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Twenty-Four
Camille
I wokeup to find Brennan sitting beside me in bed.
He was fully dressed, wearing his shoes even, and he was staring straight ahead like the back wall held the Mona Lisa.
I peered at it to make sure thatLa Giocondahadn’t made an appearance while I slept, before I murmured, “Is everything okay?”
He didn’t stir, didn’t even blink, just carried on staring straight ahead. I wasn’t sure what was wrong, but it was like someone had died. Those moments of incredulity, when you didn’t know what the hell was happening, how the world could carry on turning while you were lost in the labyrinthine maze of grief.
I’d felt that way when Mama died. Like the hands of the clock should stop spinning, like everything should freeze when, in fact, the world seemed to move faster than ever before.
It made the difference between my response to my father’s death all the more acute.
I felt no grief, no shame, no distress—even though he’d died at my hand.
But I knew this kind of pain, had embraced it a long time ago, and I couldn’t just let him deal with whatever had happened alone.
I had no idea how he’d react to my touch, to my comfort, but I reached out nonetheless and placed my hand on his leg. It was easy considering I was on my side and he was just there—a few inches away.
Was his proximity on purpose?
The bed was massive. We could sleep on our sides of the mattress without ever having to touch if we didn’t want to, so for him to be there, within reach, had to be intentional. Surely?
He didn’t respond to my touch, but I let my fingers flatten out against his thigh. It was tense, the thick muscles bunched like every part of him was straining against whatever had happened, like he could deny it physically.
What kind of confidence, of self-assurance did he possess if he thought he could push grief away like it was a boulder in his path?
“Brennan?” I whispered, concerned when he didn’t make a move, when he just carried on sitting there. “What’s happened? Has someone died?”
“Someone will die soon enough,” he rumbled, his voice like chalk against a blackboard.
“Who?” I questioned, his ominous words prompting me to sit up.
“Someone you don’t know. Someone you’ll never know now,” he replied, his gaze drifting my way at long last. It danced down, over my face, touching me here and there with an intangible caress, before moving over my body, over the shirt I wore to cover me up, over the tangle of my hair around my shoulders. “You look like an angel,” he said gruffly.
My eyes flared wide at that. “Angels don’t usually have blood on their hands.”
He shrugged. “They do in my world. Angels avenge, don’t they?”
“I-I suppose. It depends on which religion you aspire to.”
His lips twisted. “True. Are you like Inessa? Russian Orthodox?”
“No. But I was going to the chapel today with her.” I cleared my throat. “She asked me to attend, and because it means something to her, I thought it would be a step forward for us both.”
His only reaction was to blink.
“I’m not really religious,” I tacked on awkwardly. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“Me either.”
“Inessa said you go to church every Sunday.”
“Because Da insists. Says we have to repent or we’ll never end up in heaven.” His mouth twisted into a snarl. “Like that exists for any of us after what we’ve done.” He surprised me by moving his hand and covering mine with it. “Never thought about how strange it would be to marry and to have someone be in your home, in your bed. It’s quite...” He cleared his throat. “Pleasant.”
Because I thought he’d say the opposite, I hesitated over my next words. Still, curiosity drove me, and I just hoped it wouldn’t bite me in the butt. “You never lived with anyone before?” I asked warily.
