Chapter 6 #2
“Oh.” I want to say, this is a dining room. People eat in dining rooms. Instead, I bite my lip and spear a tomato with my fork. A tomato can’t offend him, surely?
But when I stick the red fruit in my mouth and bite into it, he gives me the darkest look.
He folds whatever he was reading into thirds and places it in his jacket pocket, then takes a swig of his wine glass, and mutters something like, “I was right about sending you home.”
“And you’re a dick.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Severin stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head, and I can feel the blood draining from my face. Did I…say that out loud?
“Nothing.” I shake my head and stare at my plate.
Oh God, why do I always do that?
Why?
Minutes tick by, and the sound of his knife sliding through bone makes my stomach turn. At least, Severin is no longer paying me any attention, carving his roasted pheasant (I hope) with such surgical precision as though he’s performed this ritual a thousand times before.
Nausea churns in my gut.
He doesn’t bother to look up from his methodical butchery.
He finishes his food quickly and efficiently.
The dining room feels cavernous with just the two of us seated at opposite ends of the mahogany table.
So much so that when Severin isn’t paying me any attention, I feel I may as well be eating in Serbia.
But even so, there’s something almost normal about sharing a meal with someone, though we’re sitting at opposite ends of the table. This is so different from home, where I often ate alone, standing at the kitchen counter, or from hospital trays delivered to my room.
Mrs Oakley comes back in with a bunch of unopened letters and some newspapers for Severin: the Financial Times, the Executive Review, and the Wych Observer, I note.
As she walks past again, she glances at me, or rather, my plate, with worry. Besides the carrot and the tomato segment, I haven’t eaten much.
“Shall I bring something else, dear?”
But the feeling of my grave being walked on has me looking over at Severin. His unsettling green eyes are locked on me with laser focus. How long has he been staring? I thought he was ignoring me.
“No, thank you.” I don’t glance at her. I’m too busy watching Severin watching me, as he takes the letters from the pile next to him, producing a blade from God knows where in his pocket, and slices the envelopes open one by one.
Mrs Oakley sighs. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else, dear? I can make you soup and a toastie. A pot of tea, perhaps? You look pale.”
“No, thank you, I’m not hungry.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Shall I take your plate, then?”
I nod, glancing at the untouched plate of food as she takes it away. What a waste. But at least it hides that the butter knife is missing.
Troy Severin doesn’t say anything; he refills his wine, the deep red liquid spilling like shattered rubies. He pulls out his phone, typing something…an email or a message, maybe, before slipping it back into his jacket.
Mrs Oakley nods at me and walks to the door, but before she can leave, Severin stops her. “Katherine. My office door was open again. I’ve told you and Mundel to keep it locked.”
Mrs Oakley turns and looks over her shoulder, her cheeks tinged slightly red. “I will make sure to.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from saying something. I mean, he’s such an asshole.
He nods, and she leaves. Then, he opens a newspaper and begins to read it.
I’d forgotten about the newspaper clipping in my pocket.
I reach for it, to take my mind off calling Severin names in my head, my hand curling around its torn edge.
I gently pull it out and then look down.
The scratched-out face of the boy stares back at me, unrecognizable, and some details are too faint to make out in the hazy light of the dining room.
There’s a clang of dinnerware. With my chest tight and my pulse loud in my ears, I shove the article back in my pocket. The last thing I need right now is to be caught with something from the area Troy Severin usually keeps locked.
Be careful, Nell’s voice singsongs in my mind. He’s more dangerous than you think.
She’s right.
Of course, she is. Nell was always right. And always looking out for me. Always there when I needed her.
Still is.
I wish I could say I did the same for her.
But I didn’t, and now look where I am—having dinner with her killer, not even having the guts to do what it takes.
The knife feels heavy on my lap as all the things I should’ve done at the time go through my mind.
She was my sister. I should’ve been there for her at the end, there when she died.
I should be getting revenge for her now, not just sitting here being pathetic.
God. I miss her.
“Then kill him,” she hisses inside my head. “Now!”
When I look up, Severin stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“What?”
He frowns. “You were talking to yourself.”
Oh God. Was I? Heat floods my cheeks. “I was just…wondering…” What do I say? Yes, I often talk to myself. I think it’s my dead sister chatting to me like she’s still alive. Oh, and by the way, she blames you for killing her and wants me to kill you.
Troy Severin waits, green eyes burning into me. “Wondering what?”
“Why you, er, bought this place,” I say quickly. “The place seems so... dark, and it’s really cold. Can we light a fire at least?”
“No.”
“But, it’s freezing all the time, and it’s not even winter yet.” I allow my teeth to chatter to make my point.
His eyes narrow. “Good job you’re leaving then, isn’t it?” Then he goes back to reading his newspaper.
“But I’m not.” The words come out as a whisper before I can stop them.
Slowly, he raises his gaze to meet mine. “Excuse me?”
“I said…” Here it goes. “But I’m not leaving.” My voice comes out loud and calm, which really surprises me. Inside, I’m a mess. But I straighten my spine and grip the knife in my lap like it could protect me from him, and stare Severin straight in the eye.
“This again?” His jaw tightens. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“You’re right, it’s not. There is no negation. We are getting married. ”
What am I saying? Why am I trying to convince him to let me stay?
Because I can’t kill him tonight.
I need more time.
“Marriage?” He laughs, a harsh sound without humor. “We are not getting married. Whatever your father told you—”
And because you don’t want to run back to Daddy a failure, Nell titters over him.
Better the devil you don’t know.
Shaking, I breathe hard, my mind racing, as I force my voice to stay even. “Have you even read the marriage contract?”
“Of course I’ve read it.”
“And you signed it.”
He pauses, pretty green eyes boring into me. “A formality. It was part of a suite of contracts, but it’s not finalised until we actually get married, which we’re not.”
My heart feels like it’s being squeezed as I stare right back. “Right. But the…you know…the morality clause.”
Severon’s eyes narrow. “What about it?”
He doesn’t know, and why would he? He doesn’t know my family, unlike me. Father’s a crook at the best of times and loves to gloat about how he never plays fair. And now he’s screwed Severin over (and me), and the supposed demon in the boardroom, sitting across from me, doesn’t even know it.
“Well, I’m staying here, unchaperoned and…
I slept in your bed. I’m not sure what that implies in legal terms, but my Father has a very strict view of propriety if certain lines are crossed.
He always sends the family doctor for this sort of thing.
” My mouth feels bone dry. ‘If you were to say, take my…my innocence, for example, then the contract stands as if we were married.”
For a moment, Severin just glowers at me. Then something dark clicks into place behind his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I wish I were.
He pulls out his phone, scrolling quickly, searching for something. Then he curses under his breath and stands abruptly, making a call, probably to his lawyers.
“Stay the fuck here.”
He storms from the room, the floorboards creaking underfoot. As he passes behind me, phone pressed to his ear, I flinch so hard I knock the knife off my lap, again. It clatters to the ground with a sharp clang. His voice, low and furious, echoes from the hallway as I reach down to pick it up.
I hate myself.
I’m a horrible person.
But I almost sigh with relief. He’s no longer razing me with those cut-glass green eyes.
But then I feel just as nauseated as when I was told about the archaic clause the first time. Even though it’s all a bluff, and nothing has happened, and Severin and I both know it.
The only proof would be if Dr Fogg did come…
I swallow hard. If it comes to that, I’ll fix it. I could ride a horse or something.
When Severin returns, his face is a rigid mask of control. I barely have enough time to steel myself for another confrontation. He glares from the doorway, gaze flicking to mine. “Katherine, can you come in here, I want you to witness this.”
Mrs. Oakley steps into the room from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. She looks confused.
Severin stalks over to me and looks down. The disdain on his face is very clear. I don’t want to look at him, but I force myself to, keeping my chin up.
“Listen very carefully, Miss Lovett.” his voice is soft and quiet, almost tender, were it not for the venomous look on his face.
“When the boat arrives tomorrow, I would get on it if I were you. Because if you don’t, there won’t be a shred of innocence left for you to claim you ever had. I’ll personally make sure of that.”
I have nothing to say back. So I fall silent, and the silence stretches long enough that I lose track of where it starts and ends. Severin goes back to his seat as though nothing has happened and pours himself another glass of wine.
Halfway through what Mrs. Oakley considers dessert, a mince pie with lashings of cream, even though Christmas is at least a couple of months away, he gets up and walks out, the newspaper gripped in his hand.
He doesn’t look at me as he passes by. I glance back to where he was sitting.
The latest refill of his glass is untouched, his pie uneaten.
I stay in the empty dining room, candlelight flickering over the remains of our first meal together, and stare out at the windows.
It’s pitch-black outside now. It gets dark quickly these days.
And the wind has picked up again, too, howling through the estate, sounding mournful. Like someone just died.
It matches the sinking feeling in my gut.
I breathe in and out a few times.
When Mrs. Oakley appears in the doorway, eyebrows raised, I want to cry, but I blink the tears away. Crying never solved anything.
“Everything alright, Miss Lovett?”
“Fine,” I lie, breath scattered, straightening. “Just a...misunderstanding about me…er being here.”
She gives me a strange look, “Master Troy doesn’t like surprises. Especially not the kind that sit pretty and pretend they don’t know what they’re doing.”
Pretend?
As she leaves, arms laden with plates and a tray of uneaten mince pies, I sink back into my chair. My fingers still curled around the bread knife.
At least she didn’t try to pry it from my hand.