Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
My father was very possessive of my mother, and I thought for a long time that that was just how love worked. He wasn’t unkind to her. Never raised a hand to her. She was a lot younger than him, though, and he was a very domineering man. My mother was a pianist, a very good one, and with that gift came a melancholy know was real. Her music was always dark, even when we were little.
Thinking of her makes me remember how much I miss her.
Sometimes I can’t tell if a memory is a memory or something I made up. It’s been five years since her death and the one part I wish I could forget, the last time I saw her alive, that seems to be the one face of my mother my mind won’t let go of. She’d been terrified. Terrified for herself. For me.
I lit the dozen candles on the altar earlier and I watch how the light of the moon changes how everything looks in here. I tuck the throw I’d found in the living room closer and burrow deeper into the oversized seat resting my head on the arm while I take in the half-face of Azazel.
Was he angel or demon or both?
I only realize I must have dozed off when the sound of something scraping loudly followed by a curse startles me awake. I gasp, heart racing, upright in an instant. I rub my face, and it takes me a minute to remember where I am, for my eyes to adjust in this half-light, the candles still burning on the altar, wax melting into the stone, dripping onto the floor.
I sit up, turn to where the sound came from and watch as Cassian comes into view. He must have knocked his shin into the coffee table in the dark. I’ve done it. It hurts. He looks at me, pauses as if surprised to see me there. I wonder if he was looking for me or just coming to sit in here on his own.
He climbs the three stairs that lead into the chapel, and I straighten, the notebook in my lap sliding to the floor.
“Moth,” he says, coming to stand before me.
I push the blanket off to get to my feet, touching the corners of my mouth to make sure I wasn’t drooling. I’m wearing a pair of leggings and a sweater with thick wool socks. Even through them, the church floor is freezing. It’d be tough to add under-floor heating considering what is under the floors of this and many ancient churches.
I take him in, this giant of a man. He’s disheveled, and that’s being kind. He’s wearing the same shirt and slacks he had on when I last saw him, but everything is crumpled and I’m not sure where his tie or his jacket went. He also has three days of growth along the lower half of his face. Another couple of days and he’d have a full-on beard. Right now, he looks outright savage.
“You weren’t in my bed,” he says, stepping toward me, wild eyes taking in every inch of me.
“No, I’m not your whore,” I force myself to say even though the way he’s looking at me has warning bells going off in my head.
“I have no whore.” His mood darkens. I guess he was expecting a warmer welcome. Too bad.
“Where were you?” I ask. “Just disappeared and just left me here.”
He pushes a hand through his messy hair that’s unruly on a good day. “I had business,” he mutters, his mood darkening.
“Business? What business kept you away for three days and three nights?”
He looks me over and his eyes narrow, something shifting between us, the air itself charged.
“What’s the matter, Little Moth? Did you miss me?” he asks, his words slower than usual. He comes closer, wraps a possessive arm around my middle and tugs me toward himself.
I set my hands against his chest. “You smell like a bottle of whiskey.” Which maybe explains the wild look in his eyes.
“Tell me. Did you miss me?” he asks, ignoring my comment, eyes searching mine. “I might like it if someone missed me,” he continues making me wonder where his head is. “I might like it if you missed me, Moth.”
Danger. Warnings ring loud in my head, and I push against him, intending to scoot past him, but he has no intention of allowing that to happen.
“You’re drunk. Let me go,” I say.
“Answer me. Tell me if you missed me.”
“No, Cassian. I didn’t miss you.” It’s true, I think. Maybe I missed him, but not for any reason other than that, without him, I’m pretty much ignored here among his guards. Ignored and preferably locked away. “You’ve been gone, just vanished, after what happened. After you almost killed my brother. Did you kill him? Oh my God, did you? Is that why you’ve stayed away?”