Page 30 of Antiletum

“Sounds to me like you’re making excuses for them, Delaney.”

“Sounds to me like you don’twantto see where they were coming from, Valledyn.”

I shake my head, following her dutifully. “No. I don’t, and I never will. From my perspective, the only thing they ever sacrificed was the comfort, happiness, and well being of their daughter. For very shallow reasons.”

She stops abruptly, jaw set. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m only offering you the truth,” I tell her, taking care to put tenderness and affection into my words.

“But it’s not. That’s an opinion.”

“It’s the truth as I see it.”

She huffs. Like an angry little bunny rabbit. So adorable my heart might just explode.

A grin overtakes my face. It’s not patronizing, but genuinely endeared. Taking a chance, I twine my fingers into hers. She glances down at our laced fingers—my large hand curled around her small one protectively—and she doesn’t pull away.

“Let’s call it a grey area then,” I acquiesce.

Delaney doesn’t answer, but that near scowl melts away, just a bit. The silence between us is soothing, comfortable. Accepting and natural and completelywildat the same time. A living thing all its own.

“Tell me something about you,” she breathes, almost as if she doesn’t mean to say it.

I smile, taking a quick inventory of myself and what Delaney might find interesting. Easily, I settle on, “I’m an artist.”

My wife’s whole face lights up, she scans me head to toe. “I was about to say I’m surprised. But I don’t think I am. What kind of art? Are you any good?”

I chuckle. “I’m not terrible. I sketch. And paint. As I told you, I don’t sleep much. I often waste away those late hours with a pencil, brush, or palette knife in hand.”

“That doesn’t sound like a waste at all. Maybe one day you can show me some of your work.”

Hope that came about back at Greystone beats harder behind my ribs. The small, green sprout spreads into a full blown fucking oak tree. Its roots imbed deep into my heart, wrapping around it like a barbed wire cage, never to let me go. If she forces me to rip it out, it will surely eviscerate me.

Delaney studies me. Soft, searching, roaming all over my face boldly in her drunkenness, and I think she might just be letting herself see things that she refused to before. I’ve beenwaitingfor it. When her gaze meets mine, dissecting my eyes like they’re an experiment she can’t quite find the answer to, I think I see it.

I think it’s there.

Our hands grasp tighter. My heart, heavy oak tree and all, patters faster and faster and I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified in my entire life as I lean slowly closer to my wife, eyes locked on her mouth with utmost intention.

Her breath hitches. Her pink tongue slides out to lick her lips, as if she can already taste me against her breath. As if she craves it. As if it’s the sustenance she needs to thrive.

But then, something far too close to guilt slides into place, shuttering her ease and thieving from the glorious moment that was beginning to bloom between us—husband and wife.

Whether that remorse is tied to Rainah and how Delaney is clearly beginning to disregard her warning, or something entirely different, I cannot say.

With a hard swallow, I let her pull away, taking yet another piece of myself with her. “Nevermind if your parents were afraid to face Parliament about their lies. I’ll rectify what they never did.Iwill take care of you.”

She turns to me quickly. A hint of fear tucked within her quiet mask. She’s grown too accustomed to hiding behind her walls. “That’s why you have to leave in the morning.”

“Yes.” A small smile tugs on my lips. “I promised to protect you. And I always will. If you believe nothing else of me, always believe that.”

Delaney releases a tired sigh. Like those few saturated seconds when we almost kissed pulled every ounce of energy from her being. She walks away from me. Heels clicking against the stone, black skirts surround her like an eclipsed midnight moon, radiant beneath. She stops at a row of decorative windows, its images showing the progression of a shift from a man to an owl.

She tries to push one open, find some much needed air, a line of sweat dripping from her temple. It is stiflingly hot in here.

She narrows her gaze. “They don’t open?”

Perfect opportunity eases my aching ruefulness, and I take it, picking back up on our ill executed conversation at our first breakfast.