Page 54 of The Cannibal

It hurt to see her this way. I couldn’t help but compare her behavior to how she was in captivity. Alina has always been a wild, unbreakable spirit. But to preserve herself, she shrinks. It’s like she funnels every last drop of energy into thinking, scheming. Her silence is never victory, it is always the beginning.

The parlor doors flew open, the wood smacking harshly into the walls and nearly making my skeleton jump from its skin.

“Sister.” I could practically hear the smirk before I saw it.

Silas walked past Sidney—no, shoved past. I understood he had no desire to be friendly with Sidney, perhaps because he was Luka’s protégé.

The way his eyes cut across the room before landing on me sent a coldness through my spine. He knew something was amiss, but he couldn’t prove it.

The more selfish side of me enjoyed having her to myself without his intrusion, but I knew it would be short-lived now that he was aware she was awake.

I only acknowledged him with the tip of my teacup before taking the last sip. Though even this tea wasn’t to my liking. Our father gave it to me last time we were out. I was waiting on more of my regular. For now it was just something to drink.

“Is there something you wanted to say to me, dear Phoebe?” he asked, a sickly sweetness to his tone, forced familiarity. It was a miracle he could romance the likes of Alina, but on the other hand, I suppose they are both equally as standoffish and unpleasant.

“Is there?” I placed the cup in the saucer of my other hand, mustering the most acceptable expression I could.

His eyes cut through me, boring holes through my head like an insect under the magnifier. With his hands in his pockets, he approached slow and steady. He stopped in front of me, plucking the teacup from my hand and placing it down, stealing a piece of sour candy from the plate. He sat across from me with a sigh and a satisfied smack of the lips, a glimpse of his fangs a not-so-subtle warning.

“Since when do you have tea alone?” he reached beside him for Alina’s journal.

My heart smacked against my rib cage, pounding so hard it may as well headline its own orchestra, between the tapping of my heel and the ringing of my ears.

“She’s not here.” I glanced up at him as I took my cup back to refill from the pot. “Though it is best that you aren’t either before she returns.”

He nodded his head absently, his eyes surveying the ghosts keeping me company through those blond lashes. His arm draped across the back of the sofa as he tilted his head up to the ceiling. The light caught him just right, as gold as gilding.

“Where is she?” He didn’t change his expression or inflection.

“Leave her be.” I remained polite. “I don’t think she wants to see you after your outburst.”

His head fell to me as he tipped it to the side. A smugness spread across his face, a rather annoyed smile pulling at his lips. “What else did you expect to happen when I eventually found that you hid her from me?”

“It was only temporary.”

“It was a betrayal,” he insisted, his expression hardening and softening like he was deciding what to feel about the words he just uttered. “I trusted you.”

“To keep her safe,” I added. “You trusted me with the only key to her room. You trusted me with her life, and we decided⁠—”

“We,” he nearly spat the words.

“Luka and I decided it would be best for both of you to slowly reintroduce, given that she has been ill and we know how you get when there’s even the slightest concern for her health,” I said sternly. “She has barely kept up with her own adjustments. It would have only been for a little bit.”

His chest rose and fell just as heavy as an angry steer. The cockiness was wiped from his face, peeling away his layers to reveal something more honest. A pained stroke of the brow, an anxious tick of the jaw, and the tiniest, minuscule traces of sadness in those cold eyes of his. Of which he turned his face to hide.

“Where is she?”

“If you care about her, you will give her room to breathe,” I warned him.

The tension in his breathing was just the wick of a stick of dynamite that was his next argument.

“You will see her tonight,” I said.

That seemed to diffuse him, but only temporarily.

“She’s processing things, but the outing will be good for all of us.” I leaned forward, clasping my hands over my knee. “No one is doing this to torture you, dear brother.”

“I’m processing.” He raised his hands defensively, then seemed at a loss for words. “For six months, I’ve been processing. No one seems to care for my space.” He shook his head and wiped his hand over his face. “I have had to process her death in as many ways as possible. Once when I pulled the knife from her stomach, a second time when she hadn’t woken after a month, and then every minute thereafter.”