Page 207 of Dark Night of the Soul

“Me, too,” I said, and meant it.

I made introductions and instantly noticed Ludwig and Ophelia sizing each other up. That was going to be… interesting. Ulrich stayed quiet and assessing, like he was cataloguing exits even in a reunion.

And by then, I was… peopled out. Exhaustion hit hard, fast, like my body had been waiting for the front door to close before it admitted how drained I was.

He sensed it. Whether he read it on my face or in my head, I didn’t know.

Kincade’s hand settled at the small of my back.

“Ulrich, grab the bags,” he said, and steered me toward the stairs.

“On it,” Ulrich said.

“But—” I started.

“No arguments,” Kincade said. “That’s enough for today.”

He guided me up the stairs like we’d done it a thousand times before. Like this wasn’t my first time walking back into a house that had been taken from me.

The hallway smelled the same. Wax and old wood and whatever lemon-clean thing Piers swore by. Familiar in a way that made my throat tighten.

But instead of going to the bedroom, I veered toward the library.

The scene of the crime.

I halted in the doorway. Same desk. Same executive chair. Same bookshelves lining the walls. Morning light filtered through the curtains in a cheerful, sunny way that didn’t know what had happened here four months ago.

He was right behind me, close enough that his warmth washed over me. Waiting for me to decide what to do next.

My gaze landed on the desk. I’d stood there when the Watcher came. When he grabbed me. When I stabbed him with the letter opener.

It was still there on the desk. Like someone couldn’t bring themselves to put it away where it belonged.

I stood there, trying to picture what happened after I was taken. Not that it mattered. It didn’t.

This was the room where we’d had private conversations. Where we’d talked about nothing important. Where we’d shared an evening glass of whiskey.

I was hesitant to move forward.

His hand landed on my elbow. He guided me inside and paused at the liquor cart. The same cart with its crystal glasses and decanters catching the light.

He poured two drinks and handed one to me.

We stood there in the silence. Him holding his glass. Me holding mine. For a long moment, I didn’t know if I wanted to accept it. It felt bold, drinking whiskey on a bright morning.

Then he said, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

I grinned—and drank.

And when the glass was empty, he took it from my hand like it was the only thing he could do. And it was.

He guided me back down the hall, hand at the small of my back—steady and sure.

The hallway felt longer than I remembered. Or I was that tired.

The bedroom door at the end of the hall was closed. He opened it and let me go first.

I stepped inside—and stopped.