Page 155 of Cain
She raises her glacier eyes and looks at me but doesn’t take the rose. “Thank you.”
I suck in air through clenched teeth, trying to give a second thought to what I’m about to say. But I don’t.
“I will go to my mother’s grave.”
Her eyes widen, and a soft smile adorns her gorgeous face. She stands on the bed, looking down at me like she’s got the upper hand, and for once, she’s taller than me.
“Do you mean that?” she asks, stroking my hair back.
Involuntarily, my arms wrap around her tiny frame and hold her close. “Only if you come with me.”
Her eyes glisten under the warm, dim light of the room. “Of course I’ll come with you.”
She crushes her full lips against mine as if she’s the happiest person on earth.
God, how I love this woman.
If this isn’t love, then I don’t know what the hell it is. What else could mess with my head like this? It feels just like they say it does. It’s that kind that burns a little and makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do.
“Let’s go,” she says, interrupting my daydreaming.
“Now?”
“Now!”
What else can I do if not obey my beautiful girl? Lately, I’ve realized I love seeing her smile almost as much as I love watching her tremble, caught between terror and desire.
It’s a mild evening.I didn’t even notice how beautiful it was until now.
The sun spills its orange light across the gravestones, casting rays over everything, like it’s trying to cover up the mess we’re standing in.
This kind of peace feels fake. Like I’m a circus freak, waiting patiently for my turn in the show.
I don’t feel well here, and I don’t know why.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly, raising her eyes to look at me.
“I’m fine,” I say sternly, without looking back at her.
Fuck, I shouldn’t be here.
Ahead of me, the gravestone seems old. I mean, it is. It’s been twenty-three years. I stare at her name carved on it like a brand, and I can’t believe it.
Alice Manson.
It still doesn’t feel real. I can still hear her laugh, too clear for someone who’s been gone that long. I still remember the way she nested me in her arms when I was afraid of my brother, or the way her last gasp of air landed on my ears.
I guess some things don’t fade.
Suddenly, her thin fingers weave gently through mine. That’s when I turn to look at her, but she doesn’t look back. She keeps her eyes on the stone in front of us, like it means something to her. I can’t see them clearly through her sunglasses, though.
She kneels carefully and leaves a daisy on the grave—such an ordinary, insignificant move, yet so important to me.
Then, she stands up and keeps her eyes on the grave.
I brace myself and gently leave the bouquet of daisies right next to Katerina’s.
Then, the strangest thing happens.
