Page 76 of On Edge

I look back at Troy Severin, the view of him slightly blurred along with my senses after two drinks on an empty stomach. Why do I never have anything remotely witty to say back?

Because you’re not me.Nell titters.

“Okay then, hit me.” I shove my glass towards the barman, who catches it just in time. That makes me laugh. The barman shakes his head, but he’s smiling too as he takes my empty one away and brings me another.

When I look at Troy again, he’s giving me the strangest look. It makes me so self-conscious that I have to turn away, myfingers having nothing to do but fiddle with the buttons on his jacket.

But not for too long, because I can’t not look.

Troy is too beautiful, and I’m a little bit tipsy, so I don’t care anymore. I go back to staring blatantly at him, but Troy seems lost in his deepest darkest thoughts now, staring into the bottom of his glass. It’s like catching the Devil in mourning.

God, he’s unfairly handsome…all sharp cheekbones and brooding intensity. With his dirty blonde hair (lighter under the artificial glow) mussed just enough, making him look carelessly gorgeous, like he just woke up and doesn’t care. The sight of him, all grumpy and melancholy, tugs at my heart, and I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the words he said earlier,childhood horror stories.He practically admitted that he’s the Swanley heir to me—a boy who lost his entire family. That’s horror enough for anyone.

I keep having to remind myself that he’s the reason they’re gone. He’s a killer, even if I don’t have proof he killed Nell yet; that skittery feeling I have around him is a big indicator of how scary he is. I shouldn’t feel sorry for him. He shouldn’t tug at my heart. I should still be reeling over him attacking me three times since I got to the island.

Three times. Four, if you include the stairs.

But it’s hard. He might be horrid most of the time when he’s at Grayfleet, but when you put him in a place like this, he acts perfectly normal, human even, making you forget he’s a monster. You only see a mask of polished wealth—until you get closer, and then you notice the rougher edges, the scars.

It makes me want to hug him.

Ishouldn’t, though.

And I probablyshouldn’tthank him for the clothes and for saving my life the other day, either.

A sigh escapes me. There I go, shouldn’ting again.Even when drunk, I’m censoring myself. I should say what I want to, but the words won’t cross my lips. Instead, something else comes out entirely when I open my mouth.

“Why did you buy Grayfleet if you’re never there?”

Troy’s eyes narrow as they seek me out. “What do you mean, never there?”

I squirm in my seat. “Kathy said you’re hardly ever at home, I mean, usually, you’re not….”

He frowns. “The estate has a complicated history. Like me, I guess. Seemed apt at the time when I was looking for a place to live.”

“Even though it’s dangerous?”

“No more than anywhere else.” There’s an odd silence, and then he adds, “Did you know it wasn’t always an island?” He’s staring intently at me now, no longer off in deep thought.

Like I matter.

Like I’m notinvisible.

I shake my head. I didn’t know.

“Used to be part of the floodplain, before they started digging. It was supposed to be a conservation area. But they paid off the council, then dug to excavate the gravel after stripping the estate bare. Now the house is sinking, and the only way to cross the wetlands when it rains is by boat. Which is all the time in this damn country.”

I try to take it all in. “I didn’t know that. Grayfleet isn’t sinking now, though, right?”

He cuts me a look. “Of course not. After I bought it, I had supports put in to stop any more flooding—wait, you didn’t know any of this?”

Why would I? I heard about the conversation efforts, but not the stripping and the sinking. I don’t know what to say, so Ishake my head and mumble something like, “What was it like before it was an island?”

“Before? It used to be proper farming fields around the estate. Crops. Cattle. Stud farms. The locals could really live off the land. Pity. Now it’s all water and reedbeds and the money’s in lake views, and holiday homes. The families who have lived around Fleet for generations have sold up and moved away.”

“I’m sorry.” And I mean it.