Page 128 of Bound By Crimson
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The next morning was the last. They walked the gardens again, slower this time. She leaned against him, breathing in the scent of his jacket, committing it to memory.
She didn’t cry.
Not until he couldn’t see.
Because all she could feel was the weight of the house he was leaving her in. The silence that would replace his voice. The cold nights without him.
He cupped her face in his hands before he left.
She tried to hold it in, but blurted out “Take me with you!”
He pulled her close. “I wish I could. The flight, the traveling… it’s a lot. I’ll be back before you know it!”
She didn’t want to plead. She didn’t want to argue.
She just nodded.
Then she kissed him like a promise, arms wrapped around his neck, the bump between them not a barrier, but a tether.
And when the car pulled away, she stood at the window with her hand on her belly, whispering:
“Come back to us.”
And a hollow space began to open—too deep to name, too quiet to stop.
Chapter Forty
Indulgent Feasts and Pagan Trees
Lyric dreaded meals without Kai now. She skipped breakfast. It was now lunch. And today was Christmas.
She hadn’t told anyone. She knew they didn’t care. The Thornwicks were the kind of people who bought whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. Holidays were irrelevant in a house that already had everything. Kai had already explained this to her once.
But to Lyric, it meant something.
Back home, her mom would be dancing barefoot in the kitchen, stringing popcorn and cinnamon sticks onto thread while holiday music crackled from a dusty speaker. Her dad would burn the toast and pretend it was on purpose. The house would smell like sugar and pine.
Now, there were no lights. No music. Just the sound of her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
She stepped into the dining room, smoothing the wrinkles from her sweater, trying to shake the unease curling low in her stomach.
There was something suffocating about the long oak table stretched for two, the sterile clink of silverware, the way the sunlight slanted through the tall windows and caught on the endless white tablecloth like a spotlight she couldn’t escape.
Mrs. Thornwick was already seated at the head of the table, sipping from a porcelain cup. She looked up, her expression unreadable.
Her silhouette was sharp against the afternoon light, like a queen already on her throne.
“Good afternoon, Lyric,” she said pleasantly. “Please, sit.”
Lyric offered a tight smile and obeyed, folding her hands in her lap.
They ate in silence for a moment, the only sounds the distant hum of the estate and the delicate scrape of silver against china.
Mrs. Thornwick set her teacup down, the porcelain clinking softly.
“Malachai tells me you’re sentimental about Christmas,” she said, cutting into her meal. “I suppose you grew up with trees and glitter and sugar cookies.”
