Page 87 of Crown of Death
Travel. Maybe I’ll just travel non-stop. I’ll see theworld.
But that sounds incredibly lonely. Having no one to share it withme.
The food in my mouth loses its taste. I toss the rest in the trash and put the plate in thedishwasher.
Feeling too heavy, but too empty, I walk up the stairs. I turn to head to mybedroom.
But the utter silence coming from the bedroom with the open door pulls my eyes toit.
The bedroom is meticulously clean and organized. The bed is made, and I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been slept in for over a week. The doors to the closet and bathroom remain proppedopen.
There, standing at the window, with only a towel slung around his hips, is Cyrus. He has his hands braced on the ledge of the window, slightly bentover.
He’s so quiet. So utterlystill.
And the tenseness in his shoulders tells me this is a man with the weight of the world uponthem.
“Cyrus?” I say quietly, taking half a stepinside.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even take a breath in. Nothing that acknowledges mypresence.
I take another step inside. “Are you…” I trail off. Because it’s a stupid question with a very obvious answer that he is not all right. I walk in, coming to his right side, his face coming intoview.
His hair is wet, hanging down in his face. It drips, slowly, running down hisface.
His entire body is wet, as if he didn’t dry any bit of himselfoff.
He doesn’t look at me, just stands there frozen, staring outside. His eyes are empty. Hollow. Mentally, he’s a million milesaway.
And it cracksme.
I’ve been angry with this man the last few days. I’ve gotten tired of his demands for my death. I have no patience left for his commands that everyone but me jumps to fulfill. I’m tired of the way he’s been distant and removed ever since the dinner with my family. So I’ve put up a wall the last fewdays.
But seeing that look in hiseyes.
My heart aches forhim.
“Cyrus,” I breathe. I reach forward, touching his bareshoulder.
His skin is freezing cold. I wonder how long ago he got out of the shower and has just been standing here, drippingwet.
He tenses slightly, the only indication he knows I’mhere.
“Cyrus, please talk to me,” I say. I push against his shoulder, breaking the grip of his right hand on the window, and pushing myself in front of him. He stands, and I remain there, face to face withhim.
Emptily, he continues to stare out thewindow.
“Tell me what you want,” I whisper. I raise my hands to his face, one on each cheek. Tenderly, I guide his head, trying to make him look at me. “Cyrus, please tell me what would make youhappy.”
It fractures me further when his eyes well just a little with emotion. His face pales, but he doesn’t look away from thewindow.
“Cyrus, please talk to me,” Ibreathe.
It’s building inside of me. Rising with the force of a freight train. Bubbling and building to the surface, threatening to drown me. I’ve been trying to hold onto logic for weeks now. To argue with myself into behavingrationally.
But staring into his hollow green eyes, reason isgone.
I can’t fight the truth in my chest anymore.