Chapter Thirty-Three
In which the gap grows wider.
Scarlett…
Wallace doesn’t come home at all for three days.
After his cruel little speech about me turning into a “problem,” he left without a single look back.
Whenever something awful would happen back on Beacon Hill, I’d call Morgan and she’d commiserate, or offer to wield some terrible spell on the Wicked Steps. I can’t tell her about this. Just remembering his cold expression and those words he’d said makes me hot with fury, then frozen with shame.
I make Gio go out with me every day, even if it’s just to take a run in the park nearby, or go to a bougie coffeehouse.
Murder Mittens always accompanies us. She’s back to being wherever I’m at, always curling around me protectively or carried in my backpack, her little head poking out, gazing haughtily at passers-by.
Fortunately, Sorcha likes cats and the staff at The Clinic know better than to say a word about it.
I’m still forcing myself to go to The Clinic to keep Sorcha company. It’s not her fault that her son’s turned into a cruel stranger. This afternoon, Isobel’s in the room, too.
“Hey, nice to see you!” she says. “Mum says you’ve been coming every day, thank you.”
“I wish I could be doing something of actual substance, but…” I hold out the pink box I brought in from an insanely tasty French bakery Gio and I had found while wandering around the neighborhood.
“The bringing of desserts is always substantial,” she says, happily biting into a palmier, spraying buttery bits of puff pastry in all directions.
“I used to make these,” I say wistfully. “I love French desserts.”
"Wallace’s house has that enormous chef’s kitchen,” she says. “Why aren’t you covering every surface with flour and sugar?”
“Because his butler looks like he’s going to have a stroke if I do more than use the microwave.”
Isobel shrugs, taking another big bite. “It’s your house.”
No. I think. It’s not at all.
I force a smile and say, “Try the macarons.”
I’m dreaming.
Murder Mittens is in my arms, yowling, terrified like me as the flames move closer to us, almost tauntingly.
They recede a little as I scream, then creep back again.
I’d never dreamt of the fire that almost consumed us, but my subconscious decided to make up for that blessed peace by sending me back through it with terrifying clarity.
The coughing and choking on smoke as black as tar, the shuddering of the building as it disintegrated.
The flames, ready to consume us.
“Luaith Bheag… Little Cinder, it’s just a nightmare. Come back to me…”
I jolt toward consciousness, but the smoke is still there, the heat, and I realize it’s Wallace, holding me tightly, talking to me. “It’s a nightmare, it’s not real.”
His beautiful face looks so kind, amber eyes fixed on mine, a little frown between his brows.
Then I remember what he’d said to me and I push against his chest, embarrassed that my hands are shaking. “You’re back for a quick shower and a change of clothes? Don’t let me keep you.”
He loosens his grip slightly, letting me put a few inches between us. There’s smoke staining his skin and a rip in the shoulder of his black jacket.
“I had nightmares for years after the fire. A rival mafia firebombed our car, thinking Dad was in it,” he says, never taking his eyes off me.
I freeze, barely breathing, scared to lose this moment.
He’s never said a word about what happened to him.
“I could feel my jacket melting into my skin, I was screaming, thinking this time I couldn’t get them out and that Mom and Isobel were still in the inferno.
” His fingers flex slightly around my waist. “The dreams eventually stopped.”
Claws scuttle over my heart, scratching it as I picture teenaged Wallace, letting himself burn to get his family out first.
“When did-” I clear my throat. I’m not crying. He’d hate pity. Even sympathy. “When did the nightmares stop?”
He smiles briefly, his expression wry. “When I set my first fire, as a professional.”
“Interesting kind of exposure therapy,” I smile a little, too.
“I treated ye abominably,” he cups my face. “Then, I disappeared. Ye have the right to fecking hate me right now. But I am sincerely sorry for those words. Ye dinnae deserve them. My duty…” he swallows, looking away for a moment. “Is to my family, but it’s also to ye, my wife.”
"You were cruel," I say sharply. "I told myself I'd never allow anyone to treat me that way again after escaping the Wicked Steps."
"I will have to earn your forgiveness by never treating ye that way again," he says. His eyes are terribly sad, red-rimmed with exhaustion.
Fingering his sleeve, I ask, “Will you sleep? At least a few hours every day?”
“Aye.”
I love this man. A man capable of pushing through his pride to offer an apology and show he still cares about me, too. “It’s nice to hear your Scottish accent again.”
“Let me go shower, wife, and I’ll get in bed with ye.”
“Nope,” I shake my head, desperate to not let go of him, scared he’ll disappear, like he was just part of my dream. “Just take your clothes off and throw them in the corner. I like the smell on your skin.”
Chuckling, he kisses me carefully. “You’re the only person I know who’d find comfort in such a thing.”
Still, he takes off his sooty clothes, uses a towel to wipe off his face, blackening the pristine white cotton. Sliding into bed, he turns on his side, scooping me close with his arm around my waist and falls instantly asleep, his warm chest radiating against my back.