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Felix

“Are you going to tell me what’s amiss, Felix?”

Mother glided up to the sideboard, where Felix was pouring his third whisky of the night.

“Who says anything’s amiss?” He sipped his drink, and disappointment washed over him.

He didn’t even feel the burn that time. No longer granted the desired distraction from the suffocating dejection that had taken root inside himself.

From the lonely future that awaited him.

He supposed at this point he’d just have to drink until he felt nothing at all.

He went to throw back his drink, but his mother’s hand landed softly atop his wrist. “Felix. You barely touched your dinner. And the whisky?” She waved her hand in front of his glass. “This isn’t you. What happened?”

Felix forced his lips into a reassuring smile. “Nothing happened. I really am well.”

Her slim brows knit, and she pursed her lips. She was working her mother’s magic, somehow seeing more than he wanted to let on, so he dropped his gaze to where he swirled his whisky.

“I am not feather-witted, Felix. I know something is wrong. What I don’t understand…is the look in your eyes. I recognize it. It’s one you wore for one too many years.”

Felix gave his head a firm shake. No . They were absolutely not discussing this.

She let out a sigh. “Even your complexion is paler than usual.” She lifted a hand and cradled his cheek, the same exact way she had so many times before when he’d been a little boy.

He jerked back, needing space. His mother’s blue eyes dimmed, and he hated himself for causing her even that small amount of hurt.

His throat constricted, a knot taking up permanent tenancy.

But he couldn’t handle contact. He couldn’t handle someone else caring right now.

He needed the safety of detachment, of pretending everything was fine.

What he needed was liquor. He threw back his whisky and hurried to refill his glass.

He drew in a measured breath. “It’ll pass, Mother,” he said quietly, still facing away from her. And it would. He’d survived the worst of it those first few years after the incident.

Then he’d finally started improving, and Father had passed.

Somehow, he’d been able to bury his grief, assuming the role of Earl, of protector of his bereaving family.

He’d lived a sort of vacant half-life for nearly a decade.

He’d become the facade of Earl of Bentley because that was easier to be than the destroyed, pathetic man that existed inside him.

But during the past few years, he’d begun feeling a bit more… human.

His mother’s hand gently squeezed his shoulder before falling away. “I’ll leave you be. But I’m sending your brother and sister to check in on you in an hour.” The soft tread of her retreating footsteps slowly faded away.

It had been a long while since he’d fallen into this melancholy. But every episode always passed. Which is why he knew this one would, too.

Felix threw back more whisky.

He’d just prefer to be unconscious until it did.