Chapter 23 It Will Get Worse #2
“My bad. I meant twelve.”
“Do I look twelve?” I scoff.
“No,” he says. “You look fifteen.”
“Just give me a damn sip.” I reach for the bottle.
“Promise you’re older than fifteen?” Leiholan asks with a taunting smile.
“Yes, I’m…” I pause, realizing how stupid it must look to have to think about my own age. “Are we past fifty-nine days into this Collianth cycle?” I ask.
Leiholan frowns—like I’m truly insane. “Sweetheart, we’re past ninety.”
How long was I gone for?
It makes sense I was gone so long. I formed connections. I met people who matter to me. My thoughts slip past my lips as I slouch against the wall. “I missed my birthday.”
I wonder if I sent Mom back before I turned nineteen. Silently, the bottle of vesi taps my shoulder. I grab it from Leiholan’s hand and give him a quick smile. “Thanks.”
Birthdays used to be special. As special as it could get in the septic.
Most years, it was the only day I got something sweet.
Mom would do a different hairstyle than usual, three braids on each side wrapped on top of my head.
We’d dance around a campfire—that I now remember starting every time.
She looked so beautiful in the glowing orange light.
It was one of those rare occasions where I saw her smile.
Really smile. Her eyes would crinkle, her nose would scrunch, and she’d hold my hands a little tighter.
“My girl,” she’d say. “My angel baby.”
Now I’m sitting in a sweaty gym, drinking alcohol next to someone I love who doesn’t remember me, reminiscing about a birthday no one knows I have.
“You’re drinking a lot…” Leiholan grumbles. “Maybe it’s better I run out sooner than later. Then I can get sober.” He speaks like he’s talking to no one, clearly drunk. Maybe that’s why he’s been open with me—too inebriated to be closed.
“Run out?” I ask.
“Then again, I have nothing to be sober for!” He laughs, pulling the alcohol from my hands and drinking it like there’s nothing else to do. It saddens me. In all the time I’ve seen him drink, I never thought he might not want to.
“Do you want to be sober?” I ask.
Leiholan shrugs, his limbs loose. “No.” He cracks a smile. “But I have five bottles left, sweetheart.”
“Oh—”
“Enough about me,” he says. “You need to talk?”
Maybe he’d do this for anyone. Maybe he’s just a good teacher, and I was a bad student.
“I’m fine.” I keep my voice flat. “Just waiting for the bottle.”
I want to get drunk enough to forget I ever existed. But I’m too angry to forget—the feeling is too strong to cast aside. It’s like every atom in the universe was made to destroy me, and I have no choice but to destroy them first.
I once said I wanted to be Lucian’s ruin. Now, I think I want to be everyone’s.
“I think you’d set it on fire if I gave it to ya,” Leiholan mumbles, his voice quieter. Or maybe it’s just the slight humming in my ears.
I glare at him. “Why would I set it on fire?”
“Cause you’re burnin’ up.”
“I’m fine.” I reach for the bottle, but I can barely feel my limb.
I shake my hand. Pins and needles prick, but after a second, they’re gone.
Everything is. All the more reason I need the alcohol.
Leiholan holds the bottle higher, out of my reach and over his head.
I try to reach, but I can hardly lift my arm.
“Let it go”—Leiholan meets my gaze—“before it burns you alive.”
I don’t know why my eyes water. I’m not crying, it’s just… the alcohol. Sweat. But the longer I look at Leiholan, the harder it is to convince myself otherwise.
“I lost everything.” My voice shakes.
“Come here, kiddo.” Leiholan lifts his arm.
I try to stand, to walk away, but my legs wobble.
I scoot back from Leiholan before he can hug me.
“No—” I choke, shaking my head, tears catching in my eyelashes.
His face is blurry. With determination, I push myself to my feet.
It takes strength not to fall. “I can’t—” My knees buckle.
I try to grab the wall and stay upright, but I fail, falling.
Leiholan somehow manages to catch me seconds before I hit the ground. Superspeed must not care about lost limbs. He holds me just above the floor and pulls my eyes open wide. I try to swat his hands away from my face, but I’m too weak.
“Where are you bleeding?” he asks.
“What?” I shake my head. He holds me still.
“You either have a concussion, or you’re bleeding.” He puts his finger in front of my face, moving it back and forth. My eyes follow. “Not a concussion,” he mutters. “Where are you bleeding?”
“I’m not bleeding.” I finally raise my hand, lightly pushing his finger away. He lets me. “It’s not like it matters. Nothing can kill me.”
“Something can kill you. Maybe not this,” Leiholan says, “but you’ve lost a good bit of blood, anyhow.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m gonna stand up now.”
“As you wish.”
I push myself out of his arms. I don’t make it up.
I glare at Leiholan, expecting a snarky response or laugh, but he offers none. He watches me carefully, eyes narrow, eyebrows raised, like I’m a soldier in battle. “You got something…” Leiholan swipes at his neck, and I do the same.
My fingers pull back pinkish-red. I keep touching my neck. There’s nothing on it that I can feel, but my fingers get more and more red.
Then it hits me.
“I have to go.” I stumble toward the door, clutching the wall the whole way there.
“Need help?” Leiholan calls.
“Like you could!” I shout back. Funny, I hope he doesn’t think I’m mean. That’s something I never cared about before.
I walk through the halls, white lights flashing across the backs of my eyelids every time I blink.
It would be so easy to sleep on the floor.
I think the moment my body hits something solid, I’ll lose consciousness.
But Lucian’s been bleeding for hours now.
I don’t know what will happen to him if I don’t help—or what will happen to me if I’m correct about my assumption: I’m feeling his blood loss.
When I get to his suite, I don’t knock. No one is in the common room as I walk through. I fall against Lucian’s door, pushing it open. He’s lying on his bed, eyes fluttering. His neck is coated in red, both dry and wet, dripping onto his sheets and staining his clothes.
“Shit,” I breathe, sitting next to him.
He glances up at me, staring through his long lashes. He blinks slowly, barely seeing me. “What are you doing here?”
I shake my head, stifling a sigh. “Damage control.” I place my thumb over the cut. There’s a sizzle as his wound cauterizes. When I begin to pull my hand away from his face, Lucian grabs my wrist.
“Why does it feel this good when you touch me?” he mutters, his eyes slightly open, looking up at me. Lucian’s chest, abruptly rising and falling, mirrors mine. The dizziness, the stars, the weak limbs—we shared that. Now more than ever, I need to lie down. I can’t lie next to him.
I pull away, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. It takes a while to get to my feet. The second I do, my knees buckle, and I fall back on the bed. With my head on the pillow, I look at his ceiling. I can’t bear to look at anything else.
Lucian’s hand is on my arm again. The faintest of touches. The most foreign feeling. His hand wanting to be on me. It’s been a long time.
“You can stay,” he says.
I turn, meet his eyes. His lips part again, slower this time.
“I want you to stay.”
You’re delirious, I try to say, but my tongue is suddenly numb. His fingers find my arms, drawing little circles there, oblivious to the rippling sensations—like waves and forest fires taking over the currents of my blood.
My head falls to the side, and the way he looks at me screams hallucination. His longer, wavy hair falls over his forehead, slick with sweat and covering his weak eyes, unable to hold up their armor. Slow blinks and long stares, aching glares, parted lips.
I count his fingers, then mine. Ten each. Midnight-blue eyes.
“Do you remember me?” I say, a last resort to be sure.
“You’re Desdemona Althenia,” he whispers.
I take a breath of relief. Real. This is real. For a second, I think that’s it—that’s all he’ll say.
Then, “And I want to remember you.”
I glance up. I can hardly see him; my vision is so blurry. His must be, too.
“Promise me,” he whispers, his fingers still on my arm. “Promise I’ll remember.”
I close my eyes. I’ve waited for this—for him to care again. But I don’t know if I deserve to be remembered.
So I say nothing.
“You have the eyes of my father’s killers,” he mutters, “and I want to know you.”
I sniffle stupidly, suddenly glad he’s delirious. He won’t remember this. I hope I don’t, either.
My head grows heavier, unable to rise, sinking into the pillow like a stone. I soak up the circles on my arm and all the feelings that can never be reciprocated again.