Page 13 of Fractured Loyalties
I startle, and the book tumbles off my knees, hitting the rug with a dull thump. I freeze, waiting for someone to emerge from the shadows.
Please tell me this place isn’t haunted.
Before I can consider what type of ghosts might be here, Roman fills the doorway. He is unsteady, and he braces himself against the doorframe with both hands.
What the fuck…
His face is a train wreck. Purples and yellows swirl under his eye, while blood vessels appear to have burst around his blue irises. One side of his mouth is split open, and the blood has gone dark and shiny where it’s scabbed over.
I sit still, holding my breath as he staggers toward the wet bar, finds a glass, and half fills it with vodka. The liquid sloshes over his knuckles as he tips it back, and he doesn’t even bother to wipe his mouth when some spills down his chin.
Does he not see me?I continue to observe him, my fingertips digging into my bare thighs. Part of me considers bolting out of the room, but the other… Well…
It’s like a car wreck I can’t look away from.
He finally notices me then, and the shift in the room is so sudden it’s as if someone cut the oxygen. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowed.
“Didn’t know you were nocturnal,” he slurs, not quite meeting my gaze.
I’m still frozen, yet somehow my lips move. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He snorts, which makes him wince, and he clutches his ribs. “Yeah. This place’ll do that to you.” He pours another vodka, drains it, then sets the glass on the counter with a thunk that makes me jump again.
I stare at the blood on his collar, wondering where it’s coming from.“Are you…” I start, then stop, hating myself for even trying. “Are you okay, Roman?”
He grins, showing the red slash in his mouth. “You should see the other guy.” He pulls out a kitchen towel, presses it to his jaw, and hisses.
I press my lips together. “Did you get into a fight?”
Roman rolls his eyes, letting out a muffled chuckle. “Don’t be dense, Ivy. This isn’t high school. I don’t get intospats. It’s not over some girl or a parking spot.” He dabs at the cut again, then flicks the towel aside as if he’s annoyed it isn’t working quickly enough. “Family business. You wouldn’t get it.”
He’s right. I don’t get it. And quite frankly, I don’twantto.
Still, something propels me toward him, and I stand to my feet, leaving the book on the floor. “Let me help you,” I say. “You need to clean that. It could get… infected or something.”
He looks at me, not moving. For a second, I think he might say thank you, or at least let me do it. But then his mouth hardens, and he backs up, his arms crossed over his chest as if he’s bracing himself for a blow.
“I don’t need any help,” he scoffs, “Especially not from you.”
I shrink backward, feeling my insides curl up like a burned piece of paper. I try to pretend it doesn’t hurt, but my cheeks are on fire with embarrassment.
Roman turns his back on me, finds the bottle again, and pours himself another drink. He drinks it more slowly this time, but every muscle in his shoulders is drawn tight.
“Sorry,” I mutter, staring at his backside. I hate how attractive he is. I hate how he came across as somewhat accepting, and then it turned out that he just wanted to torture me, too.
Without saying another word—or even looking at me, Roman stalks out, the glass in hand. My lower lip trembles as I watch him disappear into the darkness. Then, I push away the pathetic feeling in my chest and drop back down into the chair.
The silence in the room is suffocating, filling my ears with static. It’s creepy, and for that reason alone, I decide I’d rather sit with my dad’s ashes than in here any longer. I unpeel myself from the chair, pick up my book from the floor, and head to my room.
The hallway leading there is vast, the kind of grand that makes you feel as if you’re shrinking just by walking through it. The sconces throw flickers of orange and blue across the paneling, and every step I take echoes a little longer than seems possible, as if the house is mocking me.
Halfway to the bedroom wing, the silence of my bare feet is interrupted by the click of heels. They’re deliberate, measured, and too graceful to be anyone but Irena.
Ugh. Why is she awake right now? Is this whole house full of insomniacs?My stomach knots as she comes into view. There’s no way to avoid her. My mother is already gliding down the corridor, her silhouette framed by the glow of a stained-glass window.
She’s flawless, as always. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her cream satin robe. Her makeup is perfect, even at one in the morning.
She stops in front of me, head tilted, and eyes narrowed. “You’re up late.”
