Chapter 46 Night Talk
Sloane's POV
That hand with its prominent knuckles was now a bloody mess, the joints badly damaged and oozing blood.
On the wall not far from him, there was a clear dent with cracks spreading out like a spider web around the edges.
Something hit my chest.
I said nothing more, turned and walked into the bathroom, taking out the medical kit from the mirror cabinet.
Back at his side, I crouched down, opened the box, used tweezers to pick up a cotton ball soaked in disinfectant, and gently touched the wound on his hand.
He finally reacted, his body trembling almost imperceptibly. He looked up, staring at me with those bloodshot eyes without blinking.
"Why aren't you resting?" I kept my eyes down, focused on what I was doing, my tone as calm as if asking about the weather.
Watching me carefully clean his wound, his Adam's apple bobbed, and his hoarse voice carried a hint of self-mockery, "Can't sleep."
I didn't respond, just silently, bit by bit, cleaned the debris and dried blood from the wound.
The air was filled only with the faint sound of cotton balls brushing against skin, and the suppressed breathing between us.
"Are you..." he suddenly spoke, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, as if asking me, or perhaps asking himself, "not wanting a child?"
My hand paused as I applied ointment to his wound.
So he had kicked down the door last night and stayed awake all night, not because I hung up on him, not because I left the party without permission, but because he thought I didn't want to have children anymore.
His heir plan was falling apart.
I looked up, meeting his searching gaze, and suddenly had no energy to argue with him. I simply stated a fact as simple as could be, "In an unhappy marriage, the child won't be happy either."
The words cut through the tension he had maintained all night with surgical precision.
He suddenly grabbed my left hand that was applying medicine, so hard that I couldn't help but frown.
He stared at me intently, his eyes churning with emotions I couldn't understand, struggling violently.
"Then what kind of marriage do you want?" he asked, each word seeming to squeeze out from between his teeth, carrying an all-or-nothing obsession, "Sloane, tell me."
It was the first time he asked me what I wanted.
Not in a commanding tone, not with a giving attitude, but with a hint of almost desperate urgency.
But I had nothing left to give.
That Sloane who once had eyes only for him, who longed to have a normal family with him, had died in last night's despairing silence.
I looked at him without answering, just shifted my gaze to his hand gripping mine, and reminded him in a flat tone, "Your hand."
My calm and distance seemed to unsettle him more than any fierce accusation could.
He slowly released my hand, as if all his strength had been drained away.
"I want to make this work with you." He said softly, like a sigh, "Sloane, give me some more time, okay?"
I looked at the bloodshot lines in his eyes, the exhaustion on his face, the clumsily bandaged wound on his hand. Something stirred in my chest.
I knew this might be another tactic he was using to placate me, a show he was putting on for me for the sake of that heir plan.
But I still somehow nodded, "Okay."
The moment that word left my mouth, I saw his tense shoulders suddenly relax, as if finally relieved of a thousand-pound burden, and those bottomless eyes finally showed a glimmer of light.
I put away the medical kit and stood up, "Go sleep on the bed."
Like an obedient child, he stood up compliantly, followed me to the bed, and lay down.
I pulled the covers over him and turned to leave, but my wrist was caught by him again.
"Stay with me for a while." He looked at me, his eyes carrying a childlike dependence.
I sat down by the bed, and he rested his head on my lap, like a weary beast finally finding harbor.
"At the party, Grandma said you're the best surgeon, is that true?" He asked with his eyes closed, his voice muffled.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't ask."
He was silent for a moment, then asked, "What about now?"
"My hand was injured." I answered flatly.
His body stiffened on my lap, his grip on my wrist unconsciously tightening, but he didn't pursue the question further.
"Did you like that dress?"
"It was okay."
"What gift did you buy for Father?"
"A set of cigars and cufflinks."
He asked one question after another, all trivial and unimportant things, as if he just wanted to hear my voice. I patiently answered each one, my voice steady, emotionless, like reading a boring report.
After some time, his questions gradually decreased, and his breathing became even and long.
Just when I thought he had fallen asleep, he suddenly asked another question, his voice as light as sleep talk.
"Sloane, do you love me?"
My heartbeat skipped a beat in that instant.
I looked down at his sleeping profile. Long lashes cast a quiet shadow under his eyes, and in sleep he had shed all his defenses and hostility, handsome as an innocent god.
I reached out my hand, my fingertips hovering above his features, but never landing.
Love?
I used to love him.
Loved him enough to give up my most proud career, loved him enough to endure all his suspicion and hurt, loved him like a moth to flame, completely and utterly.
But now?
I withdrew my hand, not answering that question that had long lost its meaning.
"Jared," I gently patted his cheek, my voice as soft as a breeze, "you know, autumn in New York is short, as if before you've had time to see enough of those golden fallen leaves, winter arrives."
"There's a large maple forest behind the group home. Every year at this time, Director Aria would take us to collect maple leaves and make them into bookmarks. She said that way we could keep autumn..."
I rambled on, talking about things he had never heard, never cared about, about my past.
By the time I stopped, the man resting on my lap had completely fallen into deep sleep.
I quietly watched him, and after a long while, slowly pulled my lips into a cold arc without any hint of a smile.
Jared, I won't love you anymore.
But this time, I'll make you fall in love with me.
And then, I'll make you taste all the piercing pain I've endured.
When I woke up, the bed beside me was already cold.
I sat up, my whole body feeling like it had been taken apart and put back together, sore and weak. There was a glass of warm water on the nightstand.
Throwing off the covers, I went downstairs barefoot, and the smell of food drifted through the air.