Page 81 of Grotesque Love

I clear my throat, keeping my eyes cast down as I force myself to say, “I wanted some company.”

The words are poison in my mouth, bitter and sharp, like I’m chewing on glass.

He’s wearing his suit the same as always, and I know I’ll find the keys in his breast pocket but how do I get them? Ahug maybe? My stomach clenches and I swallow back the bile that rises up my throat.

“It’s unlike you to be so codependent.” He chuckles, motioning for me to come closer.

Inhaling, I push my shoulders back, ignoring the way his eyes are drawn to my breasts, and perch on the edge of his desk, my leg pressed against his arm.

He swallows, hand landing on my thigh. “Perhaps my time away affected us both more than we anticipated.”

I nod, not trusting myself with words as he slowly gets to his feet. He presses his body against mine, pulling me into a hug, and as he does, I slide my hand inside his jacket. My little finger and right ring finger dip into the inside pocket, and as they brush the ring of keys he notices, so I run my other hand up his back and bury my face in his neck, pressing my lips against his skin to distract him. It works and he turns his attention back to me, allowing me to close my first around the keys and keep them when we eventually part, although he still keeps me closer than I’m comfortable with.

There’s a sharp knock on the door as Danvers calls out, “Car’s ready. I’ll meet you out front, Lord Clifton.”

Carver looks down at me, something like reluctance on his features as watches me carefully.

“I’m just about to head into town, I have some business to take care of.” He cups my face and places a soft, apologetic kiss on my forehead. “But I’ll be back soon.”

He leads me to the solarium with a wide grin, placing another kiss on my cheek before he finally leaves.

When the front door clicks shut, I take a shaky breath.

Fuck.

There’s an army of ants crawling over me, burrowing their way underneath my flesh. I want to peel off everywhere he touched me, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek and count to ten, ignoring the disgust that’s settled low in my belly.

Finally uncurling my fist, I lookdown at the keys. Their imprint is pressed into my palm, the intricate metalwork embossed into my skin.

There are three keys on the ring, and I only recognise the west wing key because its shaft has the same intricate design as the lock.

I rush so quickly to the west wing that I have to stop twice to catch my breath, my body still exhausted, but I know I don’t have much time.

Sliding the key into the lock, I don’t know what I’m expecting, but as I the barrel clicks, and the door swings open to silence, I’m oddly disappointed.

It’s only a windowless corridor with a series of rooms feeding off from it. The wall paper is very Willaim Morris-esque, and it wouldn’t surprise me if it was original. There are no lights, only wall candle sconces, and as I manage to light one, more strange and hideous paintings are revealed in the dim glow.

In the first room, I find a storage room with boxes stacked and labelled with faded dates scrawled in pen. There’s just clothes, shoes and a few other random items – nothing that seems important or blackmail worthy.

The next room is a mini-library, but this one is coated in a thick layer of dust and has clearly been unused for a very, very long time. The third door is locked and none of the keys on the ring fit, which leaves only the last room.

The door opens with a drawn out groan and I hope this is it. I tense, almost anticipating ghosts or ghouls to jump out at me, but instead I’m greeted by what appears to be a personal museum of sorts. Torn curtains cover the windows, limiting the light, and glass cases holding artefacts and pieces of jewellery dot the room. Some walls are covered in drawings, paintings and photographs of the estate in various stages through its impressive lifespan. Where other walls hold portraits of various Cliton family members, either looking regal or insane, their paintings more fanatical and darker than I expected.

A smile tugs at my lips when I spot one painting of a party atthe estate, one of the gentlemen looking strangely like how I imagined a human Mal – only more refined.

There’s a desk in the centre of the room, on a raised platform. It looks as if it’s been designed so that the person sitting at it can look down at the glory of the estate through the years, surround themselves with the history of it, relish the memories and absorb the preserved heritage in a weird way.

As I sit, I feel like there are a million eyes on me, watching and waiting. Trembling, I bite down on my bottom lip. I need to find something I can use. For us. For the monsters that have come into my life and turned it upside down.

Do I love them? Is that the feeling in my chest everytime I think of Sax’s tender whispers of ‘little dove’? Or the way I get butterflies every time Jas lovingly braids my hair? Even Mal snarking and bickering makes me feel safe. Wanted. Desired.

Is that love?

I leaf through the papers on the desk, finding only notes and bills for the house. A thin blue folder catches my eye, but all that’s inside are newspaper clippings, mostly about the house. A few seem out of place, and I realise they’re about the missing woman from a few weeks ago. There are also some clippings about various other disappearances over the last ten years – all female. Why does Carver have these?

There are articles about the accident, and my mother’s death, including a picture from the funeral, Carver standing tall and serious, his arm wrapped around my shoulder. But that’s not me. Not really. My eyes are flat and empty, I have no real memory of being there with him.

Blinking away the stinging sensation in my eyes, I sniffle and exhale slowly. It wasn’t my fault. What happened – the accident, her death. Sax helped me come to terms with the fact that my mother made a choice that night, just like I had, as did the drunk driver. She wouldn’t want me to live like I have been, a waif barely existing. A part of me wonders what she’d think of my three monsters. My stone sentinels.

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