THE POISONER #3
“Another excuse to use that numbing tongue of yours.” I took a leisurely sip of brew.
In my daze, a sudden shock to my heart nearly made me sit up straight, even through the pain. “Silas,” I demanded his attention.
It startled him, then annoyed him. He raised a brow for me to continue.
“The spines.” I swallowed. “You said only if we are the same species—”
He was trying to contain a smile.
“What is it, you dastardly thing?” I tossed one of the smaller pillows at him.
He swatted it with one hand while the other balanced his coffee. “You’re not with child.”
“Suddenly you are an expert of the female reproductive system?”
“No, but you haven’t even had your first estrus cycle.”
The frustrated huff pushed through my nose made him put down his coffee. He was wise to do so, because I would have thrown something else at him.
“You won’t be on your rags again for at least another twenty-five years,” he said. “Everything slows down for us.”
“So I won’t bleed until I’m fifty?” I thought my jaw would touch my chest. It sounded unnatural to hear, but a part of me was relieved that the burden wouldn’t rear its head anytime soon.
“If you make me repeat myself I’ll have to check your ears,” he joked, lying down beside me as we watched the rain streak the glass, projecting the pattern across the walls of the room.
His lashes moved as he watched the raindrops, possibly fighting sleep.
“I’m sorry, you know,” I said softly.
Only when I spoke did he turn his head my way. “What for?”
“Hiding.” Even admitting it made me feel foolish for not predicting the hurt it would cause him. “They told me it was just until you sorted a few things . . .”
He shrugged and stared back up at the ceiling. “I see the reason. My reaction didn’t necessarily prove you all wrong. I suppose that’s what made it hurt a little more.”
He reached up, rubbing the bite marks I left on him as he manually tried to roll his shoulder using his palm.
“Why are the Buffalo girls here.” I traced over his shoulder, then his arm.
“For the Appraisal.” He grabbed his coffee cup and took a sip. “They came to support us as a united front.”
I took another sip from mine too. The flavors were so strong I had to double check I was drinking it black.
There were high and low notes, I could taste more to the roast of the bean—the level at which it burned and what they’d used to roast it.
The beans were hand turned, I could taste the copper from the rollers.
“Silas?”
“Hm?” He looked back at me mid-sip.
“Are we going to be all right?”
“There’s no saying for certain.”
“That doesn’t inspire much confidence.” I sat up slowly, my entire body sore from the venture. “You would tell me if we weren’t, wouldn’t you?”
“We have a strong case, the rest is out of our hands.” He shrugged. “It’s my hope that we are. That they will see that the absolving—”
“Murder,” I corrected.
His eyes narrowed at me before he continued, “That ending my father’s Nest was not only just, but natural.”
“So what are your worries?”
“There has been no pushback from my father.”
I swallowed hard. I nearly forgot about the impromptu visit from Mr. Astor. Which only reminded me that this was not just a trial of survival, but one of deep family ties that must be painful to break. Even if Silas didn’t want to admit it, Phoebe certainly would.
“Do you think it’s because you’re his only son?”
“Because I know my father, I can only assume that fact would make him push harder for our execution.”
“You think he is indifferent to you?”
“One thing you must understand about my father is that he has no attachments to this world that are not wealth or his person,” he said bitterly.
“He is so self-obsessed that he does not see me as his child; he never has. He sees me as himself, a thing that extends like an extra limb to do his bidding.”
“Will you finally tell me why you left your father’s Nest in the first place?” I touched his shoulder, my fingers dancing over to his chin to tip it back to me, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“I want to.” His hand rested on my thigh, his thumb pacing back and forth over the skin in a self-soothing motion. “But I don’t think I’m ready to.”
“Then you can tell me when you are.” I rested my head on his shoulder, my hand on his chest as I held the coffee in my lap.
“My mother would have loved you,” he said quietly. “But it would have killed her anyway, seeing what he’s done.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to him. That’s all that could really be said.
But even in the absence of words, the way he leaned into my touch, the slowed breathing when my fingers brushed through his hair, the way he leaned into every place my lips touched.
. . . He was starved of intimacy, had ostracized himself on the assumption no one would cast a favorable eye on him, knowing what he is and who he comes from.
The curse of the father passed down to the son with an iron hand.
It was my duty to not only pull the wool from the lie, but so long as he was my Creature, to ensure no one could pierce his heart like that again.