Page 97 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Yeah.”
“You should get some sleep, darling. You needn’t worry about me.”
“Your hands are shaking even worse than usual, and the bruises under your eyes have never been darker,” I observe blandly.And your exhaustion is apparent, weighing you to the floor.I nearly say that, too.
Tobias frowns. I’d laugh if it weren’t so pathetic.
His chest inflates, filling with tension as he works through his rebuttal. “How about some fucking warm milk then?” I snap. And of course,thatgets a reaction out of him—my anger.
He chuckles, head shaking, curls flapping across his forehead. When he looks up, his glasses are teetering off his face, and I nearly lunge off the couch to push them back where they belong.Putting me in his space—where I belong.
“Warm milk, to be utterly honest with you, is quite disgusting. But I do appreciate the sentiment.”
“Thank fuck,” I groan. “It really is.”
“I’m glad you agree.”
“Then what...”
“How do you feel about scotch?”
My face twists. “Not great.”
“Excellent.” He pushes himself to his feet and strides across the room, his long legs traveling the distance at twice the speed of mine. I watch as he opens one of the far cupboards and roots around the top shelf, neck strained upward. The slope of his throat is sharp, muddled with a dusting of facial hair with all shades of brown and silver.
When he turns back around, he has a mostly full bottle of Macallan whiskey in hand. I rear back as he tucks it under his arm to grab a couple of glasses. I listen for theirclink,followed by the sound of his footsteps, even as I watch every step he takes.
Each one bringing him closer to me.
The low lights above cast him in shadows, which envelop me too as he takes his spot beside me and unscrews the lid. Setting one glass between his legs, he fills the other with two fingers and hands it to me. I take it, wrapping my fingers around the smooth glass. My sweat smears across the crystal.
I dirty everything I touch.
Tobias dispels the thought by clinking his glass against mine before taking a languid sip. His mouth parts, lips on glass. They graze the rim. Enclose. He tips it, allowing the whiskey inside the dark cavern of his vicious, elegant mouth. And then, his throat rolls with a swallow. A slow exhale.
I glance down at mine and swirl the liquor around. He’s watching me; I can feel it, but I don’t look up.
“I don’t think I should drink this,” I say after a while.
“Why is that?” He sounds genuinely curious. As if he doesn’t already know. But still, I appease his silent demands.
“You saw what I was like. Fuck, that’s how youmet me.I mean, seriously. Look what happened.” I gesture around at the vastness of the cabin, lost amongst the pines and mountains. All alone.
Only us.
“You’ve had wine,” he offers. Then, a beat later, he adds, “Perhaps what happened was because fate intervened.” I scoff loudly, and Tobias leans back, appearing affronted for a moment before his features smooth over. He takes another sip and doesn’t say a fucking word.
As the silence grows, so does the smolder beneath my skin. I shift and move to tuck a hand under my leg before jerking it back into my lap when my cuts pull. I catch a piece of my hair and tuck it behind my ear. Tobias follows the movement—a sign of life.
“You’re telling me you believe in fate,” I finally drawl. It’s not a question.
He nods resolutely. “Of course, I do. You don’t?”
I side-eye him.Seriously?“You’re joking, right?”
“I do not joke.”
I snort. “Ha-ha. Funny,” I deadpan. His small, twitchy smile makes it all worth it. “But no, I don’t believe in fate. Why do you?”
