Page 30 of Black Castle

“Can I ask you a question?” she asks instead, pushing the donut aside gently.

“Sure.” He nods as he lifts the styrofoam cup to his lips.

“That day, why did you ask me not to call you?”

It’s fleeting, but something flashes across his eyes. His jaw faintly ticks again.

She should have just let it be.

“It’s complicated.” He sets the cup down, his finger trailing the rim absentmindedly.

“Complicated how?” She lifts a questioning brow.

His eyes sweep to her, sharp, piercing. A shiver runs down her spine at the intensity in them. “There are just certain things about me that just aren’t easy to explain, Vivienne.” Vivienne’s brows furrow, a wave of mystery weaving into the wispy air. “I needed some time to myself. Make sure I was stable enough before talking to you.”

This isn’t him being dismissive of the truth. This is him trying to be transparent, but doesn’t trust her enough to keep sitting across from him after hearing the whole truth.

“Whatever it is,” she takes in a steady breath, her smile easy as her hands curl around her coffee cup. “I hope one day you’ll be comfortable enough to share it with me. And I hope I will be able to give you my best support.”

She takes a sip of the coffee, and he remains silent. A warmth settles in his eyes and he doesn’t break his gaze away from her. He keeps staring.

And she can see it, the gears turning in his mind. He is trying to unravel her, to decipher her, to plunge deep into the depth of her soul and lay it bare. He wants to be inside her mind, be aware of her thoughts as if they are his own.

He wants to know her.

She sets her cup down, then leans on the table, her arms folded.

“Can I ask another question?”

He simply nods.

“I mean, it might be a sensitive topic so you don’t have to answer, okay?” She studies his expression, making sure she isn’t treading into uncomfortable territory.

“Go on,” he urges.

“Were you born like…this?” The moment the words leave her mouth, she cringes. It sounds so stupid.

“Griscelli Syndrome. Type 3,” he replies after a beat, his expression still passive, giving her nothing to read into. “I was born like this.”

Is he offended? She has no idea. He never looks anything. She can never tell if he is happy, angry, disappointed, betrayed, or sad.

He is like a painting, but most times, even a painting has an expression, right? Why is he so hard to read? Why is his wall so high?

“Does it bother you?” he asks suddenly, leaning forward slightly. “The way I look? Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”

Her heart clenches. He took it the wrong way. That isn’t what she meant.

“No!” she blurts. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Well,” he exhales softly. “That’s a relief.”

She swallows.

“You…” she starts, hesitating as the next word sits heavy on her tongue.

“What?” His eyes meet hers, curious, interested.

“I think you look like the moon,” she confesses. “I mean, I call you Snow white and all, but in my head, I often compare you to the moon.”

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