26. Thomas

CHAPTER 26

Thomas

When we get back to the estate, I skip another cup of coffee and go straight for the liquor cabinet in my office. I grab a bottle of my father's whiskey- a drink I don't usually prefer- and a crystal glass, and go back to my bedroom. Iris would dispute this, but I'm not prone to brooding. Tonight, however, my head is pounding, the bandage on my side needs to be changed, and I haven't seen Clara in almost twenty-four hours.

Why that is part of the reason why my jaw feels so tense and my mood so black, I don't want to examine.

My room is evening dark as I close myself inside it. Most of the light coming in is from Clara's room across the courtyard. I avoid looking into it, focused on walking around my desk and pouring myself a glass of the whiskey. The first drink burns all the way down and leaves raw heat in its wake.

I stare down into the dark liquid left in the glass without really seeing it, thinking of my father. Thinking of his complacency and his failures. Did I push Clara so hard to help me fight against her uncle because of my lingering disappointment in him? Or was I focusing on her emotional hang ups in order to ignore mine?

This civil war with Morgan Speare has defined so much of my life and so many of my relationships that ending it doesn't feel possible anymore. It's a thought I've never voiced out loud and never will. I went through so many talks with Morgan to create this truce between our families, all to give the Warwick family the space to reorganize and crush him permanently.

But the truce has lasted barely a few months and it's already falling apart. My worst doubts drove me to waste time on Clara, first thinking she was a plant by her uncle, and then wanting to use her to get inside information. I should have just moved forward with Derrick and relied on my own abilities, as I've always done.

I take another long swallow of whiskey, wishing it was rum instead. Or coffee. But the burn of the alcohol reminds me of my father, of cigarette smoke so thick it made the office look hazy. On my very worst days, I wish I'd never given up my addiction to tobacco, an addiction I inherited from him and kicked on my own. I'll be damned if any force in my life controls me more than myself. Instead, I settle for pouring myself a second glass of whiskey, then open a drawer in my desk, pull out a miniature block of chocolate, and soothe the fire with its rich sweetness.

With the remains of my drink, I finally wander over to the window to check on Clara.

She's hunched on her bed, her old sketchbook in her lap. With what looks like a pen, she scribbles furiously over one page, then gives up and flips to a fresh one. I can't tell if she's writing or drawing, but either way, she doesn't look like she's having much success.

I study her loose hair, her messy part a testament to fingers run restlessly through it. Her long legs are bare- she's dressed in a loose button up and shorts that must have been part of the clothes Iris bought for her. She looks ready for bed or freshly risen, and I try to push the thought of her tangled in bedsheets out of my mind.

Clara suddenly snaps her sketchbook shut and flings it to the end of her bed, along with the pen. She pulls her knees up to her chest and presses her face into them, her hair hiding her expression from view. I take another drink of whiskey, preferring to think the unpleasant feeling in my chest is from the alcohol and not her obvious despair.

After a moment of stillness, Clara shifts, turning her face toward my window and resting her cheek on her knee. For a wild moment, I think she meets my eyes. But that's impossible, these windows are shielded. She can't see through them. Nevertheless, her gaze is just accurate enough that the hair on my neck rises.

Without laying a hand on me, it's as if she's jolting me awake. Her long eyelashes blink over piercing dark eyes, her lips parting ever so slightly, and a pulse travels through my body. My pants are half unzipped. With one hand I grip my crystal glass hard. With the other I grip my cock, considering.

Last night I'd come very close to taking Clara a second time. It would have been wild and hurried, like fucking her in my car. But would I have been sated? Was I fully satisfied the first time, when I was far too aware of how bad an idea every kiss and thrust was? Or will we need to take each other apart over the course of hours in a bed before I can flush her out of my system?

Or… would it be better to kick this addiction too, before it can sink its claws into me?

I squeeze my cock a little more firmly, taking a long, deep breath and savoring the pressure. This is how it should stay. I'll observe her while she can never truly observe me. This has to be enough.

I stroke my shaft a few more times before I stop myself. Getting myself off at the mere suggestion of Clara's gaze while she can't actually see me doesn't sound prudent. It sounds pathetic. If I'm going to let her fuck with my body's impulses, then I'm going to make sure I'm fucking with hers too.

A third glass of whiskey doesn't sound prudent either, but if I'm drinking at my desk, I'm not going over to Clara's room and laying her out on her bed. I force myself to turn away from the window, but I still see movement out of the corner of my eye. I stop without meaning to, and watch as she unfolds from the bed and goes to a small paper bag lying in the middle of her floor. There are tubes of paint peeking out of it, and Clara scoops them up, along with brushes and a palette, and sits herself down directly on the other side of her window.

Facing me.

When Clara begins sifting through colors and squeezing them out onto the palette, I'm completely enthralled. She doesn't hesitate before dabbing her brush into the paint and leaving a broad stroke of olive green on the glass of her window. Line after line appears, bringing to life the texture of rugged bark and a web of branches. It hits me like a blow when she starts painting in the leaves as rich purple, vibrant pink, and pale peach. Every color but the traditional.

She doesn't wait for any element to dry before moving onto the next. Colors smear together and she has to go back to redefine shapes. I lose sight of her behind the tree as it blooms, but in a way, I'm seeing more of her than I ever have before.

I don't know how long I stand there, watching her bring this enormous tree to life, but when she finally steps back from the window, I take a breath and it feels like coming up for air after nearly drowning. The top of the tree is as high on the window as Clara could reach on her tiptoes, and the branches spread so far to either side that they obscure most of the room. Each individual leaf bursts with life and color, made even more gorgeous by the light of her bedroom shining through the thin layer of the paint.

If I didn't know better, I would think she was trying to keep me from spying on her. Nevermind that I could just have the window scrubbed clean again. But that's not what this is. The frustration she was pouring out into her sketchbook, her long, contemplative look at my window- they tell me she has something to say, but until she grabbed those paints, she didn't know how to say it.

Now, she's calling out to me. And I'll be damned if I refuse to answer her.