Page 54 of Wilder

This new year, I needed to change—I had to, for both our sakes, or else the wedge I feared would be the final straw would come much sooner than I wanted it to.

I needed to stop invading his space, stop stepping in when he never asked me to in the first place, no matter how much it nagged at me. It wasn’t my job to hold him down and keep him tethered just because I hated the idea of losing sight of him. I couldn’t keep steering him to what I thought was best because that’s what kept him close.

It wouldn’t be fair. He wasn’t mine to have.

With a sharp exhale, I headed back down the hallway.

As I neared the great room, the noise swelled again. Laughter, and the unmistakable off-key warble of someone butchering one of my mama’s favorite Christmas classics on the portable karaoke machine, gave me pause outside the archway when I finally reached it.

Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about heading back in and finding myself an empty corner to settle into while the rest of the party carry on, however, right now, the last thing I wanted was to pretend I was in the mood for any of it.

So, instead of slipping inside, I veered off toward the kitchen.

Thankfully, it was empty.

I grazed my hand over the row of crystalline tumblers Hazel had dragged down from the hutch earlier that afternoon and set down on one of the counters. The details on the sides of them caught the soft kitchen light over by the sink, intricate grooves my fingers idly ghosted over as I touched the glasses.

She’d taken the time to lay them out on a satin cloth, no doubt fussing over every little detail the way she always did whenever the holidays came around. She took pride in giving us the full Christmas experience since, for most of us, this was the only family we had.

She was damn good at it, too.

I plucked a glass from the lineup, rolling it between my hands a few times. Whiskey and gin sat beside them, both bottles already half-drained—evidence of a night well underway.

I didn’t bother with the fancy, oversized ice cubes that were left to chill on the tray nearby, didn’t bother measuring out an actual proper serving, either. Just tipped the bottle over and poured a generous amount into my tumbler and watched the amber liquid swirl for a second before knocking it back in one go.

The burn hit instantly, a sharp heat sliding down my throat and settling in my chest. It wasn’t enough to take the edge off completely but it dulled the restless itch beneath my skin that was begging me to slip my phone out of my pocket and check for another message from Asher.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders.

I wasn’t the type to drink myself stupid—never had been—but tonight... I might have to make an exception.

“You good?”

I blinked, turning around to see Sully standing in the doorway.

Forcing a half-smile, I turned back to the bottle to pour out another glass. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Saw you snuck away for a phone call but didn’t see you come back. I got a little worried.” His voice trailed off for half a second, footsteps drawing closer until his presence settled just over my shoulder. “And you’re drinking.”

My hand froze, glass halfway raised to my lips. “So?”

“You don’t drink, Wilder.”

I finally turned my head to meet his gaze, finding his own swimming with something close to concern, though he hid it beneath that usual steady exterior he always wore.

I could count on one hand the number of times I’d gotten sloppy drunk enough that it ended with someone having to carry me back up to the main house to tuck me into bed. All of those times had, unfortunately, been with Sully.

Which meant he knew better.

He nodded to the glass in my hand. “Never seen you so much as touch a stray glass of wine during the holidays. Now I find you in here trying to knock back six shots worth of whiskey?”

“It’s Christmas,” I muttered.

He eyed me again. “What was the call about?”

I set my tumbler down a little too hard, the liquid inside of it sloshing dangerously.

This was the worst part when it came to Sully being older than me: he knew me too well. Being my late father’s right hand since I was a kid gave him too much knowledge into how I worked, what made me tick, what kind of things I did and didn’t get up to in my spare time.