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I hum in agreement, letting another frisson of energy leak from my fingertips.
Séverin’s head slowly turns toward me, freckled nose twitching. Maybe he is finally sensing me the same way I sense him.
Something other.
Something strange.
Something more.
Chapter Thirteen
Bellamy
Sunday’s lunch is the most incredibly boring thing I’ve ever seen—a depressing concoction of meat, broccoli, and rice. I’d blame it on the fact he’s been sick, but it’s the same meal he’s eaten every day since I started here.
Except today, he doesn’t even finish it, dumping the contents in the trash can before loading the container into the dishwasher.
The tension in his shoulders from earlier is gone, leaving a defeated slope in its place. He absentmindedly rubs at the back of his head, wincing at the touch.
“Are you okay?” I find myself asking out of politeness.
He jumps like he’s forgotten I was curled up on the two-seater in the corner, his sunken eyes darting this way and that. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Went for an…unexpected swim the other day and hit my head.”
“Should you be at work?” Head injuries are no joke.
“Can’t really afford not to be,” he gripes, which, in this economy, is a fair point. “You want these? They’re your favorite, right?” He pushes a small box of juicy red strawberries in my direction.
I take them from him, dumbfounded at the gesture. They’re good quality, judging by the sweet smell and vibrant hue.
“Are you sure?” I look back up to find him prodding at a splash of livid purple between the valleys of black on his arm.
“Yeah, you have them,” he murmurs, checking his other arm. Bruising covers his skin, partially hidden by the tattoos.
“You really did a number on yourself, huh?” He always used to get bruises on his hips and thighs from walking into things when we were younger, but arms seem like an odd place.
He scowls at his flesh and stalks out of the room, muttering something about purple being the only color he can tolerate.
It seems the strawberries managed to knock a dent in my resolve to keep Sunday at arm’s length, because the following day I find myself stopping by the coffee shop on the way into work.
I order my usual chai latte and a cappuccino for Lara. When the barista asks if I want anything else, I almost order one for Sunday, too, until I remember his grumbly hangover days from college. I end up getting him a pistachio cream cold brew instead, in case he’s still not feeling well.
And since she apparently has a sixth sense for mischief, Delphine appears beside me as I walk through the ornate glass doors to the museum just as Séverin is jogging down the atrium steps. Judging by the way he misses the last few and nearly eats mosaic, I’d say he’s probably reached the point where he can see her full form.
“One…two…three…” She counts the cups dramatically. “But Séverin can’t drink any of those, so tell me, who is that for?”
I dodge her attempt at sticking her finger into the cream and pick up my pace. Mildly useless, because she’s a ghost and can just teleport using our tether.
“None of your business,” I say, which, for Delphine, roughly translates to all of your business.
She disappears as I drop off Lara’s and my drinks on our respective desks before making my way to Sunday’s workshop, only to return once the workshop door is in view.
I roll my eyes at the new bat mount he’s put on the door, a crudely etched bat cave carved into a wooden plaque.
Still an idiot, then.
“Well, look! He does own something white!” Delphine exclaims as she melts through Sunday’s workshop door, leaving me to awkwardly rap my knuckles on it.
Something flutters in my gut at the sound of his voice calling me in, and I remind myself that I’m supposed to be mad at him. I’m not supposed to have butterflies; I’m meant to have wasps.
