Page 42 of These Eternal Bones
I frown, the idea of him…looking at my soul feels like a violation, but I can’t bring myself to actually be upset about it. Not with my thoughts revolving around dark eyes, spice, and cedar. “Why didn’t he come?”
She pauses, pulling a brush from my chest. “He said something about a letter, or maybe he was looking for a letter. Something about a ship. I don’t know. I was not meant to be listening.”
My lips quirk at that. “You were eavesdropping?”
The selkie shrugs, her gentle hands working my hair down my back. “Not intentionally, selkies have exceptional hearing. Words carry in such a large house.”
“I would like to know–”
She leans in, her breath dancing on the side of my face. “Perhaps these questions are best kept for the master, but I quite suspect the Nephilim also hears much. He is less loyal than I am. Men are silly creatures. So severe in their convictions, even when they lead them in the opposite direction of where they desire to go.”
I sigh. “You’re speaking in riddles again.”
“Yes, because you ask the right questions, and I wish to keep my head. It is a shame you never remember. It would make this entire process far more efficient.”
“I am not who you think I am, Péal. I’m not the woman you spoke of before. We’ve talked about this.”
“Of course not, mistress. You are someone entirely new, which is why you do not remember.”
I grit my teeth when she hits a tangle, my fingers rubbing together on that rough patch of flesh on my finger. “What is it I’m meant to remember?”
“Another excellent question for the master, or perhaps the Nephilim, should he insist upon keeping himself unavailable to you.”
My stomach drops to my feet, the urge to cry pushing at me again. “So, it is because of me?”
She half laughs at that. “Everything is. As I said, men are silly creatures; the master may be powerful…but he is still a man.”
The warmth of the solarium is hidden behind a brutal flurry of snow by the time dinner falls, and in all of that time, Elric hasn’t returned. How am I meant to properly do my job if he’s not even here? It’s a waste of my time, time I could’ve spent painting or… sitting in the cabin. I spent the entire day glaring at my painting in his office. The one he took down to hang it behind his desk sits discarded in the corner, facing the wall. My painting’s sunset pink and purple swirls are such a jarring contrast to the rest of the home that at first I’d thought was funny, cute even that he hung it there, but it didn’t feel like either of those things today.
Still, worry needles my gut. What if something happens? What if he got lost or hurt? Can hebehurt?
How stupid. To worry about an immortal man.
I prod at the roasted vegetables on my plate, my appetite entirely nonexistent as I think back to the ride to the estate this morning…the flash of burnt orange tipped with black I saw dart between the trees. I had wondered if I’d see him again. Perhaps this was him letting me know he was still around. I can’t bring myself to be upset about that while I know–
“Molly.”
My fork flings from my hand, only to clatter loudly against my plate, nearly upsetting the mulled wine in my glass. “Elric.” I gasp. My eyes widen as I truly focus on him…he looks– “Are you alright?”
His dark hair hangs around his chiseled, sharp features in disheveled waves. His eyes are swallowed entirely by pools of black, the inky network on his neck reaching his lips…surpassing them, decorating his high cheekbones in obsidian. He ignores my question. “I apologize for my tardiness today. I had not expected to be kept so long.”
Where were you? Have you fed? Is that why you left, to find someone to feed from? The darkness in his veins tells me perhaps not,although his hunger is often indistinguishable from his rage. I ignore him in tune, turning my attention back to my food. I wait for him to join me, for that clever quip of velvety words, a brush of his hand, or his devilish smirk.
He does not move.
So, neither do I, that discontent rising in my gut like a torch.
Was I truly so unappealing, or has my time finally come?
Perhaps he will kill me now that I am no longer entertaining.
“Syringa–”
I cut him off. “I wish to return to the cottage now. The storm is worsening, the journey will already be uncomfortable.”
“You may stay here, if this storm is as bad as–”
An ugly, bitter laugh leaves me, and I'm at a loss as towhy. Nothing feels even remotely funny. My chest is swirling with searing feelings that I have no place for. “I would sooner sleep with the horse.”
