SEVENTEEN #3
The bottle nearly slips from my hand, and I set it down before I drop it. It’s not just about funding. The Bellatorum must be using more resources and supplies, too.
“Your family is the only one not asking questions.” He gives me a pointed look.
It’s my turn to spill what I know, but I can’t help snorting. “My dad used to say that we don’t care how many mouths there are, as long as they’re fed. But then, we’ve never been very good with money or politics.” Or maybe one of us might have noticed.
“Maybe that’s why the Stars chose you.”
His words send my stomach spiraling. I don’t know what to say, so I just stand beside him, letting the sea spray slowly soak my hair.
Bishop grips the railing, eyes darker than the sea below. “Sometimes, I think the problem isn’t that the estate is falling apart or that it’s empty. The problem is that it’s not empty enough. Every room feels haunted.”
His words tug at the ache inside me, calling out to some part of me that knows what it’s like to live with regrets, if not ghosts. My fingers brush one of the pale lines on his knuckle, tracing it without thinking.
Bishop sucks in a ragged breath, and his hand tightens on the railing like he’s anchoring himself to it. He looks at me, and for the first time I see the fear that he must usually hide behind that armor.
“You could tell me,” I murmur. “What they are, I mean. I won’t judge.”
He laughs again, but it’s softer this time. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
I think of the mark on my chest, how people flinch when they see me, the way the world seems to speed up every time I attempt to stand still. “Try me,” I say.
But he straightens and releases his grip on the railing. “It’s late. We should go in.”
That’s the problem with Bishop. If he lets you past one wall, it’s just because he’s already building a new one. Maybe the only way to make him stop is to let him past one of mine.
“They don’t want me.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the now-crumpled letter. Unfolding it, I hand it to him. “I know what I chose, but …”
I’m too embarrassed to tell him about the accompanying package.
His lips press into a thin line as he reads it. Then he wads it up and throws it into the ocean below. I whip around like I can catch it.
“Let the past be in the past,” he says quietly but firmly.
I spin toward him. “That’s easy for you to say.”
He still has an estate, a title, a reputation. I don’t even have a shitty letter from the person I thought was my best friend.
“No, it’s not.” His voice is strained. He lifts his hand toward me and hesitates like he might stop himself, then tucks a strand of my hair back.
My breath snags as his fingertip traces the shell of my ear, and I have to fight the urge to press my cheek against his palm.
“Go to bed. Things will look different in the morning.”
But right now, I’m seeing things clearly.
Or maybe I’m just seeing him clearly. We’re both alone because of the choices we’ve made, only some of which we’ve confessed.
But maybe we’re not keeping secrets from each other.
Maybe we’re just keeping them from ourselves.
Maybe that’s why we’re out here in the middle of the night together—so those secrets can’t haunt us in the dark.
I reach for his hand and slip mine through it. “What if I don’t want to go to bed?”
It’s the wine talking again, but it has a point.
Bishop closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, the blue of his irises looks like sparkling starlight. “Go to bed.”
Not an order. A plea.
But still a blow to my ego. “Because you’re a bishop? Because you’re above … the rest of us?”
“A bishop is still a man. We aren’t above. We’re apart,” he explains quietly, but his thumb brushes the back of my hand, stoking the fire slowly building inside me. “The title reminds us of our duty even when we’re surrounded by the temptation to forget it.”
“And that’s what I am—your duty.” I start to pull away, but he doesn’t let me go.
“No,” he whispers, finally releasing me, “you’re my temptation.”
The confession nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.
My pulse stutters, then races forward, hammering in the middle of my throat.
I can’t deny that I’ve wondered about the rest of him.
About what he could do with that warrior’s body.
About how that silver-blond hair would feel between my fingers or, better yet, between my legs.
“Go to bed, Arden,” he whispers again.
Humiliation floods through me, jolting me from the wine’s haze, and I inhale sharply. At the sound, his gaze drops to my mouth. It lingers there for a heartbeat that stretches until it aches. He isn’t noble. He’s fucking scared. Scared of me. Or whatever is happening between us.
That makes the decision for me. It is time to go to bed.
“You don’t get to call me a temptation and pretend that’s noble,” I say quietly as I shrug off his coat and toss it at him. “That’s just dressing up fear and calling it virtue.”
“Arden—”
But I’m already walking away. He’s made his choice. There’s no time to question mine. “Sleep well, Bishop,” I say, flipping him off over my shoulder as I add, “with your ghosts.”