"Another unfinished meal?"
"Concerned about my figure?” The wry smile I flash him is only half-hearted, my mind still preoccupied elsewhere. “Or were you hoping for my sloppy seconds?"
Caz doesn't miss a beat. "Both, of course."
As he enters, he glances about the bedchamber as if he hasn’t seen it a dozen times already. Or perhaps he’s as equally disturbed by it as I am.
Every time I enter this room, I feel like I’m willingly walking into my father’s suffocating, domineering gaze. Everything is so uptight, so stuffy, it makes it difficult to breathe. And no matter how much dishevelment I attempt to incur during the time I spend here, the room is always returned to the same pristine tidiness as it was when I first entered, as if my father himself oversees the cleanliness of this room. My discarded garments tossed haplessly about the floor are always returned to my wardrobe, cleaned and pressed—sometimes within hours of me discarding them. The two Devonshire banners that hang from ceiling to floor—the goldenDsembroidered on them unoriginal and unimposing by nature—are kept well dusted, the crimson fabric relentlessly bright against a backdrop of grey stones. And no matter how many times I open windows that overlook the Shadowthorn and give this room its magnificent view, I always find them closed, locked, and the curtains drawn. As if it’s a crime for this room to not only breathe, but also see the light of day. As if this room is as much of a prisoner as the rest of us are.
Often, I wonder if he did it on purpose. If my father oversaw the design of this room just so it would feel as if he was always watching, always disapproving, and controlling my every move.
And yet, I find myself here often.
Where else am I to go when the castle is crawling with boisterous, excitable noctis and all I want is a little privacy.
I watch Caz cross the room with increasing concern. He didn’t have to come all the way up here. He could’ve easily called to me through the blood oath. And although he heads straight for the liquor table near my desk, surely, he didn’t come all this way for a casual drink.
He pours two glasses and delivers one to me where I lounge.
"What are we drinking to?"
"You tell me," he says, tossing the drink down his throat before I can even answer. "What’s got you locked away in your tower while the rest of us are down in the lounge celebrating like gods? Guilt? Fear?"
Then he stares at me, holding out his empty goblet with a look that sayswhat are you waiting for? Drink.
I don't protest.
My tongue puckers as the tartness fills my mouth, and I’m ashamed to admit that I feel more anticipation for the way it’ll warm my belly than I did while drinking Nadine’s blood. It makes me pull even deeper, draining the goblet of its every drop before looking back up at Caz.
With a smack of my lips, I hand him my empty cup. "You think I'm so rudimentary that I'm just up here sulking like a child?"
"Of course not." He takes it and hastily refills both of our drinks. "But something has you hiding up here. As your friend—and most impeccable guardsmen—I came to figure out what. You can either tell me now of your own accord or”—he shoves another full goblet into my empty hand— “or I'll get you drunk enough that the truth finds its way out anyway. Your choice."
"You say that like I don't enjoy having a good drink or two."
"Oh, believe me, I’m hoping you’ll pick the latter,” he says, that crooked smile of his becoming even more askew as he folds his arms and watches me take another drink. “Besides, we’ve been waiting for you to join us all day. I figure a little booze might loosen you up so you will."
My mood shifts in an instant, the goblet halting on my lips. "I'm not going down there."
"And why not? Too preoccupied with your sulking?" When the only response he gets from me is me finishing my drink and nestling back into my chair to get some rest, he tries another tactic. "We're playing your favorite game.”
"Oh yeah?" I chuckle at his ludicrous attempt to goad me. "And what game is that?"
"How-Drunk-Can-You-Get-Off-Drunk-Humans."
One eye opening,I give him a scathing look. "That'syourfavorite game."
He laughs to himself. "Oh right. I suppose it is. Oh well. So when are you coming?"
My patience starts to wane to the point where I can't even get comfortable where I lounge anymore. "I already told you—"
"Yeah, yeah. I heard you. Mr. Important Prince is trying to think himself out of whatever problem is ailing him. He thinks himself undeserving of fun until he's figured out every angle and every option of the troubles on his mind—and even then, is he ever truly deserving of fun?"
Groaning, I shove myself out of the chair. A headache is beginning to throb at the base of my skull, and as much as I know it is most likely because I haven’t had a decent meal in over a week, the more Caz pesters me, the more I’m tempted to blame it on him.
Anything to avoid the truth.
Anything to avoid having to tell him that I’ll be leaving soon when I’m not ready to say my farewells.
