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“He’s just hurting,” a soft voice said. “People do crazy things when they’re hurting.”
I felt a soft hand wipe at my brow and shove my brown hair back. My skin was buzzing with foreign awareness. Every sensation, every touch felt like hot, tingling, and uninhibited pleasure.
“I hope he pukes on you,” someone mumbled.
“Drink some water, August,” Christine said while holding up a chilled bottle to my lips.
I kept my lips closed like a platinum challenge. I wasn’t worried about drinking. I craved the fucking relief. No, I was afraid to be a total pussy and beg Christine to stay.
“Come on, August. Drink some water,” she pleaded.
I parted my lips like my dry mouth was a motherfucking altar for an offering at the church my father’s funeral was at.
Bells, they played bells when they put his body in that forever tomb.
What was his cause of death?
It was probably bad to tell the paparazzi that he was possessed and that the devil living in his chest finally ate him from the inside out. The icy cool water traveled down my throat. Sweat collected on the back of my neck. My cock was hard as hell but worthless. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.
Christine put the bottle on the nightstand. “Why don’t you go to your room, Christine? We can watch over him tonight.”
“No,” I moaned. “Don’t leave yet.”
The mattress dipped beside me. Christine was wearing my shirt. Her hair was still in a bun on top of her head. Her lipstick was smeared. Her eyes glowed like the lightning bugs we used to catch in her mother’s garden.
The smell of roses wrapped around my nose. What was happening? Jitters like shooting stars and orgasms flowed through me. Hot.
I took something, didn’t I? I drank too much. My body was sluggish. My mind on fire.
“Go to sleep, August,” Christine whispered. “Go to sleep, August,” she repeated when I cried for a man who didn’t deserve my tears.
“I’m sorry, August.” I wasn’t sure if she said that, or my father’s ghost.
My disorderly heart pounded as she watched me break.
Chapter Five
CHRISTINE
I was deeply aware of every rise and fall of August’s chest beside me, even though my eyes were closed.
In. Out. In.
Pause.
Heart pounding. Sleepy moan.
Out.
It was my belief that my upbringing influenced my tendency to pay attention to minor details. Dad used to tell his men that a deep sleeper was a dead sleeper. After I murdered Lord Geralt, I taught myself how to sleep with one eye open.
Being back at the castle made it impossible to sleep at all.
I found it extremely difficult to rest last night, even though I was emotionally and physically drained from the day before. Being here awakened a part of me I’d buried deep. And of course, lying next to August was beautiful, delirious torture.
I shouldn’t have stayed. Not after all the nasty things he said to me on the limo ride home.
I hate you, Christine.
