Page 61 of The Cannibal

“Down the spiral staircase across from the kitchen,” he replied happily, as the soup bowls were gathered by the staff in preparation for the next course.

“Thank you.” I smiled, pushing my ring off my fourth finger with my thumb and into Silas’s cup.

With that, I departed, and the farther I strayed, the louder the meaningless chatter ensued, as if a heaviness had been lifted from the table in my absence.

Down the spiral stairs and into a hallway. About midway were the double doors to the kitchen. The opposite side had ladies’ and gentlemen’s doors to lavatories.

Even the bathrooms were as luxurious as the rest of the building. The entire room was red, expensive electric fixtures between mirrors and individual sinks. The floor marble, a ladies’ maid who nodded as she stood beside warm towels rolled into a neat pyramid.

I went to the farthest sink by the wall, deep into the room. I turned one of the knobs, the water ran and steamed. The faucet flute made a slight whistle, much like a kettle, a low-pitched scream as the water rushed.

The door slapped open with such force, the hinges didn’t have time to squeak.

“Out,” Silas barked at the maid, followed by the sound of dainty steps out the door before it shut again.

My eyes did not leave the drain of the sink, my fingers gripping the edge of the porcelain.

Each step echoed, crawled across the floor, the walls, the ceiling—and burrowed into my ears.

He shoved my shoulder so hard I thought it stole the breath straight from my lungs as my back smacked the wall, and I was face-to-face with my favorite night stalker.

I rested the back of my head against the wall as I looked up at him.

His eyes were colder than the dead. They may as well be made from the palest headstone in the loneliest corner of the graveyard. His pupils constricted, then widened, enough to spot my reflection. He was fighting something; thoughts or demons—they were all the same.

“Creature,” I addressed him, unsure of our current status. Was I even allowed to address him at this point?

His brow furrowed at the word; such disdain was displayed that I may have been fooled that my past self had infected him. Was it punishment? Retribution? Regret?

I had so much to say with so few words, yet the moment my lips parted, his hand covered my mouth. My head trapped between his palm and the wall.

If my eyes went any wider, they may fall out of my head completely.

The clicking reverberated through his chest, much deeper than I remembered. My stomach was doing flips and I couldn’t tell if it had been the food, the hunger, or the action—most likely all at once.

He leaned close, the deep breath making his entire body shake with such intensity, you would think he was made of a million bees.

His brows relaxed upon exhale, and I could finally see his eyes turn to glass. His lips were merely an inch above mine. The hand was the only thing in his way, but I believed that was by design.

“You hid from me.” The statement was breathless in both disbelief and astonishment. “Again.”

I glanced between his eyes, unsure of how long he would hold it together.

His hand squeezed, and there was no stopping the whimper it pulled from me. After some internal deliberation, his grip softened and he warily lowered his hand without changing the distance; I don’t think he could.

“Yet you waited again,” I whispered.

“Of course I did.”

“And you would wait another time if I asked,” I said.

He grabbed my head, hands gripping. He could crush it if he wanted . . . but he wouldn’t. Will he bite me or kiss me? Either was an option at this moment.

“Did you take a lover?” I asked. Not even the question was enough to snap him from his daze.

My sleeve slipped off my shoulder, the dress shifting.

That caught his attention.