Chapter 22 Slade
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SLADE
If avoidance were an art, I’d be an artist. Two weeks go by, and I’ve crept out of the house in the early morning hours—not that I’m sleeping much with Thea’s sleepless nights—and Elliot keeps me busy enough until past dinner.
The few times I’ve run into Thea, she’s politely smiled, either on her way to the kitchen or to the dock.
Looking into her tired eyes makes me uncomfortable.
My obsession is now drowned out by guilt because I’ve done this to her for my own selfish gain. So, I avoid her. Or try to.
Evidence of her is scattered around my house, as if she’s slowly becoming at ease in a place that shouldn’t feel safe. I scowl at the three dandelions occupying the glass vase in the center of my dining room table. “Edmond!” I bark, tossing my fork down on my plate.
Stefan made creamy Tuscan chicken pasta, and even though it’s past 9:00 p.m. he insisted on reheating some for me.
“Sir?” Edmond waltzes into the dining room, bow tie slightly cricked. I’m sure he’s noticed words come easier with Thea in the house, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Throw those out,” I demand, gesturing to the weeds on my table.
“Miss Thea picked those today.” He says it as though it’s supposed to change my mind, but all I picture is her on the first night she was here, staring at the dandelion with a warm expression spread over her beautiful face, and I don’t need reminders of her while I’m trying to stomach what I’ve done, or my evening meal.
My jaw clenches.
“Right away, sir.” He shuffles in, plucking them out. “Will there be anything else for you tonight?”
I shake my head. Then, picking up my fork, I stab a sun-dried tomato wrapped in wilted spinach as Edmond leaves the room.
Another dinner alone. It’s my fault, since I’m avoiding her. Occasionally I peek in on the security cameras to watch her laugh and eat with Stefan and Edmond in the kitchen. Never here, she doesn’t eat in here. She’d rather be with them. I bristle.
Sometimes Stefan lets her chop herbs or stir his precious creations in a pot on the stove. She does it with a smile on her face and fulfillment in her eyes. She can’t possibly be happy here.
I’ve been too distracted by my own sneaking around, I haven’t been back to the Market, or EV at all for that matter, in the two weeks Thea’s been here.
That’ll change in three days, though. I’ve been summoned for the Severing as my grandfather assumes his new role, one of the Eight.
I snarl, forgoing the last few bites of chicken.
I snatch my cloth napkin and wipe my mouth before tossing it down and stand to retire for the evening.
Tucking my hands into my suit pants pockets, I stroll from the room, eyeing the staircase. Before I can go up, though, I have to see her. I may avoid her during the day, but at night …
I creep along the darkened hallway. Clatters and clangs emerge from the kitchen, and in typical Stefan fashion, a string of profanities follows.
I pass the kitchen, chasing the only light that bleeds onto the wood floor from the crack in her door.
It’s faint, only the light from her nightstand lamp, but every night she leaves it on, and each night, like a beacon, I’m drawn to it. To her.
I’m not proud of how I spend my nights, and if there were another way to rip this ache from my chest, I would. If there were another way to quell her tossing and turning while she sleeps, I would.
Her door is cracked, as it is every night—why doesn’t she close it?
Surely, she of all people would want the comfort of a closed door.
I press my hand to the wood and ease it open.
My focus goes to her sleeping form curled up under her covers, facing the open window.
It’s enough for the night sounds to slip in: the frog chorus that hums, the creak of the dock as the lake gently sloshes the wooden pilings, or the distant traffic.
The warmth of the summer night is balmy as the moon’s light stretches across the floor.
As I do every night, I move to the side of her bed.
The yellow light from her bedside lamp mutes the color of her hair to a sickly dull rust. Again, like every night, I switch off the light, leaving only the silver silk of the moon to illuminate her copper locks.
They spill around her and over the silk pillowcase.
She’s tucked into a ball, one hand under her head, the other curled close to her chest. The lines on her forehead are smoothed to perfection while those cool blue eyes are tucked away and moving slightly under her eyelids.
My chest tightens, and when she shifts, exposing a delicate lace cami that dips just enough to tease her flawless chest speckled with freckles, I have to step back.
I blow out a sigh. At the thin straps barely clinging to her shoulders, at the way the fabric hugs her creamy skin—having her like this, in my house, under my roof—it wrecks me.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be staring. But there’s not been a night that’s gone by that I haven’t succumbed to my baser instincts to look.
She rolls again, murmuring something. Bringing her arm up, she flings it over her forehead, granting me access to her ever-intriguing tattoo. Those stupid dandelions.
Sidestepping, I circle around to the other side of her bed.
My form blocks the light of the moon, and my shadow is cast eerily long over the room.
I look like an ax murderer, or worse yet, a Peeping Tom.
Reaching up, I drag a single finger over the head of the dandelion, trying to envision what she sees in the weed.
When she exhales and sinks a little deeper, I snatch my hand away, tilting my head.
Do couples get sick of one another? Do they look at each other after years and years of marriage and hate the way their partner looks?
Do they get annoyed with the tiny snores, or random limbs encroaching on their side of the bed?
In the dark recesses of my mind, I pretend I’m lying next to her, and if she’s mine, there’s no way I could ever want for another.
I could watch her forever and still not be ready to look away.
It’s sick, this obsessive need to care for her. Only now there’s a ticking clock somewhere in the void numbering her days.
My hand moves again, peeling a ringlet away from where it’s fallen in her face. Her hair coils around my finger and despite its coarseness, it’s smooth and silky. I’ll figure out a way. I have to.