Page 60 of Twisted Love

I glance down the hallway toward her room, a knot forming in my gut. My instinct is to go to her, but I hesitate. Nora is overreacting to a fever. Raven is healthy, young, and in her prime, she just needs a little time.

“She’ll be fine,” I say, my voice more dismissive than I intended. “It’s the morning after the big dance. She deserves a lazy Sunday.” I hear the words, but even as they leave my mouth, they feel hollow.

Nora doesn’t move right away. For a brief moment, her gaze sharpens, her usually deferential demeanor cracking just enough to reveal something close to disapproval. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it irritates me.

“Is there anything else?” I ask, my tone hardening.

“No, Mr. Jackson, Sir,” she replies. She turns to leave, her steps brisk and purposeful.

“Let me know how she’s doing by dinnertime,” I call after her.

“Yes, Sir,” she says over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

The tension in the air lingers even after she’s gone. I stand there for a moment, rooted in place, my eyes fixed on Raven’s door. Every fiber of me wants to go to her, to see for myself that she’s fine, but something stops me. Pride, maybe. Or fear. Now that I know I don’t want to see her suffer anymore, I have become more vulnerable. I can let her know that I’m defenseless to her charms and wiles again.

She’ll be fine, I tell myself again, but the unease gnaws at me, refusing to let go.

I go into my study and pour myself a glass of whiskey. It’s far too early for it, but fuck it. The burn of it down my throat does little to settle the anxiety in my chest. I pace, the glass in my hand forgotten as I run over every interaction from the night before. The words I threw at her, the coldness in her eyes when she left the car, the way she stood in the rain like she wanted to dissolve into it.

I should have handled things differently. I know that. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.

By lunchtime, the restlessness becomes unbearable. I head back upstairs and loiter outside her door. My hand hovers over the handle, but I can’t bring myself to knock. Instead, I linger there pathetically for a few minutes longer before retreating, frustrated and thoroughly irritated with myself.

Dinner comes and goes, and I hear nothing from Nora. The house is quieter than usual, the silence pressing in on me from all sides. It feels wrong, oppressively wrong.

Finally, I give in. I stride down the hallway to Raven’s door and knock firmly. There’s no answer. My chest tightens, and without waiting, I twist the handle and push the door open.

The room is dim, the curtains drawn. Raven is curled up on the bed, her back to me, the duvet pulled up to her shoulders. Her breathing is steady but shallow, and the faint flush on her cheeks makes my heart skip. I step closer, the creak of the floorboards breaking the silence.

“Raven,” I say softly, but there’s no response.

She looks too pale, too sickly. I reach out and place a hand on her forehead. Her skin is hot—too hot. The knot in my stomach tightens as I kneel by the bed, my palm against her temple.

“Raven,” I call again.

Her eyelids flutter, and she shifts slightly, her lips parting as though she’s about to speak, but she only manages a weary sigh.

I press my palm against her cheek, feeling the heat radiating from her. “You’re burning up,” I mutter. I caused this.

Panic claws at my chest, but it’s as though her vision suddenly clears, and finally, she realizes I’m in her room. Instantly, her entire demeanor changes. Light seems to come back to her eyes, but not in a good way. She struggles to sit up, and it’s an unbelievably painful sight to see.

“Leave,” she mumbles and pushes my hand away. “Leave, I don’t want you here.”

The moment causes a spasm of coughs to shake her body. Heart-wrenching coughs that require her to hold her chest. I remember how she was when she got pneumonia once. It started as a simple cold before it plunged her into days in bed.

“Leave,” she says when the coughing subsides. “I don’t want you here.”

I realize there is nothing I can do for her but call the doctor. He will know what is best for her.

I take one last look at her stubborn pale face, then turn around and exit her bedroom.

CHAPTER37

RAVEN

The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is so complete I can hear myself breathing. I stay under the covers, curled in on myself, the warmth of the blanket doing little to thaw the cold hollow feeling in my chest. Every muscle in my body feels locked in place, like moving would shatter me into pieces too small to ever put back together.

I hate how his presence lingers even after he’s gone, like a shadow creeping into every corner of my thoughts. I hate the way my skin still burns from his touch, no matter how much I loathe it. But most of all, I hate the way I still feel tethered to him, as if his absence is more terrible than his presence.

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