Chapter 7
God needs the Devil
E
He made her cry. The fucker made her cry.
Max dries her tears before climbing the stairs, her eyes baby green, like ferns in the rain. I’m glad I eavesdropped on their conversation. Glad I uncovered his infamy.
Instead of listening to what she needed, he huffed and puffed and twisted her guilt around her.
Made her feel small for choosing to care for a mother who’s not her blood.
Planted sneaky little comments to make her wonder if her family could ever be as relevant as his, and asked for her unfailing loyalty when he couldn’t care less to give his.
She lied, of course. Lied and lied until she was blue in the face.
I hate him. I hate the way his voice grated through the phone, slick and condescending. I hate how his casual cruelty was disguised as concern for her well-being, when it was actually meant to belittle her.
That’s not love. Love can be harsh and dangerous, but it doesn’t judge.
It’s all-consuming, like fire burning through an empty house.
Love is standing in the ruins with your twin flame, fighting their monsters, their fears, their sins.
It’s cherishing every part of who they are, be it smoke, dust, or ashes.
I’d dissect this man from the inside out and take his place if I could, just to show Max what true devotion really looks like. What a man should do for his mate when her family is in need, when she’s overwhelmed and lonely.
She meets me in Mabel’s room as discussed, even though I barely beat her up the stairs.
“Did you find that book?” she asks.
I can’t mask the growl in my voice as I answer, “Don’t pretend you don’t know I stayed down there.”
She’d been perfectly able to track me all day, so she knows. She knows that I stayed. Why would she play games and pretend she didn’t?
“It’s not very polite to eavesdrop,” she growls back.
“I’m a ghost. Eavesdropping is my middle name.”
I wish I could cup her face and kiss that frown away.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Well… I’m beat. I didn’t get much sleep last night. The runes’ decryption will have to wait until morning.”
With a yawn, she switches the light off and heads for bed, her footsteps slow and heavy down the stairs.
I linger in the hallway in front of her room for minutes after she’s closed the door.
The house hums with the kind of suffocating silence that makes you aware of every wicked thought you shouldn’t be having.
Her sudden fatigue might have been a polite way to push me away.
I tell myself to leave, to give her peace, but the thought of vanishing into the empty halls, into that hollow dark where I cease to exist, feels unbearable.
When the stifled squeak of a sob reaches my ears, I float past the wooden barrier separating us.
She’s curled around herself again, so small under the quilt, her gaze fixed on the shifting gray tide outside her window. I’m not even sure she realizes she’s playing with her diamond ring, twisting it around. I hope she finds it as bothersome and repulsive as I do.
I want to crawl into that bed and lap the salt off her cheeks. Make her forget all about that idiot fiancé of hers. I want to fill the cracks in my broken soul with her scent, her breath, her warmth. I want so much, yet I can’t give her the simple hug she needs.
And let’s be honest, if I were capable of touching her again, a hug wouldn’t be nearly enough.
Mist presses harder against the glass, swallowing the glow of the streetlight. It’s watching. Waiting. The milky menace reflects in her green eyes. She doesn’t blink or look away, as though resting her eyes or turning her head would hand the monster an invitation.
I edge closer.
“E?” she croaks, her voice soft. “What are you doing—”
“I want to stay here for the night,” I whisper.
Her brows pinch together in a small, disoriented way that wrecks me. “Here?” She bites her bottom lip.
“I’m scared of fading.”
And you need me, I don’t add.
The admission sticks in my throat. I’m sick with jealousy. Jealous of her idiot fiancé, of the charcoal staining her fingers, of the cat purring against her ribs. Even the man she sketched, lines born of her touch, feels like a rival.
I can’t admit to the depths of my malady, because it would drown her. Instead, I’ll feed it to her gulp by gulp, day by day, until she’s as drunk on this sickness as I am.
She shifts and makes room for me on the bed. I edge closer, drawn by the warmth of her body, by the faint pulse in her throat, and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
Her eyes dart to the window. “I might die, too, the second I leave this house.” Her lips part, and the sound she makes—a brittle, weary laugh—sinks its hooks into my chest. “You might get a ghost friend, then.”
“No, you won’t. I won’t let that happen,” I deadpan. “And as far as getting a ghost friend, I wouldn’t wish this existence on anyone, even if it meant having you by my side forever.”
And I mean that.
She arches a brow, and for a moment, I think she’s going to admonish me, but she lets her head fall back to the pillow, and her lashes flutter.
“I’d lose my mind if you weren’t here,” she says.
My heart fractures.
“Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
Her breaths slow down, evening out to a soft, regular rhythm, and I whisper to the dark, “Goodnight, Max.”
Her lips twitch. “Goodnight, boo.”
I hate how much I love her for letting me stay, but there’s no denying it anymore. I’m a ghost in love.