Page 44 of Savage Blooms (Unearthly Delights #1)
Finley had asked Eileen a dozen times if she wanted his help moving into a larger room, or into her parents’ old master bedroom.
Every time, Eileen said no, making up excuses about hauling furniture down stairs and already having the best fireplace in the house.
Finley knew, though he was too kind ever to say it out loud, that Eileen refused to abandon the final vestiges of her girlhood, the last time she was truly happy.
Eileen was sulking, fully dressed, under a sheet, looking considerably worse for wear.
She was reading a book of poems (probably an affectation to cover up for the fact that she had obviously been crying moments before he arrived, as Eileen hated poetry) and studiously working through the decanter of Scotch by her bed.
She drank it neat from a highball glass: no ice, no soda.
“Would you like to come down for dinner?” Finley asked. “If not, I can bring you something from the kitchen.”
“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled, staring unseeing into her book.
Finley sat down on the edge of the bed, and put out a hand to squeeze Eileen’s socked foot. Even through the covers, she was cold. She was breathing shallowly, her forehead pale and speckled with sweat. The fight with Adam hadn’t helped her health, and neither, Finley suspected, had the whisky.
“I shouldn’t have told him anything,” Eileen said, flipping a page aggressively, like it had personally wronged her. “Now he knows enough to ask questions, not to mention he hates me. It’s never going to work.”
“It will work,” Finley said. That was what Eileen needed to hear right now, even if he harbored serious doubts. “You just need to give him time.”
“Time is exactly what we’re running out of,” Eileen said and snapped the book shut.
“They’ve tried to take him from me twice – twice, Finley.
What if they succeed next time? I can barely sleep at all any more, the dreams have got so bad.
My health is only getting worse, and the money is running out, for good this time.
We need new blood. I’m terrified that if we don’t do it soon, it will be too late to do it at all. ”
Finley didn’t ask her not to go through with it. He knew how high the stakes were, and he knew it was her only remaining option. Still, he wished she didn’t have to.
Eileen glared into the glass, then drained her drink with alarming fluidity. Judging by the dent she had made in the decanter, that was probably her third glass.
“Can I get you some water?” Finley asked.
“I’m not thirsty.”
“You’ve had one too many drinks,” Finley said, threading more authority into his tone while remaining mindful as ever about walking the tightrope of Eileen’s mood. Being told what to do usually calmed her down, although sometimes she fought back. “Give me your glass, Isla.”
Eileen turned her eyes to him finally, and Finley saw they were shimmering with tears. Silently, she surrendered her glass.
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.
Finley loved being a dominant; it fulfilled him like very little else in the world, but it was also exhausting. Anticipating his partner’s whims, shoring up their weaknesses, and being their firm foundation was no easy feat.
On good days, dominance was thrilling. It felt like bridling a wild horse and galloping through the trees with the reins tight in his hands, it felt like tempering iron in a blazing fire that answered only to him, it felt like coming home.
On bad days it felt like nothing but loneliness.
Even though he was the dominant here, he understood Eileen’s draw to submission on a bone-deep level. How exquisite must it feel, to have someone take the burden of choice away from you?
“You need rest,” Finley said.
“Make me rest, then,” she replied hoarsely.
Finley stumbled over the next step in their dance, suddenly sure of nothing. He didn’t know if he should touch her or not, if he should speak sweetly or order her to sleep, if he should insist she change into pajamas or let her rest in what she was wearing.
She would probably sleep better if he sent her to bed in subspace.
The aching tingle of cords around her wrists or a stinging swat on the back of her thighs would undoubtedly distract her from the argument with Adam, at least. But when Finley reached deep down inside himself to find the desire to hurt her, or even the will to, he came up empty.
“Will you try to sleep for me?” he asked softly. “Please?”
Eileen rolled onto her side and pulled the quilt up over her shoulders. Finley’s shoulders dropped in relief. In this, at least, she wasn’t going to fight him.
As he switched off the lights and slipped out of the room, decanter and glass in hand, Finley prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that tonight, at least, she would sleep a dreamless sleep.
He also hoped that God would forgive him for what he was about to do.
Finley retrieved the master ring of keys from his back pocket, the one that had been passed down to him by his father, and very quietly locked Eileen inside her room.
He didn’t want her getting into any more of the liquor when she was in this state, and if she was telling the truth about those dreams, he didn’t want her to heed the siren call of the fae and stumble out into the woods, never to be seen again.
He had heard too many stories about her father going into agitated frenzies after days of not sleeping, threatening to kill himself to make the voices in his dreams finally quiet.
Finley had witnessed a few of these rants himself, and they still disturbed him, even years later.
Dr Dasgupta had called it bipolar, and Finley believed him. James had been a charming, high-spirited man with a heart full of love, but he was also deeply troubled, prone to dark moods and animated bursts of self-destruction.
Still, that didn’t mean that there also wasn’t foul work at play. Faeries like to nibble away at minds already loose from their moorings, especially in times of trouble. They just liked to see what you would do.
Finley knew he was doing the right thing. He just hoped Eileen saw it that way when she woke up.