Chapter 13
Cold seeps through my coat the moment the hospital doors slide open.
Snow flurries drift in the halo of a streetlamp, powdering the pavement in front of the entrance.
I find Hugo standing just under the awning, bundled in his jacket, shivering despite his clothing shielding him from the harsh winter.
“Hugo?”
Flinching at my voice, he turns his head. His skin is parchment-pale under the lamp, his green eyes glassy and distant.
“I looked all over the hospital for you. What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”
“I needed air.”
I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t.
“Have you been out here the whole time?”
“Not the whole time.” He blinks too slowly, his gaze sliding past me to the hospital’s glowing lobby, and a full-body shudder rolls through him.
I step closer. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he says, tone clipped as he pulls out his phone. “I’ll text the driver.” He taps out the message, jaw tight, making it clear that whatever sent him bolting from that building, it’s not something he wants to talk about now.
A few moments later, the town car that brought us here eases to the curb, headlights bright against the flakes drifting to the ground. The driver exits and pulls the back door open, and we slide into the heated interior. I let out a sigh, grateful to escape the cold.
But five minutes down the road, Hugo’s still shaking.
And he’s avoiding me, his focus on the snow-covered streets beyond the window. His breath fogs the glass, then fades before fogging it again. Every few seconds, his fingers twitch.
At first, I didn’t notice his rituals for what they were. I thought of them as ordinary quirks—the clicks of a pen, the tap of fingers, the pause before he speaks. What I didn’t understand until now is the why behind them.
It’s how he copes.
Except tonight, the ritual does little to calm him, because he’s counting under his breath and still coming apart, and there’s nothing I can do for him.
And even if I thought he wanted my help, I don’t know what’s causing this reaction in him.
By the time the tower rises against the night sky, the shudders going through him have run their course.
The car glides to a stop at the entrance, and Hugo steps out first before holding the door for me.
His eyes don’t meet mine once as we take the elevator to his floor, where he walks me to my quarters.
“Goodnight, my queen.”
“Goodnight,” I say, rooted on the threshold as he disappears into the room across from mine.
Sleep is elusive.
My mind chases itself in circles, catching on Hugo’s ashen face in the snow and the miraculous wail of Elise’s baby. Just as my thoughts finally settle toward rest, a choked scream rips through the wall.
I’m across the hall and yanking his door open before my heart recovers, braced to find him thrashing on the floor again. But he’s asleep, sheets tangled around his pajama-clad body, one arm flung over his eyes.
As if the nightmare came and went with the midnight wind.
I press a palm to my sternum and ride out the adrenaline spike. Slowly, my breathing evens out. So I don’t wake him, I take extra care in pulling the door closed before returning to my bed.
His second nightmare since I came into the House of Aquarius starts a string of nightly episodes. Sometimes it’s a single cry that fades before I make it out of bed.
Other nights are worse.
Those are the ones that plant me on the edge of his mattress to wait out the worst of it, close enough to help, careful never to wake him.
Morning always finds him clear-eyed over his cereal.
Sometimes, he mixes it up with oatmeal or eggs.
I haven’t found the nerve to bring up the nightly disturbances.
We’ve both suffered through it for over a week now—him asleep, and me drowning in worry for him.
I keep trying to find a way to approach him about it, but the moment never comes, and I’m afraid if I push, he’ll lock down completely.
Meanwhile, I’m hollowed out, jumpy, running on coffee and the kind of sleep that doesn’t count. And I’ve got too much on my agenda today to let personal matters sidetrack me.
Blurry-eyed and holding back too many yawns to count, I trek through the halls on the ground floor toward my studio. I’m expecting another full schedule, first with my instructor, then the afternoon with Greta and the team, juggling two complex samples.
There’s no time to spare, because the gala is right around the corner.
So is the solid wall of a body. I slam right into a broad chest, and my sketchbook goes flying.
Dr. Price offers a steadying hand at my elbow. “Are you okay, Novalee? You seem off-kilter.”
“I didn’t sleep well.” The truth’s out before I can dress it up, and I regret it the second his head tilts.
“How long have you been having trouble sleeping?”
“Not long. A few nights.” As I pick up my sketchbook, I search for an excuse that doesn’t involve Hugo and all of his scattered puzzle pieces. “I’ve been busy with work. Extra inspired. It’s keeping me up late.”
Hopefully, that will satisfy him. I’m already running behind schedule this morning.
“Mm. That’s not good. Your mental health requires consistent sleeping habits.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine, I assure you.”
“I’d feel better if you’d come talk to me.”
“I’m not your patient anymore.”
“I never said you were.” A faint twist of his lips, an incline of his head, as if he has more to say.
He does.
“Let me be frank, Novalee.” His voice gentles, that hint of a smile gone faster than my innocence, which is somehow worse.
“Recovering from the things you’ve been through takes more than two sessions.
I can’t, in good conscience, close your file yet—especially with you moving into my house so soon. ”
The chill slithering down my spine has nothing to do with the drafty corridor. “You should close my file. It’d be a shame to waste your energy on me. I’m fine. Doing great, actually.”
“You’re doing remarkably well, considering.”
I’m too tired to play his game, or guard my words. “There’s nothing to consider, Dr. Price. I’m no longer in need of your professional services. If you have doubts, take it up with Liam. In fact, you can speak to Oliver, too.”
I expect a slip of irritation, maybe even anger. But in his colorless eyes, all I find is a disturbing sort of interest.
And now I feel horrible for thinking of Hugo in terms of a puzzle—the shrink is studying me the same way, as if I’m a problem he’ll enjoy solving.
“I’m only worried about your safety. If I believed you were devolving, a danger to yourself or to others, I’d be obligated to act.” He lets that dangle there too long, like a noose around my neck, trapdoor waiting to open under my feet.
“Sometimes, Novalee, all it takes to be certain is a quiet room and a little observation.”
Don’t let him make you small.
Chin raised, I hold his stare, even as the threat sinks into my bones. “That won’t be necessary. If you’ll excuse me, my instructor is waiting for me.” I brush past him, willing my feet to keep a normal pace.
I’m not running.
But as I reach the end of the hall, his voice carries after me. “Get some rest, Novalee. We’ll talk soon.”
I keep walking, eyes forward, his threat-like promise burrowing deep. His soon is coming faster than he makes it sound. Once my birthday passes, I’ll cross into the House of Pisces for the final stretch before the auction.
Thirty days under his roof, my file still open on his desk, and his so-called professional expertise the only thing between me and a quiet room.
The last time I dreaded a month this much, it ended with Pax forcing Liam to take me in his dungeon. A rough ass-fucking, he called it. The one before that ended with my first thoughts of ledges and jumping, after Sebastian was exiled for a stolen kiss in a gazebo.
My stomach turns, and I breathe through it as I halt in front of my studio.
The House of Pisces is still a couple of weeks off, but Dr. Price is already circling like the shark he is.