26. Riggs
RIGGS
Riggs raced toward his house on Storm. The pine trees and the overgrown flower-speckled path blended together. His stomach churned viciously, the reins slipping in his grip. His father had kicked him out of the shop and demanded he go home and clean up his mess.
Mess. As if she were no more than a sink full of dishes and spilled milk.
He knew his father was just mad.
He’d apologize for it later, like always…
Riggs' throat worked. He didn’t want her to go, didn’t want to tell her about the godsforsaken letter. He thought of all the possibilities, but every single one led nowhere. He couldn’t be selfish, no matter how much he ached to do so. He refused to be when it came to her.
Skidding to a stop outside their home, Riggs leapt off his horse and paced in front of the steps, thinking of what to say and how to say it.
Nothing I plan will be good enough. I need to speak honestly. I need to speak from the heart.
Finding courage, he finally trembled up the wooden steps and halted. Face warming, bile surged up his throat, escaping out of his mouth. He leaned over the porch and the rest spilled out. Scrunching his face, he wiped his mouth with his tunic sleeve.
Riggs stood in front of the door, his hand hovering over the lever. He killed deadly creatures, hunted criminals, ran hazardous experiments in his room, yet here he was, petrified to turn the handle to his own home.
Open the door, you wimp.
Letting out a shaking breath, he crossed the threshold.
The foyer, kitchen, and living room were empty. No sign of Esemeray.
She must be in my room.
Ascending the stairs, Riggs wiped his hands across his pants, attempting to dry his palms before reaching for his bedroom door. It was inched open, light flooding through the crack.
Should I announce myself?
Fuck it.
“Esemeray, we need to tal—” His heart lodged in his throat.
Esemeray stumbled out of the closet, wearing one of his white tunics and nothing else. Her long dark hair swayed past her hips. His throat tightened, tracing every dip in her body, his blood heating.
“You’re home!” Esemeray yelped, her cheeks staining crimson, gaze darting toward his desk.
Riggs' stomach fell to the floor. His journal was propped open, the drawings of the brothel women on full display. “Esemeray.”
Out of everything, that was the last thing he had wanted her to see.
Esemeray’s eyes were laced with fear, her throat working. “I—I didn’t see anything.” She rushed over, slamming his sketchbook closed, and kicking the dress underneath his bed.
Heat bloomed down his back. Given her reaction, he had an idea of what she was doing. He didn’t let it show on his features. He wouldn’t dare embarrass her.
Her eyes rounded. “I promise I did not look for long.” She chewed on her lip, walking closer. “I…” She slipped a quiet laugh, toying with the buttons along his tunic.
Even the sound of her laugh had Riggs' heart sinking deeper, knowing he was seconds away from breaking her heart, and breaking his.
I’m going to throw up.
“You are an excellent artist.” Her eyes roamed around his room, bunching her hands in his tunic’s sleeves. “Did you fancy any of them…”
This cannot be happening.
Riggs shook his head.
“Oh.” She stepped back. “Why did you draw them?”
His stomach tumbled. “It does not matter. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She bit her lip, blushing. “I liked them…the drawings. You put a lot of detail and work into it. I mean the way you captured?—”
“Esemeray,” he breathed.
“Yes.” Her eyes widened.
Riggs pulled the letter in front of him, fidgeting with it, his eyes falling to the paper.
“What is it you wanted to tell me?”
“Oh, that.” Riggs huffed a saddened laugh, scratching his head. “That’s right…”
She closed the space between them. “Riggs, what is it? Why do you look like that?”
He attempted a smile, nerves muddling his mind. “Look like what?” he said breathlessly.
“What do you hold?” she asked, her voice cracking. “In your hand? What is that?”
“This old thing…” His vision blurred, the walls caving.
She needs the truth.
But he couldn’t speak. “Es…” His hands trembled as he extended the letter.
“What is…” Her eyes fell on the wax seal and her breathing increased. “Oh.” Her eyes hardened.
He forced the words out, “My father knows who you are.” He ran his hands through his hair.
“He wishes for you to leave…immediately.” He barely heard his own voice, certain she didn’t even hear him—hoping she didn’t hear him.
His stomach turned. If he hadn’t already expelled his contents moments ago, he would have vomited right then. He swallowed hard.
The letter shook in her hands.
Without knowing what else he could say or do, he stood there frozen like an idiot. How could he ask her to shift into something small and hide…to stay…with him.
Esemeray inhaled, squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin, and said in a voice he had never heard before, “Very well then. I suppose this is goodbye.” There was no emotion on her face or in her words.
No.
No.
No.
Riggs foolishly reached for her. But Esemeray shifted back. Not one step, but two. Her eyes turned dark and cold. The Esemeray he knew was no longer standing in front of him. She’d been replaced by something else.
Something empty.
The breath escaped his lungs. His hands curled at his sides. “For what it’s worth, I don’t want you to go.” That was an understatement. Truthfully, he’d never recover from this. He knew that much.
She folded the letter, gently setting it on his bed. She glanced at him and wiped a fallen tear from her cheek. “Goodbye.”
“Esemeray, wai—” Black mist dissipated, and she was gone.
The only thing left was his tunic falling to the floor.