Chapter
Twelve
HIS TENDER CARE
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
—Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2
“Aerinne.”
I want to ignore Édouard more than anything in the world.
Unfortunately, pettiness is like expensive chocolate; to be savored sparingly.
He jerks his head toward the door and I pace on his heels, following him out of the dining room and down the hall where he herds me into my office, shutting the door behind us.
It isn’t a big space, because ample room encourages visitors and I’d rather they visit Édouard in his fancy office.
I maintain a desk shoved against a wall, a single uncomfortable, grudging guest chair and a futon covered in yellow tape. Not much in the way of books—my shelves are crammed with items I’ve collected over the years.
One wall is devoted to my dart board with the Prince’s defaced visage. Occasionally I buy a fresh picture, or someone who wants a small favor brings me one. My one window faces the training yard, to torture myself over wishing I can be out there when I am in here, and for deniability when people come to the house to visit.
If I don’t see them, I can pretend they aren’t there.
I wander to my desk and perch on the edge, crossing my arms over my chest and leveling him with an edged stare as I jiggle my foot, then force it to still. “You wanted to talk to me. So talk.”
Agate eyes regard me without familial affection but I only need his cooperation, and barring that, a lack of overt disrespect. I tolerate a lot from him because he’s competent at his job—which I don’t want—but agitation churns under his skin. Bet he doesn’t like what happened in the field today. Being wrong,mewitnessing his gross wrongness, the shock of the Prince’s appearance.
“What happened out there?” he asks.
“Not to be facetious, but you’re going to have to be more specific. Did you notice? A lot happened.”
I don’t want to stumble over explanations to Édouard, who will leap on any sign of uncertainty and use it to tear my judgement to shreds. His way of coping with his guilt.
He whirls and slams his fist against the wall.
I purse my lips. “What’s wrong with you? Well. . .more wrong, I mean.”
Édouard turns and approaches to get in my face with a glare. “You know what the fuck I’m talking about, Aerinne.Don’t play your dances-with-words games with me. Stop trying to figure out what I want to hear and tell me the truth.”
I don’t move, tempted to ball my fist and add some color to his jaw. “I’m shit at games.” But I close my eyes, rubbing my temples. “I’m confused about what happened.”
Fortunately, that’s enough of the truth I can get away with it. But also enough of a lie that the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“I took some advice from an old friend.”
“Don’t play me for an imbecile, cousin.” He grips the desk on either side of me. Standing too damn close for a male I don’t like. “I have two hundred years of life experience on you?—”
Which makes him stuck for now at about twenty-five in human years. I roll my eyes. At my twenty-seven, we’re contemporaries.
“—and it’s painfully obvious when you’re trying to get over.”
True. I’m a terrible liar. Juliette’s sister used to say it’s because I’m too literal. Danon said it’s because I’m too impatient.
They are both wrong. Maman told me once that it’s beneath us to lie; it’s the sign of lesser power.
“I know what you did. How the fuck did you do it, who taught you, and don’t give me glib foolery about an old friend—are you paying attention?” His teeth are gritted now. Clearly he wants to strangle me, but that’s just not my kink.
