She couldn’t pinpoint the emotion in Harlan’s expression – was that remorse, or just guilt? Again, she knew this wasn’t all his fault, but it was difficult to remember that as they stood here, hiding away from his friends that he had invited to the weekend he had organised – supposedly for just the two of them.
A solitary tear spilled down the witch’s cheek and she tried to focus on breathing steadily; her chest felt tight, her gut leaden – had this been how it had felt last time? No, she realised quickly; with Henri she had been able to channel her heartbreak into anger – distaste for the man who had betrayed her— And with Will she had been the villain, and all of her focus had been on working out what sort of person that made her. This was agonisingly mutual, even if, she thought, neither of them wanted it. “You won’t,†Bérénice corrected him, her voice brittle.
It hadn’t been a test, she told herself, but he didn’t try to stop her – and if that wasn’t a sign— Nice met Harlan’s gaze when he sought hers out and she regretted it instantly – she was sure the look on his face mirrored her own. And when he said that–stay–every fibre of her being wanted to give in. They could pretend this hadn’t happened, keep things as they had been— But how long before they would be right back here?
She wanted more. From him, for herself. Her eyes dipped down to the floor and she took half a step backwards. “No, I can’t,†she said firmly, using his own words against him. Before she could change her mind–or he tried to–she turned and walked out of the kitchen silently, padding down the hall and up to the master suite to collect her things.
[ out ]
