Page 116 of Mile High Ex's Dad
I open my mouth, close it again.
Because the truth is messier than that. I don’t think he would hurt me carelessly. I think wanting him might. I think staying this close to his life might. I think there are dangers around him I still can’t see clearly enough to name, and one of them has already put a woman in the hospital.
I want him too much to trust myself with him.
And that may be the most dangerous part of all.
“I need you to go,” I say.
The silence that follows is worse than argument.
Then, finally, he says, “All right.”
It doesn’t sound like surrender. It sounds like a man stepping back from something he intends to return to later.
I hear his hand leave the door. Still, I don’t move. I stand there listening, waiting for footsteps, waiting for the sound of him going.
I wait until the silence settles for real before I move away from the door. My whole body feels hollowed out with want. My throat aches. My skin aches. I have never in my life wanted to open a door more badly than I did in the last five minutes.
And still I didn’t.
I don’t know whether that means I’m strong or just scared.
Probably both.
I climb back into bed alone and curl around the ache of him, one hand between my breasts, the other low over my belly.
For a long time, sleep doesn’t come. All I can think about is the sound of his voice through the wood. The way he said my name. The way I almost let him in.
And the sick, aching truth that part of me still wishes I had.
17
VIKTOR
I can’t sleep.
I try for all of ten minutes before giving up, then another ten out of sheer irritation, as if stubbornness might achieve what exhaustion hasn’t. It doesn’t. My mind keeps circling the same things. The hedge line. The missing sight lines. Ethan’s face. Sienna behind her locked door telling me to go because it’s better for the baby if she stays away.
So now I’m downstairs with a glass of whiskey I don’t need and the kind of silence that only comes after midnight in a house full of people pretending tomorrow is still normal.
The study is dim except for the lamp on the desk and the amber light of the drink in my hand. Outside the windows, the grounds are black and wet. Inside, the house feels watchful.
The door opens without a knock. Maksim walks in, shrugs off his coat, and looks at the glass in my hand.
“You came back,” I say.
“Of course.” He shuts the door behind him. “You didn’t think I was leaving you alone in a house full of people you can’t stand.”
“I was trying not to flatter myself.”
He glances around the room, then at me again. “And yet here you are, awake, drinking alone. Very flattering.”
I don’t bother answering that. I pour him one anyway.
He takes the glass, sits in the chair opposite mine, and stretches his legs out like he has every right to be comfortable in my study at this hour. Which, in fairness, he does. He has been doing this too long for formality to matter.
For a while we drink without speaking.
