Chapter 30 He detests me
LEITANA
The ride back to the villa was so quiet I swear if a fly had somehow slipped inside the car, the buzzing of its wings would have sounded like thunder. That was how heavy the silence felt.
I pressed myself against the window, as far from him as the seat allowed. I could feel his gaze on me even though the blindfold hid his eyes. Every breath I took felt dangerous, like if I exhaled too loudly, he would snap the way he had in the dining room, right before everything went black.
So I stayed perfectly still. I didn’t tremble. I kept my breathing slow and careful. Goosebumps rose everywhere his stare touched, my neck, my arms, the curve of my shoulder peeking from the hospital gown they had changed me into. I waited for the explosion I knew was coming.
He had spoken to the doctors. He knew now.
He knew I was dying, and he would be furious I had never told him.
Of course he had the right to be angry.
I pictured him calling my parents, those strangers who claimed to have birthed me and telling them their spare daughter was broken after all. The thought sent ice down my spine.
Tears stung the backs of my eyes.
He wasn’t always like this. Before the library, before the choking, there had been moments, small, confusing moments, when his mouth curved in that half-smile and the words “little lamb” followed like a secret meant only for me. I missed those moments. I missed him.
Stupid, stupid girl.
My hand moved without permission, rising to my throat. For a second I swear I could still feel his cold fingers wrapped around it, squeezing the air from my lungs.
“Does it still hurt?”
His deep voice cut through the silence like a blade. My eyes flew wide. I whipped my head toward him. He was staring, head tilted slightly downward at the hand clutching my neck. I yanked it away as if my own skin had burned me.
I looked out the window again.
“No… no, mi fine, sir,” I lied, the words tumbling out too fast.
“Sir?” he repeated, soft and cold.
I said nothing. My heart hammered against my ribs. My fingers twisted together in my lap so hard the joints ached. Would he hit me for that one word? We had moved past “sir” long ago. I had been calling him Ravial, sometimes shyly, sometimes breathlessly in the dark. But fear had changed everything.
“When were you going to tell me you were terminally ill?” he asked, voice strangely calm. “The day you collapsed and never woke up? On your last breath?”
I risked a glance. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He stared out his own window at the trees rushing past, but his fists rested on his thighs, huge, veined, clenched so tight the knuckles were white. Those hands looked ready to break something.
Or someone.
I swallowed hard, remembering my nineteenth birthday. The fainting spells had started months earlier, little blackouts the sisters thought might be pregnancy (they had been horrified until tests proved otherwise). Then came the morning I wouldn’t wake. They carried me to the small clinic first, then all the way to the big hospital in Luganville. A visiting doctor from Australia had been there only that week. She ran the tests herself and gave the nuns the name none of us had ever heard before: Lyran-Floros Syndrome.
I remembered feeling… relieved.
No cure. No expensive treatments. Nothing that would bankrupt the orphanage that had already kept me years longer than they were required to. Soon I would go home to Papa God without being a burden to anyone.
I had accepted it. I had made peace with it.
Until now.
“…It doesn’t matter now,” he said suddenly, voice rough, like the words hurt him. He cut himself off, turned toward me and lifted his hand.
Slowly.
Reaching for my face.
I flinched, just a little, but I didn’t duck or cry out this time. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the blow.
It never came.
No pain. No slap. Nothing.
The car rolled to a sudden stop.
My eyes snapped open.
He was already pushing the door open, stepping out into the gravel drive of the villa. The door shut with a quiet, final thud.
I sat frozen, staring at the empty space beside me.
He hadn’t touched me.
Hadn’t hit me.
Hadn’t even finished reaching.
So if he wasn’t going to strike me… what had he been about to do?
Brush my cheek the way he used to? Trace my jaw with that terrifying gentleness that made my knees weak?
The thought hurt more than any slap could.
A bitter little laugh escaped me, sharp with tears.
Stupid, Leitana.
That man is gone.
He doesn’t
care anymore.
He detests you now.
And the worst part?
I missed him anyway.