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“Do you think that’s going to stop me?”
“What is going on with you?” I demanded. “Is this because of the trial?”
The humor disappeared from his face in an instant, and his dark eyes settled on my face like a knife. “Don’t talk about the trial. It’s none of your business.”
The viciousness of his voice hit me like a brick, and instinctively, I took a step back. I didn’t know who was in this room, but it wasn’t Lucian. The Lucian I knew was always serious but thoughtful. He was protective and considerate of my feelings. But right now, the man sitting across from me was a stranger.
“I think I should go.”
Without warning, he stood and came around the desk, his fingers locking around my arm. For a split second, there was fear in his eyes. But more than that, there was devastation. So much devastation.
I wanted him to tell me what was wrong, but instead, he just said, “We have a contract. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I meant down the hall,” I murmured.
His grip on me relaxed, and he seemed to shake off his thoughts as he let me go.
“You’re right,” he said solemnly. “You should probably do that.”
The locking mechanism on the office door clicked into place as I retreated, and the agony in my chest uncoiled, spreading throughout my entire body.
As I poured the rest of the whiskey into the bathroom sink, I considered locking him out of the bedroom again. I doubted he’d be coming anyway, but in the end, I realized that I wanted him to have the option just in case.
It felt like the earth had just opened up between us, shifting in different directions and creating a huge divide that neither of us could breach. My head hurt, and I was heart sick, and I wasn’t good at dealing with these situations on my own.
I needed my Lucian back. I needed him to tell me that everything was going to be okay because right now it felt like it wasn’t. But he didn’t come while I brushed my teeth or climbed into bed. He didn’t come while I stared up at the ceiling and tried to sleep.
Instead, he came to me in the middle of the night when I was trapped in the clutches of a dream. I thought I was still in another world when I felt him lay his head on my forearm while he balled my nightgown in his fists.
When I opened my blurry eyes, he was kneeling on the floor beside the bed, offering his complete surrender as moisture stained his cheeks. He didn’t make a sound, but I knew he was crying.
“Lucian?” I dragged my fingers through his hair and held his face against me in the way I suspected a mother would comfort a wounded child. He was so fragile that I had no idea how to navigate it, but I couldn’t bear to let him suffer. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Don’t let me push you away,” he pleaded.
His grip on me tightened as he said it, and I continued to stroke his hair, kissing his face. “I won’t,” I promised foolishly. “I won’t.”
“Emmanuel is dead,” he told me. “He killed himself.”
The words lodged into my ears like ice picks, and for a moment, I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. But then it hit me all at once—the sudden sorrow, so deep and violent—and I stopped breathing. At that moment, Lucian’s pain had become my own. His devastation had slithered into my body and adopted me as the next host.
I held him against me as sobs wracked my body, bleeding out my anger over everything that was so unjust in this world. We cried together, and we held each other, but we didn’t speak. It was one of the only moments in my life I could recall when words weren’t needed.
We were in mourning.
And today, the sun would not rise.
THE SERVICE WAS HELD AT Emmanuel’s grave and presided over by Father Hawk. A favor I’d asked of him even though I suspected Emmanuel probably wasn’t Catholic.
Beside me, Gypsy held my hand, her face cast in shadow by the large black hat she wore. It reminded me of the day we got married when she came to my office dressed for a funeral. At the time, the irony had amused me, but now, it only brought me pain.
I wished I could have given her something better. I wished we’d had a real wedding with our friends by our sides. To see her blissfully happy one last time would have been all I needed. At least that was what I kept telling myself. But time was running out, and I felt it every day.
I hadn’t been taking care of myself. Meals had been skipped, sleep had been sacrificed, and the drinking binge had only managed to accelerate the inevitable. The fever had been ravaging me all morning, but I’d made it through the service. It wasn’t until the car ride home that I began to feel delirious.
