“Promise me you won’t.”
His hair was mussed, as if his fingers had weaved through them too many times. His eyes, almost grey in the dim light, avoided mine. It took me a moment to notice how he looked. Terrible. Shadows beneath his eyes, his frame perhaps leaner than a month ago.
He made a point to vanish, made sure we didn’t see each other. I would have respected it, but any day now, Hildegard would release my father, and his mind would be jumbled with new thoughts, a new reality, and no daughters.
“Your father will have to go eventually,” he said. “There is no other option, even if I wish there was.”
I knew that, just as I knew that my situation wasn’t special or worthy of an exception.
Reagan had bought us time. Nearly two weeks.
“I don’t know what to do,” I murmured. “He doesn’t have anyone else.”
Reagan stared at the mantel, at the logs burning with interminable flames. Stared at it so he wouldn’t have to look at me.
Some rational, logical part of me already knew, and still, I stepped towards him.
Though he tried to hide it, Reagan tensed. Shoulders squaring as thought bracing for some boundary to be crossed. It forced me to stop, keeping at a measly arm’s length.
The warmth from the mantel and the low magelights cast long amber shadows across the study. Soft, calming light. I tried to hold on to it.
“Is there anything I can offer Malory so she agrees to preserve his memories? You know her. If I offer to work for her, do you think she would compromise?”
He grimaced, drawing in a sharp breath. “Do you really think that is an option? You are not thinking clearly because he is your father.”
Sweat damped my hands.
I didn’t notice when I’d moved, when I’d leaned into Reagan, resting my forehead against his chest, nails sinking into his shoulders.
An ache rose in my throat.
Reagan let me cling to him. His hands settled underneath my elbows, as if he thought my knees would buckle.
A laugh startled out of me, unbidden and hysteric.
Reagan’s hands slid to my wrists, slowly prising my fingers from his jacket. “I have to go.”
I shook my head, my heartbeat stumbling into a frantic rhythm. Heat crept across my cheeks, and I wiped my face.
He gathered his papers and moved toward the door. Sealing the future.
No. I had made my choice, and I had been so damn certain of my own righteousness that I never imagined I wouldn’t be able to live with it.
Oh Gods. I would lose everything.
Fear was gutting me, one slice at a time, scorching and suffocating. My ears began to ring.
Reagan walked toward the door, and I couldn’t breathe. My muscles wound tight, and my lungs refused to expand.
This was a panic attack. This was angst. I pulled at the neckline of my sweater to quell the heat. It was too warm, and it burned. I couldn’t breathe.
“Stop,” I said and lunged.
A crack of air split in front of me, the temperature dropping. Reagan went utterly still, shoulders rigid.
My chest rose and fell in uneven pulls as I stared wide-eyed at his feet planted on the ground. I had tried to reach for his shirt, but instead, I’d felt as though my hands raced towards his ankles.
Reagan twisted at the waist, his eyes wide as they found me.
