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I reach up and peck Tomas on the cheek. Emersyn elbows him out of the way the second I lean back. Her hands smack over my ears, and she tugs my head forward, where she plants a loud kiss against my cheek.
“Jesus, Savina,” she says, yanking her head back. “Your breath smells like?—”
I slam a hand over her mouth. Horror and embarrassment have my eyes widening and my gut clenching. Oh God, can she really smell his release on my breath?
Lips move beneath my hand, and I narrow my eyes at the smile I see in her eyes. Her lips pucker, and I snatch my hand back.
She laughs. “I’m coming over first thing in the morning, and you’re going to tell me all about your nasty romp with this mysterious man of yours.”
“I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got some work to do in my studio, and I plan to spend the rest of the day with Liliana and Harper.”
It’s a lie, but I need more time to come up with an appropriate story of what happened tonight.
She cocks a hip. “You aren’t already avoiding me, are you?”
“No.” I turn to the car and wait for Marcelo to open the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow night and we’ll set up a lunch date with you and Tomas.”
I don’t wait for either to respond before I get into the car. Relaxing my head against the back of the seat, I close my eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted.
Who knew getting your throat fucked would be so depleting?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HER
Have you ever woken up and just had a gut feeling that something big was going to happen? Like, so monumental that it alters your life forever. Every step you take that day, you look over your shoulder and peek around every corner. You’re on pins and needles, and your heart continuously skips beats as you anxiously wait for that big thing to happen.
I had that feeling the moment my eyes slid open, and it’s lingered every second of my day so far. My stomach has been in knots, and every little noise has me jumpy and nervous.
I force my attention away from the unknown and focus my eyes back on Dara. I’m here to keep her company, not dwell on something that might not even happen.
My gaze lingers on the woman’s face, more specifically, the paleness of her complexion and the dark, faded rings around her eyes. The look isn’t her natural appearance. She applied makeup to make herself appear like she’s a corpse. Of course, she’d never admit to doing that. Because of Cotard’s, I don’t think sheactually remembers putting the makeup on. I asked her about it once, and she looked at me like I had a screw loose and said, “I look like this all the time, Savina. A dead person doesn’t have rosy cheeks and bright eyes.”
I’ve been here for fifteen minutes, and each one since I sat at our usual table, Dara has been silent. She has one arm stretched across the round table with her head lying on it, her eyes vacant as she stares across the room. Her other hand sits on the table in front of her face.
“Dara,” I call her name.
She doesn’t move, not even a blink. I turn to see what she’s looking at, but don’t find anything interesting. Just a landscape painting of a field of flowers on the wall, and the table below it that has a bunch of board games on top. I lean over and put myself in her direct line of sight.
“Dara.” I keep my voice low and soft. The last thing I want to do is irritate her. “What’s wrong? What are you looking at?”
She blinks, and her eyes finally focus on me. I’ve always thought the color of her irises are pretty. The outside is a black ring with the inside so light brown that it almost looks yellow. They’re creepy, but at the same time, unique and beautiful.
“I don’t want to go,” she whispers so low that I barely hear the words. Her voice is sad and full of despair.
“Where are you going?”
“He’s coming soon, and he’s going to take me down to where he lives.”
I scoot my chair closer to the table so I can hear her better. “And where’s that?”
“He said I’ve been in this place too long, and he’s tired of waiting. He’s going to bring me to where I belong, so I’ll always be with him.”
I reach over the table and place my hand on top of hers that’s in front of her face. It’s ice cold. “Who ishe, Dara?”
“The man who killed me.”
A chill races down my spine at her eerie tone, and I can’t fight the urge to look over my shoulder to where she was looking to see if the imaginary man she’s talking about is behind me. Jackson now stands in front of the painting and his eyes are pointed in our direction. More specifically, they’re pinned on Dara. I narrow my eyes at him, and it’s at that moment his gaze moves to me. We hold each other’s stare for what seems like minutes, but could only be seconds. It’s broken when a nurse calls his name and he gives his attention to her.