Page 47 of His Dark Vices

As I look at my reflection in the elevator's mirror, I know I'm taking a gamble. But at least I look like I come in peace. I chose a cozy sweater dress, some thick leggings, and high wedge boots. I pulled my hair into a loose, low ponytail and let my curly bangs frame my face. Pretty cute, pretty disarming. I'm definitely trying to look like I'm sorry.

But as I get closer to the top floor, I'm still not sure what I'll say. Where do I start? Tell him I lied about meeting another guy to catchhimin a lie but that I'm sorry now after finding out his parents got out of jail and came over to antagonize him as soon as they could?

That's a bit of a mouthful.

But I don't have time to revise it.

The doors part and let me out. I take a deep breath as soon as I step into the room, trying to sniff out his parents. But it smells like it usually does. It smells like Sam. My gut twists with yearning, and I soften all over.

He's sitting heavily on the couch, apparently just staring off into space. I approach him cautiously, even though I know he expects me. I texted him on my way here for permission to come over. But he doesn't look up, even as I step closer.

It looks like he hasn't slept. Darkness rings his eyes, and his hair spills into his face as he looks down, staring through the floor.

The way he looks, it's breaking my heart.

"Sam," I whisper, unable to hold back from sinking into the couch next to him. "What happened?" I put my arms around his shoulders and burrow my face into his neck.

He doesn't move.

"Sam, have you slept?"

I'm off the couch before he can answer—if he was planning on answering—and tug gently on his hand, willing him to stand up.

"Come on, let's go up to bed. Let's lie down for a little while. You look like you're about to pass out."

He lets me pull him out of the living room and up the stairs, not really making eye contact and still not uttering a sound. I'm filled with worry as we make our way to the bedroom. Whatever happened, he doesn't want to tell me, and it's scaring me. I just want to hear his voice again. I want to know he wants me here, as selfish as that is right now.

"Here, into bed. Have you had water?"

I look around the room. Not a bottle or a glass in sight, so I go get some water from downstairs, moving quickly and with purpose. I don't smell alcohol on him, but I just know he hasn't been taking care of himself. When I get back to his room, I hand him the glass of water. He doesn't take it at first. I keep my arm extended, nudging him gently until he finally takes it. Once he starts drinking, he doesn't stop.

That's what I thought.

I set the empty glass on the nightstand, and after I take off my boots, I climb into bed with him, my hand immediately beginning to smooth his hair.

All I want to do is make it all better somehow.

"Sam," I whisper, stroking his hair. I'm not talking to him. I don't want him to answer. His name just slips out of my mouth, sadly. "Oh Sam…"

"I don't need that."

I flinch beside him. His voice is like ice.

"Then tell me what you need," I plead. "Tell me what happened."

"I don't need you to feel sorry for me."

I feel him slipping further away from me. Without thinking, I rush against him, burying my face against his neck again. My arms wrap around his back, rubbing up and down, willing him to come back.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, my lips working against his skin. He twitches in my hold, but I don't let him go. I keep saying it. "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry."

"Bree."

I hear his voice distantly, but a desperation is raging in my chest. I wriggle closer to him, pulling him tighter against me, burrowing my face into his hair, his scent, against his skin.

"Bree, what are you?—"

"Let me make it better," I whisper. "Give me a chance. Let me make you feel better, okay?"

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