The King(138)

An endless stream of sucking need.
Getting to his feet, Saxton straightened the clothes he’d been wearing since he’d gone to his father’s house and discovered the truth when it was too late.
Whatever was coming next? He was in Wrath’s corner—and not just because his father and he were estranged.
He knew all too well what it was like to be forced into a mold you didn’t fit—and then demonized for failing convention.
He and Wrath were kindred spirits.
Tragically.
In silence and with a heavy heart, Sola walked through the house she had shared with her grandmother, going from room to room, seeing everything and yet nothing.
“I can hire someone to do this,” Assail said quietly.
Stopping in the kitchen, she stood over the little round table and looked out the window. Even though there were no external lights on, she pictured the back porch, seeing it covered with snow. Seeing him standing there in the cold.
Little frustrating. She had come here with collapsed U-Haul boxes to pack up personal stuff—not reminisce about this man. But as she opened cupboards and made estimates about how much wadded newspaper she was going to need, he was all that was really on her mind: Not the house she was leaving, not the things she was going to have to let go of, not the years that had passed since the autumn day she and her grandmother had come here and decided that yes, this house would do for the two of them.
Lot of time had passed.
And yet the only thing on her mind was the man standing behind her.
“Marisol?”
She looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry?”
“I asked where you would like to start?”
“Ah … upstairs, I think.”
Heading out into the living room, she picked up some of the unformed boxes, slipped some rolls of tape on her wrist, and took the stairs up. At the landing, she decided … her room.
It was the work of a moment to set up one of the medium-size boxes, the tape ripping out with a noise like fabric tearing, her teeth helping her scissor strips off, the four sides becoming solid and capable of holding things.
Her grandmother had been doing Sola’s laundry long enough that the woman had known what clothes were favorites and had already brought them over to Assail’s. What was left in the bureau were the second stringers, and she tossed them over without sweating any folding business: yoga pants that had been washed so many times they were dark gray, not black; turtlenecks that had lost their elastic around the throat but were still functional in a pinch; bras that were a little frayed at the cups; fleeces that had pilled up; jeans from high school that she used as a scale to judge her weight.
“Here,” Assail said gently.
“What…” As she looked at his handkerchief, she realized she was crying. “Sorry.”
Before she knew it, she’d sat down on her twin bed. And after blotting at her eyes, she stared at the handkerchief, running the fine fabric back and forth under her fingertips.
“What ails you?” he asked, his knees cracking as he knelt beside her.
Looking over, she studied his face. God, she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought it was harsh. It was … beautiful.
And his extraordinary moonlight-colored eyes were pools of compassion.
But she had a feeling that was going to change.
“I have to leave,” she said roughly.
“This house? Yes, of course. And we shall put it on the market, and you—”
“Caldwell.”
The stillness that came over him was as pronounced as a burst of activity—everything changed, even as he remained in the same position.
“Why.”#p#分页标题#e#
She took a deep breath. “I can’t … I can’t just stay with you forever.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, I can’t.” She refocused on his handkerchief. “I’m leaving in the morning and taking my grandmother with me.”
Assail burst up and paced around the cramped room. “But you are safe with me.”
“I can’t be a part of the life you’re living. I just … can’t.”
“My life? What life.”
“I know what’s coming next. With Benloise gone, you’re going to need to get your product somewhere—and you’re going to solve that problem in a way that puts you in charge of not just supplying Caldwell’s many retail customers, but wholesaling the eastern seaboard.”
“You know not what my plans are.”
“I know you, though. Dominance is what you do—and that’s not a bad thing. Unless you’re someone trying to get away from all”—she motioned her hand back and forth—“this.”
“You don’t need to be a part of my work.”