Page 84 of Soulbound
Scraping a hand over his mouth, he shoved the blankets aside and found his feet. A restless energy swept through him, one that demanded movement, and then he slipped his trousers and robe on, and escaped his bedchamber.
The hallway was cooler, his bare feet slapping on the timber floors.
He turned to glance at Cleo's room. He'd insisted that she stay in her own room tonight, knowing the diary would stir his nightmares. He couldn't go to her now either. Not with the stain of his past upon him.
Sebastian made his way downstairs, a silent ghost in the dark. Easier to breathe here. Easier to get some perspective. Curse Lady E for asking him to read that bloody journal. It stirred old wounds, dragging him back into a past he'd rather leave behind. And for what? What fucking purpose? Was he supposed to remember all the times he'd tried to please his mother? The gifts—her little reward system.
The fact that once upon a time he would have done anything—anything—for one kind word from her.
His chest felt like a gaping hole, his ribs splayed wide and bloody. He couldn't fucking breathe.
Pressing a hand against the wall, he rested his forehead on the cool plaster. He needed silence and cold. Something to ground him and remind him he was in the here and now, and not trapped in that nightmare.
A sharp crack made his eyes jerk open, and he lifted his head.
Turning, he caught a glimpse of a slash of warm candlelight lighting the hallway floor toward the back of the house.
A shadow rippled through the light, moving with predatory intensity, and he froze, instantly recognizing its owner.
Bishop.
Who should have been tucked up in bed with a warm handful of his beloved wife.
The last thing Sebastian wanted was to be caught out here. To have to explain his actions. He tensed to go, listening intently, but his brother never stepped through the door.
And curiosity began to lash through him.
From what he'd seen of his brother's marriage, Bishop and Verity were happily bonded. But his brother was clearly haunting the other edge of midnight for a reason, and as much as he wanted to snort at the notion, he doubted it was because Bishop had nightmares too.
It was foolish. Resentment rose in his chest as he moved silently down the hall, but he simply couldn't help himself.
The door was open, just enough to see through. The back end of his brother was bent over something—a table perhaps—and it all suddenly made sense when he realized Bishop held a billiard cue in his hand. He saw the stick move sharply, and then heard the crack of a pair of balls. Bishop stepped back into view, scowling at the table, and Sebastian froze.
"Are you coming in?" Bishop called softly, in that scarred-velvet voice. "Or going to stand out there pretending you can sneak up on an assassin who can hear the beat of your heart calling to him."
Caught.
Bishop tilted his head, those dark eyes meeting and holding Sebastian's gaze through the slender opening. Sebastian breathed out through his nose, and then slowly pushed the door open.
He didn't want to be here. Didn't want to have to talk to this man. "That's incredibly creepy, you know."
Bishop chalked his cue, and gave a faint shrug. "I'm a practitioner of the Grave Arts. Brandy?"
Sebastian sauntered around the table, rolling one of the balls under his palm. "I thought abstaining from anything that was supposed to weaken my resolve was the key to mastering myself?"
Bishop poured himself a brandy, then held the bottle up as if to ask again.
Sebastian nodded.
Liquid splashed into the glass, the warm amber glinting in the firelight. Bishop set the bottle aside, then turned with a tumbler in each hand. "Can't sleep?"
Sebastian looked away as he took the tumbler. "I'm not the one with a wife upstairs and a warm bed waiting for me, while I'm trying to beat myself at billiards."
"Right." Bishop snorted. "If we want to play that card, then I could counter with the fact you have a wife. And a warm bed waiting for you, if I'm not mistaken."
That was part of the problem.
"Fancy a game of billiards?" Bishop asked.
