Page 104 of Cold Mercy

I reach for the forks beside her, trying to keep my hand from trembling when it passes just close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

“Hey,” I say, steady and careful. “Good to see you. You look…good.”

The word feels thin compared to what I mean. She looks fucking beautiful. Gorgeous, delightful, charming. But she doesn’t give me even the smallest scrap of a smile.

“Thanks. You look like shit.”

It shouldn’t hit me the way it does. But God, I missed her so fucking much.

I swallow down the laugh that wants to break loose and shake my head.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that today.”

There’s a pause, a small, buzzing moment when I almost let my guard slip, almost let myself ask what I really want to know. Instead, I take the safer path. The coward’s path.

“How are you holding up?”

She doesn’t even look at me at first. She keeps folding napkins with meticulous care, smoothing each corner as though the fabric will unravel if she stops holding it together. Those impossibly green eyes are now clear but empty, like she carved out any space where I used to live and scrubbed it clean.

As if I’m a man she met once in passing.

“Good, Thomas. And you?”

Her voice doesn’t falter. There’s no tremor, no flicker of the softness she used to give me, even when she tried to hide it. It’s polite, nothing more. The kind of tone you use with a stranger you don’t intend to see again.

“Better than yesterday, worse than tomorrow,” I answer.

The moment cracks apart when everyone else spills into the dining room at once, their voices rushing in like a warm tide I can’t step into. Chairs scrape, glasses clink, laughter bounces off the wooden beams overhead, and suddenly the quiet between us is buried under too much noise to breathe through.

Charles comes in behind her, leans in without hesitation, and presses a kiss to her cheek. She turns her head just enough to acknowledge him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and it hits with perfect precision.

Then he drops into the seat beside her, draping his arm along the back of her chair, not quite touching her but close enough that the message is unmistakable. It’s a silent claim, not aggressive or territorial, simply the natural place his body falls when he stands next to her.

I swallow hard and take the chair directly across from them, because apparently, I like the pain that reaches deep, so damn deep. They’re talking about something, I’m not even sure what. She's laughing softly, brushing her hair behind her ear in that unconscious way she’s always done, and he watches her with the fondness I used to only imagine.

It feels like someone reached into my chest and twisted, slow and deliberate.

People keep talking around me, plates slide across the table, wine is poured, and someone makes a toast I barely catch. I nod at the right moments, answer when someone speaks to me, pretend I’m part of the room.

But all I can see is her, sitting across from me.

My hand slips into my pocket on instinct, fingers brushing against the cool metal. I shouldn’t have brought it. I should have left it buried somewhere, boxed up with everything else. But it’s here, pressed against my palm like a reminder of a life I almost reached for. I run my thumb along its edge, grounding myself in something that hurts so fucking bad.

If this isn’t hell, sitting across from the woman you desire while another man effortlessly takes the space you destroyed… then I truly don’t know what is.

✽✽✽

Most people drift upstairs after dinner, worn out from the drive or the wine or simply from being around that many old friends at once. I help Elizabeth clear the table, grateful for something to do, anything that keeps my hands moving and my eyes occupied. But every few seconds I catch myself scanning doorways, corners, hallways, searching for the faintest trace of Sophia, hoping she’ll appear at the top of the stairs or peek her head around the kitchen door.

It’s fucking pathetic, and I know it. Even if she walked right up to me, what the hell would I say? I can’t offer her the truth, because the truth destroys her. I can’t offer her what she wants, because what she wants is a man I’m not allowed to be.

James walks in mid-thought, hands full of glasses.

“Maybe we put Sophia and Charles in the same room. My sister arrives tomorrow, and—”

Elizabeth shoots him a look so sharp it could slice through steel. He swallows the rest of his sentence and mutters something about checking the grill. She glances toward me, sympathy softening her eyes in a way I don’t want and don’t deserve.

I don’t react. The second there’s an excuse to step outside, I take it. I drop the dish towel onto the counter, grab whatever beer bottle is closest, and slip outside like a man escaping a life sentence. The cold hits instantly, sharp along my jaw, and I welcome it. Every emotion I’ve buried for the last few hours crawls up my throat until I feel like I’m suffocating. These are the feelings I spent a lifetime avoiding. Years of discipline undone in a matter of months because one woman looked at me like I was worth saving.