“Atticus!” Father bellows. “Julian is a good man and has never given us a reason to doubt him. I will hear nothing more of this.”
My older brother just shrugs.
“Would anyone like tea? I’m going to ask Barfred.” I stand, unable to take any more conversation situated around Julian. I’m already sad enough as it is.
Mother frowns at me, but says, “Yes, darling. Thank you.”
Atticus makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat.
“I will be back, then.” I slip out of the drawing room, descending the main staircase slowly.
I couldn’t take another moment of that conversation. Not only I would look suspicious to my family for getting defensive for Julian, butjust hearing his name also makes me depressed.
For some reason, I really thought being cured would fix everything. But now that I’m here, really considering all angles, it doesn’t matter if the incubus never comes to me again. It’s already fucked me. Once Julian learns of this—and if we became involved, he inevitablywould—he’d still leave.
Why would Julian settle for spoiled goods?
Just as my loafers hit the hardwood of the main foyer, his voice rings out.
“Young Master Atlas?” Julian looksexhausted. As if he hasn’t slept, as if he’s barely holding himself together.
I take a single step toward him.
“What… what’s wrong?”
He’s standing between Hall E1 and Hall E2, the back courtyard doors behind him, his hands nervously fiddling at his navel over his grey crewneck sweater.
Julian’s black hair is a mess, sticking up in random places and covering his forehead. His sweatpants are wrinkled, and he’s wearing house slippers.
It is a little past lunchtime.
“Can I speak with you?” he asks. His voice sounds rough, as if he hasn’t spoken in a long time, or he hasn’t stopped talking for hours.
“Um… sure.” I wince, immediately regretting my decision.
Being close to him, being alone with him—either will only hurt me worse in the long run. I must begin protecting my heart against him.
“Please follow me.” He turns and heads toward Hall E2, and what I assume will be his bedroom.
I’m right. As he walks into his quarters, I pause at the doorway, taking in the messy duvet and hot temperature. The air inside feels humid.
“Are you coming in?” he asks nervously, standing at the foot of his bed.
Taking a deep breath, I step inside, closing Julian’s bedroom door behind me. This is the second time I’ve been in here, yet it feels so much more insidious this time.
What does he intend to say? What does he intend to do to me?
“What can I do for you?” I ask him, my own anxiety rising by the second.
Julian stares at me, almost as if in disbelief. Then, in a flash, he’s right in front of me.
“Are you alright?” His hands are all over me: tracing my arms, my stomach, my chest, and eventually settling on my neck.
I stand completely rigid, eyes wide as I stare at him,who towers over me in utter confusion.
“Y-yes?” I finally stutter.
“Are you sure? Because last night you had so many scary marks. I’m not sure how bad they were, but I know they weren’t fatal, so I just washed them with soap, ya know?” he explains quickly, concerned eyes searching mine.
