Page 12 of Cardinal House

“Okay,” I lick my lips again, brushing them across hers, making her gasp in surprise, before I pull back.

Fuck, I want to kiss you.

Luna frowns, just enough to carve a little crevice between her inky brows, it makes me want to smile.

“I respect women enough to understand no means no,” I tell her honestly, reaching up with my free hand to run my thumb along her jaw, smoothing the rough pad of it just beneath her ear. “Even if your rejection hurts worse than this bullet hole in my heart.” I cough a laugh, spluttering with a deep, chesty groan.

“We need to get you back to bed, Wolf,” Luna’s eyes flare as she says it, her fingers firmer against my chest, they singe everywhere they touch, fingerprints burning into my flesh.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me, Luna?” I drop my head forward, staring down between us, my eyes shuttering closed once more.

“I can’t,” she whispers, her short nails curling into the bandage, “but it’s not-” she cuts herself off as I look up into her eyes, our mouths hovering too close.

“It’s not what?”

She swallows, glancing away, and I’m catching her chin, drawing her gaze back. The room is hot, and we’re breathing each other’s air, the way we are so close. I could devour her where we stand, but I don’t lean into her further, not in the way I crave. Instead, I just hold her chin, gently enough she could escape if she wanted to, but she doesn’t try.

“It’s not because I don’t want to.” My eyes flicker between hers, icy-blue and bright, even in the shadowed space of this cupboard, trying to read her.

“What does that mean, Luna?”

“It means, I can’t,” she shakes her head, drawing in a deep breath. “You need to get back into bed before you get me in trouble.”

Without waiting for me to say anything in response, she’s hooking her shoulder beneath my arm and guiding me back to my room.

Chapter 6

Luna

The corner of my mouth stings as I dab it with a cotton bud slick with antiseptic cream. It’s my night off work which automatically makes it the worst night of the week. The bathroom is in darkness around me, only a single tealight candle flickering on the edge of the sink. The orange glow lights up the underside of my chin, hollowing out my cheeks with shadows like a carving, ghoulish and grim.

Blood tinges my taste buds, the sting in my lip the cause of that, and I try not to think about the other pain. The way there’s a type of pressure pushing down inside my pelvis, my lower spine, a sharp ache in my backside that I know will not allow me to sit comfortably for a few more days. There’s numbing cream I can use down there, but the thought of touching it when it hurts so much makes my temples pound with an oncoming headache. And I’m sure he isn’t finished with me yet. It’s why he sent me to clean myself up. There was blood, and my uncle doesn’t like mess.

Placing the cotton bud down on the basin, the space between the hot and cold taps, I stare at it, wondering how long I’ve been, how much longer I can get away with being in here.

Tears build, my face angled down, my gaze locked on the darkened plughole in the sink. I wish I were small enough to fit between the gaps, let the water from the taps wash me away. I don’t know where the pipes would take me, but it would be better than here.

It would be better than here.

“Luna,” Uncle Nolan bellows loudly from the other end of the hall, and just the sound of his voice has my stomach bottoming out.

Sickness rushes up my throat, burning on its ascent, I spin, dropping to my knees, and expelling everything inside of me into the toilet. Sweat beads across my forehead, my hands ice-cold and clammy, palms damp with dread. My arms are curled over the toilet bowl, hands hanging in, I reach up to flush the chain, my fingers numb as they find the handle and pull. When the water finishes spitting, I drop my forehead to my forearm and let my eyes fall closed.

I’m panting for breath, panic a hot dagger in my back, I won’t have long. I need to get it together. I need to remember how to breathe. How to walk without pain penetrating through my coccyx, how to clear my face of expression or emotion. I need to remember how not to cry.

Bile comes up next, my upper spine cramping with pins and needles as I gag and heave some more, spitting into the clean water of the toilet. My knees ache, the bones crunching as I reach up to flush again, turning myself around so I can lean against the wall.

A knock rattles the bathroom door, followed by a short, “Miss Beaumont,” from one of my uncle’s guards.

“I won’t be a moment,” I manage to get out, my voice cracking, a withered broken thing inside of me, somewhere, deep down, that same six year old girl is crying.

It feels like I’m dying when I attempt to stand. Fingers clinging onto the edge of the basin to haul myself up. Trembling knees and shaky breaths get me up just enough to twist the cold tap, cupping a palm beneath it, I gather some water and swish it around my mouth, spitting into the sink.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, my blue eyes haunted, they look so clear they feel like I’m looking at someone else. The violet rings beneath my bloodshot eyes need covering, I can’t be anything but perfect before I go back in there.

It’s the first time I let myself think about the patient at work.

Blackwell.

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