Page 18 of His Bride

Except perhaps the heathen.

And the only reason he doesn’t is it’s not his job to lay blame. He talked about grief being a monster, but I think I’m the monster, in a way. Because if I weren’t here, Alexius wouldn’t be fighting for his life.

I snap the book shut.

What I need is to take the bottle of whiskey or rum or whatever it is in the drawing room, have a bath, and drink myself to oblivion.

Maybe waking up with a hangover tomorrow will distract me of yet another shitty day that’s ahead.

Rising, I leave the room, grab the bottle, and?—

“Stealing now?”

“Phone-napper,” I snarl at him. I don’t turn. I keep going, past his room to mine.

I can’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, I might crumble to dust. But he follows me, shoving his foot in the way as I go to slam the door.

Caelian barges in and pushes me against the wall, his fingers on my chin, and I drink that touch down deep. “Phone-napper?” he says, lifting a brow.

“You stole my phone.”

“Would a phone-napper not be someone who sleeps with his phone or takes them without asking? I did ask for your phone, didn’t I?”

“Not very politely.”

“Politeness is just a formality for those who doubt their charm. Besides, you secretly love it when I’m a little bold.”

I’m not going to smile. “I’m not in the mood, Caelian. Go ignore me some more.”

“I would. I want to. I do. But you stole an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch.”

“Caelian…”

“My name, don’t wear it out.” He inches back, and I look down at his shirt, the tie missing.

He’s in black. I’m in black. The whole fucking world’s in black, and I want to cry. Him and his idiotic, juvenile jokes. I’ve missed them.

“Here.” I hand him the bottle.

He hands it back. “I don’t want it.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I had a feeling you were moping about.” He shrugs. “Call it an attentive husband’s intuition.”

“I call it an invasive intrusion,” I reply flatly and move to push past him. He doesn't budge, though, his arm forming a barrier in the narrow space.

“Can you blame me? You were going to drink my best scotch.”

I frown. “So, you want the scotch, then?”

“I don’t want the damn scotch.”

“Oh, my God, then what do you want?”

“You.” He freezes, and so do I. “What I meant is,” he continues slowly, “I don’t wantyouto drink alone. Gimme the damn scotch.” He grabs it, unscrews the cap, and takes a swig.

Everything in me is in freefall. When Father Kent told me to just talk, it sounded easy. Now, this close to him, it’s like a foreign language I don’t know.

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