Page 49 of Widow's Walk

Well,that, and alcohol.

Blackwell’s hand traces lazily up and down on my hip as he trades hollow words with the monsters of my past. Whetherabsentmindedly, like calming a wild animal, or consciously. Either way, I’m grateful for it, and so should everyone else be in this room. If he weren’t touching me right now, I’d be ripping their throats out.

We’re finally ushered to the cigar room, and I peel from his side without a glance back, heading straight for the minibar. I don’t need his judgey looks right now. My buzz is waning, and I cannot stomach any of them sober.

Still maintaining the façade of enjoying dark liquor, I pour two glasses and carry them back to the loveseat where Blackwell is now sitting. I join him, careful to leave a few inches of space between us, and offer him his drink without a word.

I clam up internally, feeling his eyes hanging on my profile, maybe questioning me, maybe studying me. But I refuse to look at him.

I have no fucking idea why I did that?

I didn’t even realize I did that.

Why in the fuck did I just serve him a drink?

Well,fuck. I’m fuckingfucked.

I tip half the liquor back in one go and fight the bitter burn scraping down my throat. The men are already in whatever disingenuous conversation, talking around me, thinking I’m too vapid to hear.

But I’m here. Floating at the edges, detached and unnoticed, like a ghost through their words. Invisible but ever present, taking inventory, filing it all away to later sharpen as weapons.

It’s when I become the center of attention that I can no longer play the fool. Like when my father asks Blackwell if I’ve been a problem for him, as if I’m not here. I allow my eyes to wander, letting their words wash over me. Playing the dazed idiot and disappointment, they’ve always seen me as.

But when my mother floats into the room, I can’t ignore her. I feel the space getting smaller. The air is thicker and heavier like wet cement pouring into my lungs to be buried alive.

I can’t breathe in here.

I can’t fucking breathe.

I rise abruptly, saying I’ll be back, and no one says a thing. No snide remark on how I no longer live here, or ask where I’m going, or tell me to wait for dismissal, or even a flat-outno. I throw a glance over my shoulder on my way out, and no one follows.

It’s not because they trust me. It’s because I’m in no way a threat to them.

Let them think that. That mistake will one day cost them everything.

I wander aimlessly, long enough to be sure that I’m really alone. Once I’m confident no one’s shadowing me, I veer toward the back of the house. The soft clatter of dishes and muffled chatter leaks through the swinging door to the kitchen, and it gives me a light smile.

When I blow into the room, conversation instantly stalls. All heads turn, all eyes widen on me. It takes me less than two seconds to find the only pair that matters. Pale eyes framed by deepening lines that crease when he smiles at me.

“Miss Sinclair,” Baxter says warmly, setting his knife down to wipe his hands before meeting me halfway.

We don’t hug. Never have. But his smile is comforting enough because it’s genuine.

“Hello, Baxter.”

“Hello, little shadow,” he says, smiling widely, and gives me a quick once-over. “It feels like it’s been so long.”

I smile. “It’s only been a few months, hasn’t it?”

“Several.” His tone makes it feel like years.

“So, what is on the menu for tonight?”

The background hum of the kitchen chatter resumes, and I end up beside him, watching him move with adroit grace I’ve studied since I was a child. There’s always been something about the noise here. The murmurs, the clanking of pots and pans, it’s like white noise for me.

It was one of the few places untainted by my family’s rot. It’s too far beneath them. But it was my first sanctuary, before my attic.

Baxter launches into the night’s dishes and low-stakes gossip. Mostly trivial drama between the staff. When you never get to leave the estate, spilled wine becomes scandal.

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