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Beyond the limits of my heart.
Surpassing the constant longing of my soul.
I love him like the tide loves the moon—a necessity, an obsession, a never-ending compulsion that keeps giving and taking.
“Henry,” I whisper on a breath. The words are right there, and I’ve never wanted to part with them for anyone else, not like this. “I—”
The flicker of his gaze over my shoulder gives me pause. Before I can carry on, he stands and sits me on the stool instead.
With a hand cupping my jaw, his thumb strokes over my lips lightly. “I’ll be right back,” he tells me with his stare firmly on mine. “Two minutes.”
“All right.” My pulse throbs harder with every step he takes away from me, and as I follow him to the side of the ballroom, watching as he greets Andrew and the two of them slip outside the french doors, I know something is wrong.
That dark sense of doom chills through me while the two of them talk, and Henry’s gaze flashes to mine every now and then. His displeasure seeps deep into my bones, making them ache to hold him. To make him smile again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HENRY
Andrew looks like shit. His suit is rumpled, and his hair looks like it needs a good wash and a decent cut. Aside from that, he stinks of stale cigarette smoke.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as he tries to hold still in front of me, but his hands, along with the rest of him, are shaking. “And what on earth happened to you?”
“You’ve put this off long enough,” Andrew bites out, holding out his phone to me. “I told you I needed to talk to you, but you sent me on a wild goose chase for a briefcase.”
“Have you found it?”
“No, but I found other answers.” Thumbing his phone open, he swipes the screen to bring up a photo of Eve leaving her flat.
The first few are just her in her ridiculous cat-eared hoodie, but after a few swipes, she’s getting into an electric-blue Corsa. Andrew zooms into the next photo to show me the boy she’s with.
“His name is Alfred Chapman.” His statement stops me in my tracks as I’m about to tell him to go home and sort himself out. “John Chapman is his dad. George Chapman is his uncle.” Andrew swipes to another photo, where Eve is far too close and far too comfortable and altogether far too touched by the boy. He looks her age—young and in love. “That was yesterday. Don’t they look cosy?”
The air thickens, making it impossible to take a steadying breath as I watch him flick through his photos like some old slide film. It’s all disjointed and jagged, but I can see every action clearly. And my anger roars so loud that I can’t hear myself think or talk.
“You’re looking for something that’s right under your nose. In your bed.” The disgust in his voice churns through me. “It’s her. It all started with her.”
Pocketing his phone, I take a step back from him. The rage keening inside me wants to destroy something. Anything.
How could I be so stupid. So gullible. I glance up towards the bar to find Eve watching us. Her smile dies a quick death when she reads my expression. So perceptive and always in tune.
“Go home,” I tell him.
“Bu—”
“Go. Home, Andrew. Get your shit together and meet me at Hush.”
He nods, flashing a dark, hateful stare at Eve. Even now, I want to pummel that look off his face.
“There’s more. I have more…” He sounds as desperately deranged as I feel.
“Who else knows?” Andrew shakes his head. “No one needs to know.”
“But it’s—”
“No one. I’ll deal with it myself.” A dubious frown darkens his eyes as he watches me step back inside the ballroom. “The club. In two hours.”
The presence of his phone weighs down my pocket as I stride back to the bar. Dragging in breath after long breath, I attempt to regain my composure. But it’s going to take more than the floral-scented air to dampen my fury.
