I push off the table and stand up, causing an abrupt end to the conversation. Uncle Santiago clears his throat. “Where are you headed?”
“The restroom,” I reply.
Uncle Santiago nods, and it’s silent, save for my loud footsteps heading for the bathroom down the hall. I lazily push the door shut behind me, but it remains slightly ajar. Too tired to give a shit, I hit the faucet and splash water on my face. Maybe the sudden cold will spark me back to life until I can get Zara to make me something my mind will allow me to swallow comfortably.
I don’t know how long I was slumped against the sink, willing my body to hold out for a little while longer. My stomach is twisting, and for a second, I wonder why I do this to myself.
I take a deep breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Now would be a terrible time to pass out.
“Kingsley?” a voice calls from down the hall.
My grip on the edge of the sink tightens. Rip shows up a second later, peeking through the door’s gap. Eyes landing on me, he shoves it open.
It’s quiet as I wait for him to open his mouth. Then, all he says is, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I murmur. “I’m fine. You can go back.”
He moves closer. “I never said you weren’t fine.”
I side-eye him. “Okay. Then leave.”
“I neversaidyou weren’t fine, but clearly you aren’t.”
I can barely keep myself upright, and he’s playing fucking word games.
I face him, but the movement is too quick. Suddenly, the room is tilting, and I’m heading for the floor, but strong arms grab me just in time. I grunt, wanting to push him away and tell him I don’t need to be saved, but I can’t get the words out.
Rip wraps his arm around my shoulder, and then we’re walking down the hall. “I’ll walk you to your room. Clearly, you need to lie down.”
I don’t protest. After he passes the dining room, I guide him upstairs to my bedroom, which is at the far end of the house. We manage to get through the maze of my home okay, and he lays me down on my cloud-like comforter.
I’ve let life get to me so badly that I’ve finally brought myself to the point of damn-near fainting. Is this who everyone wants as the head of the Crowncrest?
Sylvie would be disgusted with me. Then again, if she were here, I wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.
Seconds pass before there’s a dip in the bed. He’s on the edge, hands on his lap, pondering.
“What’s your deal?” he blurts.
“What?” I ask, though I heard what he asked.
Rip runs his hand through his hair. “With… like, right now. What’s up with you?”
“I’m just lightheaded.”
“Anyone with eyes can see something isn’t right,” he states. “You barely moved a muscle at the table, and you were staring like you were about to puke.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“You’re right. I don’t, but like I said, I can’t let you die on me.”
He can’t? “Why is that your responsibility?”
Rip sighs, eyes looking at the ceiling as he thinks about it. “Your death would irritate me.”
My lips curve into a small smile, his statement close to endearing in its own fucked up way. “Everything I do irritates you.”
“Correct,” he says plainly. “You’ve got a special talent for ticking me off without even saying a word.”
