Page 74 of Widow's Walk

The worst part is that I might be starting to love him back. Or something like it.

And I won’t survive it.

Love is for fools, and I am no fool. So, what the fuck is happening? How is this happening to me? How can I make it stop? Can it be stopped?

My fingers curl into fists, knuckles bone-white.

What now?

Do I ignore it all and pretend this prison with soft pillows and velvet drapes isn’t exactly where I want to be?

Or do I risk it all?

Chapter thirty-four

Sinclair

Ican’t stop thinking about it.

The cat. The estate. The scent-worn clothing. The feelings.

The image of Blackwell, a man who commands death with the flick of his wrist, carrying the cat carrier off that plane like he was carrying valuable goods to be illegally sold…it haunts me.

No one has ever gone that far for me.

And on top of all that, I know how his father is in poor health these days, and I feel bad for him. Not for his father. No, no, no. His father is nothing to me. But he’s someone to Blackwell, and the fact that it affects him, it affects me. I’ve never thought twice about anything that does not directly affect me. But I feel for Blackwell. The stress, the inevitable loss. Something inside me wishes that I could do something to make it better. Like how he did for me with Blender.

To find his ‘cat’ and deliver it to him.

He hasn’t spoken to me since the day he brought home Blender. Not really, that is. He’s here, physically close to me, yet he feels miles away.

He continues to fall asleep in his office. I’ve peeked in on him, finding him passed out, shoulders tense, and brows furrowed like he’s bracing for an explosion. Scrunched up in a chair half his size.

It’s obvious he’s avoiding me, but why?

Is he pissed at me for trying to kill him?

Does he regret bringing me back?

Second-guessing it all? Me?

The questions echo louder the longer I go without answers, each one louder than the last, until it’s a full-blown cacophony inside my skull.

Tonight, I give in to the chaos. To the curiosity. To the pull.

Draped in my black lace robe, I flit through the halls on silent feet. The place is dead-quiet this late in the night.

When I reach the office, the door is left cracked open. I nudge it and peek inside. There he is. Shoes off, dress shirt unbuttoned and spread open to display the heart-shaped scar, sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms. One arm draped over his eyes as if shielding himself from the world. From me. From whatever the hell he’s battling behind those lashes.

Blender is curled up on the desk like she owns the place. Like she’s claimed him in my absence.

Traitor.

I slip in and quietly shut the door behind me. I don’t even bother with stealth. If he’s going to wake up, he’ll wake up. But I move slowly, more from reverence than fear. There’s something sacred about this moment. About seeing him like this, unguarded and unaware.

He looks exhausted.

No. He looks wrecked.