Page 19 of His Bride

I want to ask him if he blames me for this, like really, truly blames me. Like he means it from the bottom of his soul. And I want to know if that’s the reason he hasn’t been around, ignoring me like I’m of no importance to him.

“Caelian, I can’t?—”

“—sleep in here? Take my room. I’m never there these days.”

“Long days.”

“That have centuries in them, New York. Fucking centuries.”

Hope flickers.

This is heading into conversation territory, a real one. All the earmarks are there, chasing me over nothing, lingering. But there’s so much unsaid, and I’m too afraid to say it because he got weird after I jokingly told him I loved him.

I was being sarcastic then. We communicate in banter and jokes. But things just went downhill fast from there, and now, what’s supposed to be easy to say, isn’t. Because of that damn joke.

And it was a joke.

Wasn’t it?

Because I miss him more than I should.

Let everyone else blame me; let them whisper. Just not him. I want him to come and hold me and touch me and joke or tell me a stupid story that holds more weight than it first seems.

“Caelian,” I start, my voice too soft, “do you blame me?”

“You’ve got to be specific, because there’s a lot of shit you’re guilty of, like stealing alcohol.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. You're a serial scotch thief, New York.” His voice is light, joking, but the look in his eyes isn't. It's weighted with something I can't read.

I sigh heavily, my heart pounding. “I mean do you blame me for…for what happened to Alexius?”

He doesn't say anything for a long time, just looking at me with those soulful amber eyes. “That’s a loaded question.”

“It’s not. It’s a simple yes or no.”

“Nothing about us is simple.”

“Answer the question, Caelian.”

He shoots back a mouthful of scotch, licking his lips after, while his gaze never leaves mine. “I blame us.”

“Us?”

“Yes, Giana. Us. Listen, I came after you to call you out on your thievery. Not for a couple’s therapy session.” He’s closing down, and I’m afraid if I push and prod even further this chance for a real conversation with him will slip away.

But I’m…I’m desperate. I’m tired of not knowing what’s happening between us. Each interaction feels like a guessing game, with no clear rules or outcomes. It's draining and confusing.

I step closer to him. “Do you trust me?”

“Trust is a big word, New York.”

“Do you?”

He takes another large gulp of scotch and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I trust that you will do anything to keep the ones you love safe.”

“I would, yes.”

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