Chapter 36
CHAPTER 36
EARL
https:// www. youtube. com/ watch? v= sBW8Vnp8BzU
-the whole of the moon-
I lean forward and stare at the surveillance footage playing on my desktop. Raven sits on a chair, motionless, the blanket Nora gave her clutched tightly around her like a protective shell while she stares blankly into the fire. Her hair, wet and bedraggled clings to her face and neck in long black streaks. Even from here, from this one angle, I can see that her hands are shivering uncontrollably.
I jump to my feet and pace the floor of my study. Pure frustration simmers beneath my skin. She’s trembling, for God’s sake. The foolish girl is soaked to the bone, but stubborn enough to stay downstairs instead of going up to change.
Why? Why does she insist on punishing herself like this?
Or is it me she’s punishing?
My jaw is clenched as I stop in front of my computer and fix my gaze on the screen. The firelight dances across her features, highlighting the whiteness of her cheeks. She looks small. Fragile. And yet, there’s something defiant in the way she sits there, refusing to move, to give in to the cold or the discomfort.
I should go to her. Every cell in my body is screaming for me to go to her. To wrap her in my arms, carry her upstairs, strip those wet clothes off her, and get her warm the only way I know how to. But I can’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, torn between the angry hate in my gut and the gnawing love that just won’t die no matter what she does.
Why did she run out like that?
What was she trying to prove?
The questions tumble through my mind, unanswered and infuriating. Then the stabbing guilt. Maybe I pushed her too far tonight. Maybe I let my own frustrations, my own insecurities, get the better of me. I wanted to see her break. Wanted her to show me something real, something raw. But now, seeing her like this—broken and shivering—it feels all wrong.
I pick up my phone and call Nora. She answers on the second ring.
“Yes, Mr. Jackson?”
“Nora, I need you to get her upstairs,” I say, my voice clipped, betraying none of the turmoil inside me. “She needs to get out of those wet clothes and into something warm. Make her take a bath if you have to, and brew her some coffee. Ensure it is hot.”
“Of course, Mr. Jackson,” Nora replies, her tone calm but tinged with concern. “I’m running a bath for her right now, and I’ll see to the coffee as soon as I get her in the hot water.”
I hang up without another word, my eyes returning to the screen. Nora appears a moment later, speaking softly to Raven, coaxing her to move. It takes a few tries, but eventually, Raven stands, swaying slightly. I frown when I see that Nora has to steady her.
I watch them go up the stairs and through the corridor, into her room, and enter her bathroom. I exhale slowly, the tension in my chest easing slightly as they disappear from the frame. But the relief is fleeting. My thoughts circle back to everything that happened tonight, every sharp word, every deliberately provocative lingering glance at Annabelle. I knew they would devastate Raven, cut into her like knives. I wanted her to suffer like I have.
But what am I doing? Did I really believe there would be pleasure in seeing her suffer?
There is no pleasure in seeing her break. So what if she is a gold digger? So what if she lied to me? I have no right to damage such a beautiful creature.
I run a hand over my face, the blame settling heavy on my shoulders. If I keep this up, I’m going to destroy her. And God help me, I don’t want that. I never wanted that. I just wanted to bring her to her knees. I wanted her to confess, but I see now that I don’t even want that anymore. The pain I am causing myself by hurting her is too great to bear.
The hours pass slowly, the house growing quieter with each passing minute. I try to sleep, but my mind refuses to rest. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face—pale, wet, and trembling. By the time exhaustion finally drags me under, it’s well past three in the morning.
A soft knock at my door jerks me awake.
I sit up abruptly, the blanket I’d thrown over myself slipping to the floor. My heart races as my mind snaps to Raven, panic surging through me.
“It’s me, Mr. Jackson,” someone says through the door.
“Nora?” I call out, my voice hoarse.
“Yes, Mr. Jackson. It’s Nora.” Her voice is muffled, but there’s an urgency in her tone that sends a cold wave of dread washing over me.
I’m on my feet and crossing the room in a few quick strides. I throw the door open, and Nora stands there, her expression tight with worry.
“What is it?” I demand, my voice sharp. “What’s wrong?”
Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, the knuckles white. “It’s Mrs. Jackson, Sir,” she says in a frightened voice. “I think she’s taken quite ill, Sir. I noticed last night she wasn’t herself, but I thought the rest and warmth would do her good. Now… now, it’s past her usual hour to awaken, and she still hasn’t gotten out of bed. She won’t eat anything. She insists she’s fine, but …” Nora hesitates, her gaze flicking to the floor before meeting mine again. “I think she’s running a temperature too.”
I stare at her, my chest tightening. Raven unwell? How? Raven doesn’t get sick. She runs headlong into storms, thrives in chaos, and pushes through everything, even when she shouldn’t. The idea of her being ill feels foreign. Impossible.
I glance down the hallway toward her room, a knot forming in my gut. My instinct is to go to her, but I hesitate. Nora is overreacting to a fever. Raven is healthy, young, and in her prime, she just needs a little time.
“She’ll be fine,” I say, my voice more dismissive than I intended. “It’s the morning after the big dance. She deserves a lazy Sunday.” I hear the words, but even as they leave my mouth, they feel hollow.
Nora doesn’t move right away. For a brief moment, her gaze sharpens, her usually deferential demeanor cracking just enough to reveal something close to disapproval. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it irritates me.
“Is there anything else?” I ask, my tone hardening.
“No, Mr. Jackson, Sir,” she replies. She turns to leave, her steps brisk and purposeful.
“Let me know how she’s doing by dinnertime,” I call after her.
“Yes, Sir,” she says over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.
The tension in the air lingers even after she’s gone. I stand there for a moment, rooted in place, my eyes fixed on Raven’s door. Every fiber of me wants to go to her, to see for myself that she’s fine, but something stops me. Pride, maybe. Or fear. Now that I know I don’t want to see her suffer anymore, I have become more vulnerable. I can let her know that I’m defenseless to her charms and wiles again.
She’ll be fine, I tell myself again, but the unease gnaws at me, refusing to let go.
I go into my study and pour myself a glass of whiskey. It’s far too early for it, but fuck it. The burn of it down my throat does little to settle the anxiety in my chest. I pace, the glass in my hand forgotten as I run over every interaction from the night before. The words I threw at her, the coldness in her eyes when she left the car, the way she stood in the rain like she wanted to dissolve into it.
I should have handled things differently. I know that. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.
By lunchtime, the restlessness becomes unbearable. I head back upstairs and loiter outside her door. My hand hovers over the handle, but I can’t bring myself to knock. Instead, I linger there pathetically for a few minutes longer before retreating, frustrated and thoroughly irritated with myself.
Dinner comes and goes, and I hear nothing from Nora. The house is quieter than usual, the silence pressing in on me from all sides. It feels wrong, oppressively wrong.
Finally, I give in. I stride down the hallway to Raven’s door and knock firmly. There’s no answer. My chest tightens, and without waiting, I twist the handle and push the door open.
The room is dim, the curtains drawn. Raven is curled up on the bed, her back to me, the duvet pulled up to her shoulders. Her breathing is steady but shallow, and the faint flush on her cheeks makes my heart skip. I step closer, the creak of the floorboards breaking the silence.
“Raven,” I say softly, but there’s no response.
She looks too pale, too sickly. I reach out and place a hand on her forehead. Her skin is hot—too hot. The knot in my stomach tightens as I kneel by the bed, my palm against her temple.
“Raven,” I call again.
Her eyelids flutter, and she shifts slightly, her lips parting as though she’s about to speak, but she only manages a weary sigh.
I press my palm against her cheek, feeling the heat radiating from her. “You’re burning up,” I mutter. I caused this.
Panic claws at my chest, but it’s as though her vision suddenly clears, and finally, she realizes I’m in her room. Instantly, her entire demeanor changes. Light seems to come back to her eyes, but not in a good way. She struggles to sit up, and it’s an unbelievably painful sight to see.
“Leave,” she mumbles and pushes my hand away. “Leave, I don’t want you here.”
The moment causes a spasm of coughs to shake her body. Heart-wrenching coughs that require her to hold her chest. I remember how she was when she got pneumonia once. It started as a simple cold before it plunged her into days in bed.
“Leave,” she says when the coughing subsides. “I don’t want you here.”
I realize there is nothing I can do for her but call the doctor. He will know what is best for her.
I take one last look at her stubborn pale face, then turn around and exit her bedroom.