Page 86 of Sinful Palace

17

Willow

Rays of wintersunlight peeked through the curtains on my right, and from somewhere near one of the other windows, a bird chirped and trilled. With a slight groan, I buried my head under the pillow, wanting nothing but complete silence and darkness.

Six days had passed since my father’s death. Six days that seemed to last forever and blend together in a million shades of gray, drowning me in misery and exhaustion.

I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to move at all. It took all the strength I had just to get up and take a shower each morning, and if Logan wasn’t around to make me eat and drink, I probably would’ve starved to death by now.

I’d only left my room once since I heard the news, and that was for the funeral yesterday. My mother had elected to have a small private service in a church near our old house in Annapolis, and after it was over, she scattered his ashes in a garden he once loved.

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to stand there without my little brother, who still didn’t know our father was dead, and I didn’t want to pretend that I actually believed Dad committed suicide when I knew the terrible truth.

Despite my reluctance, Logan made me go. He told me I would regret it forever if I didn’t. I knew he was right, so I grudgingly let him drag me out of the room and all the way to Annapolis, and I let him hold me all the way through the service.

Now that it was over, it felt like it hadn’t even happened. When I tried to remember who was there and what was said about my father, it felt like I was looking at a blurry silent film, and the more I thought about it, the worse it got until the whole thing just faded away. Someone might’ve asked me to speak at some point, but I wasn’t sure if I actually said anything, or what was said if I did. It couldn’t be bad, though. Logan wouldn’t let anything bad happen.

He’d been an amazing support to me over the last week. I never thought I’d hear myself saying something like that about a guy like him, but it was true. Aside from the funeral, he hadn’t made me go anywhere or do anything, apart from the obvious things like bathing and eating. He’d let me curl up in bed and hide under the blankets as much as I wanted, and he’d woken up to comfort me whenever I started crying hysterically at two, three, or four in the morning. Every damn time.

There were a lot of tears, and they didn’t seem to be drying up anytime soon.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my father’s death was my fault. Deep down, I knew I shouldn’t feel guilty at all, but the insidious thoughts seeped in anyway, filling me with cold washes of remorse.

I kept wondering what would’ve happened if I’d actually decided to forgive Dad for selling me to the Thornes. If that happened, would he have tried to betray the Order for my sake? Would they have killed him?

The answer was obviously no, and that was exactly why I felt so terribly guilty.

The logical side of my brain kept telling me to turn those feelings off, because my father never should’ve begged for my forgiveness or tried to fix the situation in the first place.

He sold me. Fucking sold me. Who could ever forgive such a heinous action, and how could the relationship ever be truly repaired, no matter what was done to fix it? Even if he’d destroyed the Order, voided the marriage contract, and brought me home, it wouldn’t change what he’d done twenty-one years ago. It wouldn’t fix anything. It would simply be a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, and I would still hate him and resent him for the rest of my life.

The not-so-logical side of my brain kept reminding me that I didn’t truly hate him, though. I’d tried my hardest to despise him all these months, and I’d tried to tell myself I wished he was dead and out of my life forever, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. In the end, he was still my dad, and I knew those old feelings would never go away.

That knowledge made the guilt sweep in all over again, and then the cycle of regret and self-hatred continued, making me sink deeper and deeper into despair.

I let out a groan and scrunched my eyes shut, sliding deeper under the blankets as the birdsong outside grew louder. I had a splitting headache, and the high-pitched sound wasn’t helping.

A moment later, someone knocked on the door. Logan answered it, and then I heard faint voices out in the hall.

Logan returned to my side after a minute or so. “Hey, are you awake?” he asked softly, peeling back the blanket.

“No,” I mumbled.

“Your psychotherapist friend is here. With everything that’s been going on, I totally forgot to cancel your appointment with her.”

I rolled over and looked at him. “Myla’s here right now?”

He nodded. “She said she figured we’d want to cancel, but she wanted to check just in case. I think she also wants to see how you are.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll tell her to go.”

I took a deep breath, sat up, and rubbed my aching head. “No. Don’t,” I said.

“Why?”

I bit my lip and looked down at my clasped hands. “I… I want her to help with my memories. Like we planned.”

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