Page 169 of Toxic Temptation
“I’m sorry I missed Luka’s bedtime.” She doesn’t even acknowledge my question. “There was an emergency surgery. I tried to get here sooner, but?—”
“How did it go?”
The color drains from her face completely. “Bad. Really bad. Little girl, seven years old. I’ve been treating her brain tumor for three years.” Her voice cracks. “Tonight, we were supposed to remove it. The surgery was always risky, but…” She stops talking. Her whole body shudders. “I lost her on the table.”
“Jesus, Vesper?—”
I move toward her, but she steps back like I’m carrying a disease. We both freeze.
Her eyes meet mine, and there’s nothing behind them. Like someone turned off all the lights inside her head. Like she’s not really here. Like she’s not really herself.
“I need to shower.” She can barely whisper. “Excuse me.”
She drags herself up the stairs. Each step looks like it takes everything she has left.
I want to follow her. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it’s not her fault. The need to touch her, to comfort her, burns in my chest.
But I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because wanting to comfort her means I care. And caring about Vesper Fairfax is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.
Fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty. I pace the foyer until I can’t stand it anymore. And then…
Fuck it.
I charge upstairs and push open her door without knocking. She’s curled up in bed wearing one of my white t-shirts, her wet hair soaking the pillow. Her knees are pulled to her chest, and she won’t look at me.
But her eyes still have that sad, haunted quality. And the moment I see it, I know I can’t turn away.
“Vesper.” I close the door behind me. “Look at me.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t do this tonight, Kovan. Whatever you want to talk about, can we just not?”
“Not what?”
“Talk. Fight. Pretend.” She swallows. “I can barely think straight right now.”
I walk to the foot of the bed. “Tell me about her.”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise. She’s not expecting me to poke the wound. But I’ve had experience in this department. Ignoring the pain very rarely helps it disappear.
“Talking about it helps,” I say. “Trust me.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then the words start pouring out.
“She collected coins. What seven-year-old collects coins? She lovedAlice in Wonderlandand prayed every night for her parents to have another baby. Not because she wanted a sibling, but because she wanted them to have someone left when she was gone.”
Her voice gets smaller with each word.
“She knew she was going to die, Kovan. No matter what I told her, no matter how positive I tried to be, she always knew. She talked like she was seventy years old instead of seven. No kid should have to be that wise.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me.” Tears stream down her face. “Feel sorry for Mark and Beverly. They just lost their only child, and I—I couldn’t save her. I promised them I could save her, and I failed.”
She breaks down completely, sobbing into her hands.
