Page 25 of The Witch's Heart
“I apologize for your mistreatment,” he says quietly.
When I don’t answer, he merely continues to study me.
I fidget underneath his heavy gaze, telling myself it’s my hunger making my heart flutter and not the way he watches me. Or the fact that he’s alive after all.
“I don’t understand,” I begin.
Footsteps sound, and I tense as a woman I’ve never seen before enters carrying a covered tray.
“Dekuji,” Dr. Livingstone tells her.
She sets it on a cart beside my bed then slips out again without a word or glance in my direction.
Dr. Livingstone wheels the cart over until it’s positioned just right and then pulls the lid off the tray.
“Eat.”
Steam lifts from the hot rice and vegetables. The scent of garlic bread hits my nose, and it’s all the encouragement I need.
The food is bland but filling, and I devour the meal under the doctor’s scrutinizing watch. When I’m done, my stomach feels settled, and the dizziness has passed, but anxiety takes its place as my thoughts drift to the twins.
Hopefully, they’re all right.
“Better?” Dr. Livingstone asks.
“Yes,” I say, because in some ways I am. In others, I’m worse. “Can I go now?”
His brows lift. “I thought you’d welcome the break.”
I cross my arms. “I should get back to my treatment. I don’t want to shirk the responsibility of my own healing.”
His brows lift higher.
“You asked me to think about my future,” I say. “I’m committed to a future that involves getting the hell out of this place. Whatever it takes. If that means painting your dead body during group therapy, so be it. You won’t break me.”
A shadow passes over his features.
“Is that what you saw?”
“How could I see anything else? The blood was everywhere. Even if it wasn’t real, I don’t know how you’ll get the stains off the floor.”
Just thinking about it horrifies me all over again. Underneath the disgust is fury. Whatever game they’re playing with my mental health, I hate them for it.
“Celeste.”
“What?” I snap.
He presses his lips together and, instead of answering, he grabs my hand and presses it to his chest, then his cheek.
“Feel this? I’m real. I’m alive. Whatever you think you saw, you’re wrong. It’s all right.”
The feel of his solid form underneath my hand is both reassuring and unsettling. I bite my lip and, when my stomach flips in nervous pleasure, I yank my hand away again.
“But you were dead,” I whisper. “I saw your blood. So much blood.”
“You saw an illusion.”
A hallucination. He doesn’t say the word, but I know he’s thinking it.
