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Are they together?

Did they used to be together?

The way she hugged him and he hugged her back was intimate. Affectionate. Like they’ve done it a hundred times before. I feel something twist in my chest, serrated and ugly. It takes me a moment to recognize it for what it is: jealousy. She hugs him like that, comfortably, and it’s without fear of wanting too much. But it’s not her arms I want. It’s his.

The thought is so confusing, so wrong, that I shove it away immediately.

God, I’m drunk.

“I need another drink,” I say, and my voice comes out pathetic.

Claire looks at me, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just…I need a drink.”

I turn and walk away, leaving them to their flirting.

The halls are darker now, quieter.

Most of the party has migrated to the main rooms, and I wander through the parts of the house that feel abandoned. The paintings are creepier here, darker, older, their subjects staring down at me with expressions that range from disapproving to outright hostile.

I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I need to get away.

Away from Lucien.

I find a half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich on a side table in a hallway and pick it up. The whisky burns going down, but it feels strangely soothing. I take another swig, then another, hoping to drown out the confusing feeling fluttering in my stomach.

The voices from the party are fading now, distant and muffled, like they’re coming from another world.

Eventually, I find a room that’s almost completely empty. An old couch with ripped silk upholstery and curved wooden legs is pushed against the back wall. The fabric is faded and torn in places, with stuffing spilling out. It looks as tired as I feel.

I collapse onto it, the bottle still in my hand, and close my eyes.

Just for a second.

I wake to the uneasy feeling of being watched. For a second, I don’t know where I am. My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I see him.

Lucien.

He’s standing over me, staring down at me, and the look in his silvery eyes is⁠—

I don’t know how to describe it. For one insane, terrifying second, I think he’s going to kill me. His dark shape fills my frame of vision and his expression is strange, like pleasure paused. I hold myself very still, my heart pounding so loud I think he can hear it. He doesn’t move. Neither do I. We just stare at each other in the darkness, and I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything except wait for whatever’s about to happen. Then he reaches down and takes the bottle from my hand.

I take a breath.

He’s not going to kill me. He’s thirsty.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of my thoughts. My breathing returns to normal.

He tips the bottle back and takes a long drink, his throat working as he swallows. Three gulps. Four.

“Jesus, take it easy, Luc,” I say, emphasizing his name the way Claire said it, mocking him.

He laughs, husky and mischievous, and wipes his wet lips with his sleeve.

“Pussy lightweight,” he says.

“I’m not a pussy,” I snap defensively, grabbing the bottle back from him. I take a swig to prove it.