine. Mine to know. Mine to protect. Mine to keep untouched by every rotten thing that followed us.

“The Collector wants her,” I say, my voice low and shaking. “He cannot know we have found her. He cannot know she is connected to me. I will not hand her to him. I will not let you turn her into one of your amusements.”