A Sorrow of Truths Page 3

  Fingers clutching into my forearms, possibly for protection against whatever advance Malachi might go with next, I tap quietly to keep my rhythm strong. It’s harder than I thought now I’m back here and the pills have gone. Memories have come with the return, thoughts of Rick and what he did to me, why he did it at all. All the lies. All the time I thought we were strong and faithful.

  My lips sneer, eyes directed at Malachi’s. Maybe the castle was better than here. Games.

  “You never did tell me what your trick was. I earnt that.”

  A smile spreads on his face, one arm wrapping around my shoulder to lead me out into the hallways. “Why, do you think it’ll work on Gray?”

  “Might do.”

  “No, it won’t. He’s too processed to allow it. Not a dreamer like you, and, out here, no pills to play with. But I’ll show you now we’re away from there.”

  We amble through the rooms and eventually make it out into the dark gardens, where he sits me across from him on a small set of wrought iron chairs. Cold air blasts across my skin, making me grip tighter to my own flesh to ward off the chill. Something gets lifted out of his pocket, as he gets comfortable. It swings lightly in his grasp, a chain with a ball on the end of it.

  “See, balls and chains. I knew it. You-”

  He chuckles, but I barely hear it. It peters off to nothing but a low hum, as I stare, transfixed, at the object swinging like a pendulum. Back and forth, forth and back. Soft thoughts, relaxed thoughts. I can feel them inching over me, calming me. It's quiet, hushed whispers only. Clear and calm. Even the cold bite in the air seems to disappear now, leaving me with nothing but summer vibes, happy vibes.

  “Hannah?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “This doesn’t work anymore. Repeat it.”

  “This doesn’t work anymore.” Back and forth, forth and back. So pretty, like light brightening everything around us. Luminous. Bright and sparkly.

  “Again.”

  “This doesn’t work anymore.”

  The swing of the chain becomes fractured, making me blink and stiffen at the vision. No flow. No ease in the back and forth anymore. And Malachi’s here, the look of him strong behind the object. Why is he here? I blink again, fingers grabbing against my frigid skin, and look through the object continuously swinging. Blurred.

  I tap – tap, tap, tap – and then dig my nails into my skin to find reality again. I’m not in it here. I’m lost and wavering, unsure and floating rather than standing on my own two feet.

  “Malachi says stand up.” No. “Malachi says spin.” No. “Malachi says suck me off.”

  An involuntary snort pops out of my nose and I blink repeatedly, making sure his eyes seem real in the light around us. My neck cracks, shoulders rolling to get me up into his eye line.

  “No.”

  “Shame. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you out.”

  I drop my gaze down to the thing he’s still holding, bemused at the fact that I’ve apparently been hypnotised. “You hypnotised me? That’s not a real thing.”

  “And yet you perched on the top of my home, inches from your death, just because I told you to. Seemed reasonably real to me at the time.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did. Gray rescued you. He was like a Knight, charging.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure I would have bothered at the time.”

  My eyes widen, the reality of someone I thought I was beginning to understand bedding in to my thoughts. “You … I can’t think about that.” I push up and stand, suddenly nervous around him and not liking the feeling one little bit. Although, my eyes narrow. “What else did you make me do?”

  “Nothing much. You started turning into something interesting enough to keep me entertained. And Gray was besotted. It made me feel like perhaps you shouldn’t die.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Do. I’m imaginative like that. Dead, alive. What does it matter in reality?”

  I snatch the damn chain out of his hand so quickly he hasn’t got a chance of holding onto it. “I’m not discussing this anymore.” The chain grates in my hand, the hard curve of the ball fitting perfectly in my clenched fist. “And you are not doing that to another woman ever again.”

  “Boring.”

  “Murder?”

  “I never touched you. It would have been suicide. Which, considering your recently widowed status, would have been perfectly acceptable. Also,” he waves his hand around the luxury we’re currently standing in, as if showing the notion that wealth conquers all. “Malachi Jones.”

  “Gray would have-"

  “Gray wouldn’t have done a thing. Gray provides everything that entertains my guests. A little on the rough side of the law for him to have to explain.”

  I frown and back up a step, annoyed with him and his sense of appropriate, and also not able to counter the last part of that argument. “I hate you.”

  “If only you did.” He chuckles and steps forward into me, tugging me against his chest regardless of my crossed arms. “Unfortunately you don’t. Everyone loves a bad, bad man.”

  Another chuckle and he starts swaying us, as if there’s music and we should dance to it. “And think how dismal your life would be now if I wasn’t in it. No castle, no pills, no fun. No pain either. What a game we’re in, Hannah. All for the love of a man who can’t give you a future unless he's pushed.”

  One of his hands creeps in between us, his fingers slipping over mine to hold them on his chest rather than the clutched grip I’m trying to keep on my arms. I can feel the thud of his heart beating strongly under my fingers, the dark drum of it inciting feelings of trust again rather than the cynicism I should be feeling. “Just relax. We’ll get there. You just might need to die for it to happen.”

  My mouth opens, shock and disbelief making me wonder if I’m still hypnotised to even listen to him. I grip the chain and ball, keeping it tight and clasped to help ground me. The sudden appearance of Faith leaning on a doorframe behind him, grinning about something, makes me pull out of his hold and shake my head clear. Die? I’m not dying. I’m living. I’m living and finding my truths, and perhaps when I’ve found my truths I’ll live some more in my own new way.

  “Time to get ready, little Hannah,” he says, as he turns and wanders over to Faith.

  A chaste kiss gets left lingering on her lips before he walks back inside, holding the ball and chain up for me to see before he leaves us alone. My hand opens, not quite understanding how or when he took that back from me. It was here, with me. And now it’s there – with him.

  Sneaky.

  Faith eventually smiles at my confusion some more and looks me over, clearly less than impressed at my choice of jeans and shirt today.

  “This isn’t going to work,” she says. I don’t know if I want anything to work anymore, certainly not if it pertains to me dying. “Your flair seems to have flown off somewhere. Is it the dead husband in your thoughts?”

  “No. I’m just beginning to wonder if you’re both mad as hatters.”

  “Maybe we are. Is that so wrong?” She giggles and claps her hands. “Maybe you are, too.”

  I scowl and look up at the house rather than her, part of me questioning that in my own thoughts. It’s not like the place should dictate the person, but this is Manhattan now, things are different. No dark corners here. No seas of writhing bodies crafting an atmosphere. It’s cold and bright and people are everywhere doing normal things.

  She sways towards me, her long sliver dress seeming more like a Marilyn Monroe outfit than something any normal person would wear these days. “Maybe you should have some pills, Hannah. Remember who you are. It won’t work unless you seduce him into it. This,” she says, circling me. “Isn’t seductive at all. Fear and well-behaved sentiments shouldn’t be seen by men like Gray. Got to keep them on their toes, pretty thing. Take charge.”

  Her hand puts pressure on my shoulder, guiding me back into the h
ouse to follow in Malachi’s wake. “Relax. Remember. You’re stronger than him now. More able to deal with his denial. Silly men. So trying. Malachi’s the same. Especially when we get back here and he becomes normal again.”

  I’m not sure what Malachi is, but normal isn’t a word I’d use in any setting.

  She guides me further, eventually rounding us up the stairs towards the bedrooms. Passed the one I’m staying in. Passed the one Malachi’s staying in. And into hers.

  “Now then, what shade would you like?” she says, walking us into a huge walk in closet and directing me to the line of ball gowns.

  I gape at the rainbow of colours on show, matching heels and jewellery set off to the right in glass cabinets. “What for?”

  “The party?”

  “Oh, yes. Right.”

  She smiles and lifts a section of colours off the racks, dragging her long fingers delicately over the fabric as if soothing a frightened animal, and then sways. Side to side, her arms out as if she’s waiting for a dance partner. “You’ll see. Choose a dress. And shoes. And jewellery. Slowly, slowly, pretty thing. It won’t be long now as long as you use yourself correctly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She pulls a small, green box out of a secluded area and walks towards me, opening it. “Take one. You’ll understand then. Like you did before.” Hundreds of pills lie neatly arranged in their holdings, sharp cuts of black lines separating them, familiar stripes in place. “Let yourself flow again. Stop trying to be the old Hannah. It’s so much easier that way.”

  “Malachi said we shouldn’t out here.” My tongue licks over my lips, a sense of calm coming just at the thought of them.

  “Well, we shouldn’t always do what the men say. Relax Hannah. You’ll get your truths. Be ready for them.”

  My hand delves in, a selection of different colours taken. It’s not like I can’t handle them. Just a few. She’s probably right. Not now, though. Maybe later when the party starts. Fun. Happiness. She smiles again and skips back towards the cupboard, reaching for something else.

  “And you must have one of these,” she murmurs, handing me a little red capsule. “For when everything seems too much. It makes it all go away. He might get angry because he can’t process.” I watch her clap again as I take it from her, her feet almost bouncing. “All the confusion. All the worries. It all just goes away.” She laughs and turns for the clothes again. “They’re Gray’s most special ones. For his most precious people.”

  Red. I inspect it, looking at the diagonal lines and wondering why I’ve never seen them before if they’re the best ones. “They weren’t at the castle.”

  “No. They’re for out here. In the real world. Don’t tell him you’ve got one. He’ll be mad at me for giving away his treats.”

  Oh.

  I snicker a little and look over the dresses, not sure I care if he’ll tell her, or me, off for anything. I’ll do whatever I want to do, and until he tells me my truths, he has no right to tell me anything other than that.

  Chapter 5

  Gray

  T hrowing the invitation that I shouldn’t have been looking at on the table, I amble the lines of my apartment trying to counter the need to go to the damn place. I’m not in the mood for parties. Parties are for fun and frivolities, none of which I deserve or want out here in this real world around me.

  I stop by a sculpture, drawn to the near screaming face that seems to echo the same sensation within me, and glare at it. That’s what I feel like I’m doing now – screaming internally at myself, fighting with feelings that shouldn’t live inside me. It was a good time. A time that made me smile for a while and live in a life that wasn’t mine. It doesn’t matter that she’s back here, and it doesn’t matter that I want nothing more than to go to the fucking party and see her.

  I’m not going.

  Damn Malachi’s games.

  And lost her?

  Fool.

  Another grumble falls from me, every fucking curse I can find in my mind following it. Tempting asshole. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and has probably staged the whole damn scenario to make it all seem as provocative as possible. If I didn’t know better, I’d even say he’s dropped a last minute party to make this happen, but he hasn’t.

  I turn back to look at the gold trimmed card lying on the table, infuriated with the baiting it holds. This is the annual death charity, the one I’m supposed to throw money at and paint my face for.

  I’m not doing that either.

  And why the hell does this apartment feel so goddamn empty all of a sudden?

  My fingers push the sculpture off its pedestal, watching as it lands with a crash on the floor and cracks in half. Fucking thing. Screaming? I don’t scream for anything. I am processed. Methodical. Controlled. This chaotic mind melt is unwelcome, as is the thought of her skin under my fingers no matter how seductive the imagery.

  Cracking my neck, I head for the table to rip up the damn card, and then I do the fucking idiotic thing of swerving past it and heading for the stairs. I’m not entirely sure what I'm doing until I get to the bedroom and gaze at the bed, pondering the thought of her in it more than I already have done in this time we’ve been apart. It only takes another few minutes thinking on that visual and I am heading for the shower to get ready for a party I do not want to go to.

  Half an hour later and I’m still cursing every goddamn curse there is, and questioning why the hell I let Malachi into my life, as I wait for the elevator to open. Jackson looks up at me the second I step out of it, as mystified by my appearance as he was earlier.

  “Party,” I snap, annoyed with fucking everything.

  He flips over his itinerary searching to see if he’s missed something. He hasn’t. “Where, Sir? It’s not on your schedule.”

  “The Beekman. Am I not allowed spontaneity?”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  He calls through for Tom and follows me, as I head through the array of cars I don’t use, until we reach the Lincoln. Why don’t I use those? I should. I like driving. Especially on open roads. I half snort, disgusted with the thought of enjoying anything, and slide into the confines of dark corners. Too long ago. They were times when I was allowed fun and the merits of youthful amusement. I'm not that man anymore.

  Tom eventually arrives and begins driving us out of the lot into heavy rain, a slightly dishevelled suit thrown on as if he hurried. That’s annoying, too. I glare out the window rather than take him to task on the matter, trying to dampen the need to explode about things that aren’t his fault in the slightest.

  My eyes close, a long breath hauled in to calm the impending storm that wants to erupt. None of this is anyone’s fault but my own and now I’m doing nothing other than fuelling that storm by giving in to basic need rather than being sensible and forgetting her.

  I snort, a smile tipping my lips – as if I’ll ever forget her. She’s rooted in – her smile, her body, the sound of her seductive tone. She’s buried deeper than even I’ve accepted, and this damn chain in my pocket proves it. I should toss it. Burn it. Break it into pieces and throw them off the top of my building so I can concentrate on matters that need my attention.

  “Sir?”

  “What?”

  “We’re here.”

  I look out into the mass of people congregated round the main doors at the top of the steps, most of them queuing for acceptance, and I watch as Jackson heads for my door. People. Irritating. My gaze narrows, sharp breaths sucked in to counter the anxiety overtaking the annoyance. This is stupidity. It’s nothing more than temptation and imprudence. I stare some more, looking at all the coloured dresses, feathers and outfits, as I search for black in the midst of them.

  The door opens before I’ve seen one, Jackson shielding me with an umbrella as I step out into the evening. My hands find my pockets, the chain more necessary than usual for reasons I can’t, or perhaps don’t want to, comprehend.

  He moves us swiftly, cutting around the si
de of the crowds to gain access to the VIP entrance. Women smile flirtatiously at me under their garish painted faces. They’re not masks here. Not like at Malachi’s. They’re façades on skin, intricately drawn on flesh to enhance bone structure with animals or birds of more useful merit. Men move out of my way to give Grayson Rothburg the respect he apparently deserves, their scowls are clearly visible because I’ve even been allowed in without putting the stupidity of a painted face on.

  I plaster on a half-smile and nod appropriately, uninterested in conversation, or argument, with any of them. Senators and the well-heeled elite of society pass me by, and then the actors and celebrities flaunting their wares. I sneer at the impending sense of dread rolling up my insides and avoid them at all costs, choosing the first glass of champagne that comes my way and a quiet table over on the opposing side of the floor. I’m here for one thing and one thing alone, and once I’ve seen her, maybe indulged myself with a dance, felt her in my hands again, I’m leaving.

  Too many minutes continue with nothing but all the colours of the fucking rainbow getting in my face. I scowl at them all, only breaking the scowl to acknowledge Faith when I eventually see her lithe form with another man. She nods in return and makes her way through the crowds to me, her smile as fake as mine is as she chats amicably with each person she might deem useful at some point.

  The laugh that ricochets over my shoulder before I’m ready for it makes me roll my eyes, ready to attempt defending myself if necessary.

  “I thought you weren’t interested in seeing her.”

  I don’t turn to look at him. “Go away, Malachi.”

  “No. I’m only here to watch the show.”

  “I’m not a show.”

  “I think you are.” He sits and leans on the side of the table near me, somehow managing to drink champagne and laugh at the same time. “Admit it, you’re fascinated. Probably in love.”

  “I’m intrigued. Nothing more than that.”