41. Henri
Chapter 41
Henri
Deacon’s asleep within twenty minutes of whatever the fuck is playing on the television.
I finished the drink he poured me. It seemed like he was taunting me. Begging me almost to keep drinking. I didn’t even want it. I don’t even want to drink when he’s in the same room as me.
But then he said those things, and I couldn’t believe it anymore. Deacon has always been aloof—eccentric, as Cade and Finn call him. But never, not even for a minute, did I ever consider that Deacon was dangerous.
Seductive, sure. Charming, most definitely. And everyone knows he’s got a great sense of humor. But that doesn’t coincide with what he admitted to today.
My wolf is too far under the influence of alcohol to weigh in. And quite frankly, I don’t want to hear what she has to say on the matter. It’s all her fault anyway. She encouraged me to start this mess with Deacon, encouraged me to stalk him.
“Fuck, Henri.” Deacon moans, but he doesn’t sound like he’s awake .
I don’t answer him.
“Henri!” Deacon gasps, sitting bolt upright, panting.
His wolf’s eyes shine through in the low light. Drawing a deep breath, he steadies himself.
“You okay?” I don’t know what else or what more to ask. I just sit there staring at him.
My heart hasn’t gotten the memo that he’s dangerous, that he’s a killer, that he’s... Deacon.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry.” He shakes his head, the movement in stark contrast to his words.
“What was your dream about?” Why did I even ask?
He hangs his head. “Nathan was killing you.”
Sorrow drapes over Deacon’s words like a sheet covering a dead body.
Pushing himself off the couch, he eyes the bottle on the table.
“Go away, Marielle,” he growls and walks past me and the bottle of whiskey. “Fuck off, Zachariah. The two of you are perfect together. You’d make excellent spouses for each other.”
I hear a cupboard door open and close in the kitchen. Then the electric whir of the ice machine, and cubes clank into the bottom of a glass. Most unexpected is the gurgle of the water as it comes through the spigot on the door.
“Zachariah,” Deacon snarls, “get the fuck out of my house.” Deacon keeps talking. “Great, all three of you, it’s a fucking party.”
Normally when I’ve witnessed Deacon dealing with the ancestors, he doesn’t engage with them openly. He notes their presence and gets tense, but I’ve never seen him have a full-on conversation.
He’s not even trying to hide them from me.
Looking over my shoulder, I see Deacon clutching the glass. His eyes are closed, and the skin on his fingers turns white with his grip.
“Fuck. Off,” Deacon says more firmly.
Seconds tick by, and he opens his eyes. They’re completely dark black.
“Get out!” Deacon shouts.
The glass cracks in his hands, and glistening shards fall to the floor.
A shiver runs down my spine, but Deacon draws a deep breath and hangs his head. “Sorry, Hen.”
Deacon proceeds toward the back door. I head to the kitchen and pull a dishrag out of the drawer.
“I’ve got it.” Deacon approaches with a broom, dustpan, and bucket.
“Let me help.” I crouch down on the floor, using the rag to soak up the water.
Deacon doesn’t argue with me. He stoops down and starts picking shards of glass out of the puddle of water, tossing them into the bucket.
Once done, Deacon takes the cleaning supplies back to the entry.
Busying myself, I make him another glass of water, trying to remember how many ice cubes I heard hit the bottom of the glass before I switch it over to water.
“I’m sorry.” Deacon’s voice, nearer than expected, startles me.
The glass slips from my hand, but Deacon catches it.
“Wouldn’t that have been something? Cleaning up two. I’d have to give up drinking water then too. Would be some sort of sign.”
“Sorry, I just didn’t hear you.” My face heats.
“You don’t have to apologize. I’m the one with the outbursts. You were simply here to witness it.” Deacon takes a sip from the cup, and his face falls like the taste disappoints him.
I don’t know what to do. Turning away feels like the right thing, but I’m enamored by him. His darkness calls to me. “They’re gone, right?”
Deacon nods. “For now. I probably have sixty to ninety minutes before someone dares to come back. If I focus on not seeing them, sometimes they stay away longer? Or stay invisible.”
Shaking his head, he looks at where the clock used to hang on the wall. It isn’t there, and he groans, switching his glass to his other hand to pull his phone out of his back pocket. “I suppose it’s late enough to be bedtime.”
I don’t know if it’s the power of suggestion or something else, but my eyes become so heavy I can barely keep them open.
Deacon drinks all his water, leaving the ice cubes behind. He looks disgusted with himself but sets it on the counter by the sink.
“You can sleep in the primary bedroom. I’ll go crash in my old room.”Deacon tosses his head, indicating to the bedroom that used to be Cade and Thalia’s.
The one that smells like him.
“No.” My voice wavers.
“It’s too late to drive you back, Henri. You can sleep on the couch if you’d prefer, but the bed is much more comfort—”
“No.” I cut him off more forcefully.
His shoulders tense, and he raises his eyes to the ceiling, seemingly looking for answers.
“I’m not sleeping alone.” I elaborate more firmly. “I’m not going to lie in bed while my wolf seeps back in as the alcohol burns off and listen to her rant about how you’re within seventy feet of me, and all I have to do is get out of bed and find you. ”
“What do you want me to do?” Either Deacon is playing dumb or I’m not making sense, and I’m positive it’s the former.
“Come to bed.” I glare at him, waiting for him to lower his eyes to me.
The longer I wait, the more aware I become of his active avoidance.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Don’t—”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t play with me like this, Henri. You’re drunk. You’re upset. Don’t give me one more thing to try to work through.” His words are pained.
Leaning to the side, I look up and see that his eyes are closed.
“I’m not that drunk. I’m not that upset.” I argue with him. “I don’t know how to feel about what you’ve told me tonight, but I’m not playing with you. I don’t know how I feel, but I know that I don’t... that I didn’t do the right things sooner.”
That I didn’t leave him when you were right there asking me to.
“You are that drunk. You are that upset.” Deacon shakes his head and runs his hand down his face. He looks jet-lagged, dark circles under his sleepy eyes. “I can’t let this go any further than it has. If tomorrow, in the light of day, you’re sober, and you still feel like this is what you want, then we can talk, but not tonight.”
“It can be just sleep.” I don’t bother hiding the frustration in my voice.
I’m pouting and being childish.
“Oh, Hen,” Deacon coos. He closes his eyes, and despite hanging his head, I can see they’re squeezed shut. “Not tonight. Tonight, you’ve got to sleep alone. I know you don’t understand it now, but you will tomorrow, and I’ve got to be the responsible one right now.”