Chapter 7

NEIL

In their awkward, heavy silence, Neil led her through the castle. She followed him down the long corridor, past the front foyer, and to the study. Neil had stumbled upon the room after Fanny left them in the east wing and he'd unpacked his things. He'd wandered curiously through the long, wide halls until he'd come upon the oak doors. It was as if his soul knew just what he needed.

He'd always had a knack for finding books in people's homes. Neil was the kind of person at parties who wandered bookshelves, judging people on their selections, thumbing through collections as the others mingled about with wine and cocktails dangling from their fingers. He couldn't help it: He was always more at home among stories than people.

Neil pushed open the double doors and motioned for Skinner. She tiptoed inside, lips parting as she took it in. She looked like a child in a candy shop. Tall walls had been gutted and filled with bookshelves, the cases crowded with a library an author could only dream of owning. He'd scanned the titles earlier, fingers brushing over leather-bound novels and encyclopedias dating back centuries.

The study was a place he'd always imagined for himself, a silent, leering friend that took up the better part of a home, dark and lit only by towering windows and firelight. But here in this strange study, the books had hardly been touched, only the chairs and couch well worn.

Of course, there was also the liquor cabinet.

Whoever owned the castle prior had a refined taste in alcohol, or so he guessed through the thick layers of dust coating both the doors and the bottles. The glasses and bottles were exquisite, the collection like something that belonged to a wealthy lord or other. The bottles were sealed shut with wax seals and cork, handwritten labels hidden beneath layers of dust that Neil couldn't quite read. Some of the liquor was decades old, possibly more from the look of them, and Neil could picture the owner in a fine evening jacket, balancing a small glass full of the finest brandy before a large fire.

"Why are you being so nice?" Skinner asked as she pulled a book out from one of the shelves and leafed through its contents, purposefully not looking at him.

Neil shrugged as he leaned over one of the chairs, brow raised. "I'm not being nice, you just looked like you could use a drink and I could use a second set of eyes on this liquor cabinet."

She slid the book back onto the shelf and turned to him, interest piqued. "Right. Liquor cabinet."

He nodded behind him. "I haven't been able to unlock it. You're smart," he started.

Skinner gasped, hand flying to her mouth. "Did the Prince of Horror just compliment me?"

"I hate that name." He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but she'd heard it all the same.

Her mouth opened in surprise, and she stared up at him. "I-I'm sorry," she apologized, voice small. "I didn't realize it was a… Well, if you don't mind my asking, why don't you like it?"

Neil frowned down at her. No one had ever asked him before.

"I'm not royalty. I know I've done… well, but it doesn't warrant some imaginary crown. It feels like an inside joke. People use it snidely; no one ever means anything good when they use it, especially not to my face."

Fuck, was he oversharing?

"That's… tough."

Jaw working, Neil motioned to the liquor cabinet. "I don't need your pity; I need help getting this thing open so I can have a fucking drink."

With a coy smile, she rounded the couch toward him. The sudden approach with a glint in her gray-blue eyes made his heart thud. She was looking at him like he was a delicacy, like he imagined he'd looked back at the ruins.

" That, I can do."

Together, Neil and Skinner searched through desk drawers and small hiding places before Neil produced a large ring of keys. Standing before the liquor cabinet, they tried key after key on the medieval-looking ring to no avail, metal clinking as they abandoned one key for another. When that didn't work, his strange companion produced a hairpin from her hair, short, loose strands falling away in its absence.

Neil tried not to notice the way the hair framed her face, making her gray eyes larger. Or the light scent of her coconut shampoo as her braid continued to unravel. For entirely unknown and confusing reasons, he wanted to reach out and run his fingers through it, let the dark hair slide through them.

"Fuck," she cursed as the hairpin broke.

Clearing his throat, Neil straightened. "There's another way to go about this."

"I'm listening."

Neil took a stumbling step toward the entrance. After a moment of hesitation, Skinner followed him back to the kitchen. Under the sink, he riffled around in a toolbox before unearthing a rusted screwdriver.

"Ah," she said with a nod.

Neil's only response was a brilliant smile.

With painstaking slowness, Skinner pulled out the screws as Neil held up the doors to the liquor cabinet. Their hands played a game, careful to avoid one another as they bent close, nearly forehead to forehead, the silence of the castle surrounding them and spilling into the narrow space separating them. When she leaned close, he arched away, and vice versa. And when the last screw had been twisted free, Neil set aside the doors, and they peered into the open liquor cabinet. The bottles were in a variety of shapes and sizes, most of their labels coated in a healthy layer of dust. Neil reached forward and pulled out a green bottle, wiping a hand over the label to reveal—

"Whiskey," they said in unison as if sighing.

Neil raised a brow, appraising her. How could he possibly forget the way she'd downed that whiskey the night before? "I keep forgetting you're a whiskey drinker."

She smirked, reaching for two glasses. "People like to make assumptions about me." She motioned for the bottle and unstopped it, the sound reverberating in the quiet room. Neil watched in fascination as she wiped the insides of the glasses with a napkin before pouring in two fingers' worth of the amber liquid.

"Most people," she continued, closing and setting aside the bottle, "assume I don't even drink. My dad always warned me about firewater. There's that stereotype about Natives and alcoholism. There have been so many studies over the years, but the one thing I've taken from them is it has nothing to do with genetics. The higher rate of alcoholism in Natives has more to do with contributing factors, things like economic disadvantage, generational trauma, cultural loss, lack of treatment options. My dad loves beer, but he refuses to drink whiskey because he believes he'll become addicted. I've simply limited most of my alcohol consumption to more social environments."

"You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"

"Every single time I drink." She laughed, and Neil was alarmed to find it was a soft sound. "I can hear my dad's voice nagging me at the back of my mind every time I take a sip. When I'm home, I tend to stick to beer, but even then, it's just sad to sit alone and drink."

Skinner held a glass out to him, and he took it, his fingers grazing hers. Neil yanked back with a grimace, whiskey sloshing over them both.

"Sorry," he muttered, setting aside his glass and reaching for a napkin.

"Don't worry 'bout it."

She swatted away the offered napkin. A drop of the amber liquid splashed on the back of her hand, and Neil watched, captivated, as she brought it to her lips and licked it clean. Her tongue snaked out from between bow-shaped lips, trailing a slick path toward her wrist, and the sight of it, the imagery of all the other vulgar things her tongue could do instead, made his cock hard.

Neil had a boner.

For Penelope Skinner.

What in the actual fuck?

He blinked in surprise, something unwelcome flitting about in his thoughts as he stared down at her. He found himself remembering the ruins, the way she felt under him, against him. The way he'd wanted to capture her mouth with his.

Skinner's lips parted, eyes going wide as if she could read his thoughts.

"Would you stop staring at me?" she said, taking a step away, face heating.

The rush of cool air from her absence seemed to knock some sense into him. "Sorry." He laughed awkwardly as he wiped the rim of the bottle with another napkin, angling his body away to hide the bulge in his pants. "Who would've thought we'd end up here four months later."

"Who. Would've. Thought."

Her tone was sharp. Too sharp. Neil frowned at her. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

"Who. Would've. Thought," she repeated. "Do you have any clue what you did to me?"

"To you ? What about what you did to me?"

"To you? To me!"

Neil pinched the bridge of his nose, the whiskey fumes flooding his senses and making his eyes water. "I'm sorry, but what did I ever do to you?"

Skinner blanched. "What. Did. You. Ever. Do. To. Me."

"Stop talking like that. And don't look at me like that," he started.

"Like what?" She stepped forward, eyes narrowed on him. "You ruined everything ."

"Me?" Neil scoffed. " You were the one who threw the book! You made that choice."

"And you? Have you ever stopped to think about the repercussions of your decisions on other Native authors? I had to work ten times harder than you. One, because I can't just prove how Native I am, but also because you keep writing these harmful stereotypes. You can't reclaim the word ‘savage.' You can't claim your characters are changing the world when they themselves are problematic! Misogynistic, racist—what did you think you were doing when you wrote Trent?" Skinner shoved her hand into his chest, making Neil stumble back a step. "For every two-dimensional character, for every racist slur, for every white influencer you cater to in one of your books, me and every other Native author are working to undo that damage and take back the space you're taking up."

"Maybe I didn't want it! Maybe it wasn't me!"

"What?"

They stared at each other for a long, heated moment. Neil could feel his pulse in his fingertips as his chest rose and fell with each breath.

He'd just admitted his biggest worry. That he never wanted this, any of this. He wanted to write. He wanted people to read his books. Neil Storm had wanted so many things, the usual things, but he never meant for any of it to get this far. He never meant to lose sight of his goals and aspirations.

He never meant to hurt her.

"Excuse me?" she panted when he said nothing more.

"Maybe I didn't want it," he repeated. "Maybe I made a lot of bad decisions when I was younger, and now I don't know what to do or where to go. I don't have as much power as you think I do, Skinner."

Skinner opened her mouth to respond, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Thought we heard bickering," Daniela drawled.

Heart in his throat, Neil took a staggering step away from Skinner as if she'd burned him, turning in surprise to where Laszlo and Daniela had appeared in the entry to the study. Laszlo's lips twisted into a frown as he took in the scene.

"Cough it up," Daniela said, motioning to Laszlo.

Laszlo produced a small bill, slapping it into Daniela's palm as he mouthed, Sorry .

"You bet on us?" Skinner spat.

"It's not that big of a deal," Daniela said with a shrug, sauntering into the study. "You two are just predictable."

"Are not," they said in unison.

Neil and Skinner turned toward each other, his fury reflected in her expression.

"Case in point," Daniela slurred. Her eyes flew to the liquor cabinet, hands clasping together. "Oh, you managed to unlock it!" She headed toward it, Neil and Skinner's bickering already forgotten. Neil stepped back as he motioned to the doors behind Skinner.

"By all means."

"Looks more like they removed the doors," Laszlo said with a pointed look.

Neil swept his arm to the cabinet, holding up his glass. "Yes, yes we did. It's not cheating, and it clearly isn't being used. We opened a bottle of whiskey, but there's plenty there."

Daniela lifted and sniffed the bottle, grimacing. "I don't know how you two can stomach it." She coughed, holding the bottle out of reach.

Skinner shook her head as she pried the bottle from Daniela's grasp.

"You get used to it."