Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Even…that.
That was what hurt the most.
That what had been so intimate, so shattering for Cillian…
Had just been casual sex for Brendan.
I knew what this was when I agreed to go along with it, he reminded himself, ignoring the burning in his eyes and the stinging in his nostrils to start the video over again. It’s my own fault I got hurt.
A light knock came at his door. Probably Maxwell, here to try to make him eat again when he was fine, he ate enough. It wasn’t like he was pining himself away in the dark.
He just…preferred to be alone, right now.
Haven’t you always been alone?
You told Brendan you were just like anyone else…but didn’t you always pull back? Why don’t you have any friends, Cillian?
Because he was just like Brendan.
Run away before they hurt you.
The subtle hint of deference in every word. The trace of obligation in every smile. The feeling that every relationship he’d had here at home had been false, as if real life were the stage play and it was only when performing that he touched into…into…
Something real.
So he’d run away into his fantasy world, where things could feel more real than real. Run away from home, from the people here, to somewhere where people wouldn’t see him as a title, an institution, an extension of his family, the continuation of pointless tradition that didn’t mean anything to him but that was steeped into every rock of this island. Somewhere where no one knew him or gave a damn about him, and he’d liked it that way when he’d rather have honest dismissal over false, obligatory smiles.
Somewhere where if people were going to look up to him, it would be for something he’d actually done instead of just how he was born.
And now he’d run away from that, too.
Who am I if I’m just running back and forth, constantly running away from one life or the other?
That knock came again, and he sighed, pushing himself up on one elbow. “I already told you I’m not hungry, Maxwell.”
“As your mother,” floated through the door, “it worries me that you’ve had to say that to him more than once. Have you not been eating at all? I’ve missed you at the dinner table.”
Cillian winced and flopped back onto his back. “…I’ve been eating. He’s just nannying me. The door’s open, Mum.”
He was surprised she’d even knocked.
For as long as he could remember, she’d just walked in. Her castle, her rules, that sort of thing, and it made him feel like…
Like he was still, ever and always, a little boy in her eyes.
The way she looked at him as she let herself into his suite didn’t help that—that mixture of concern and something almost like pity. Pity the wayward son, her fuckup youngest who just couldn’t settle on anything.
“Cillian.” His mother settled to sit on the edge of his bed, looking down at him. “How long do you intend to stay cloistered? We’ve no monastery here, but you could found one with the way you’re acting.”
“…I’m no monk,” Cillian muttered, closing his eyes. “What does it matter? I’m useless here.”
“You are not.” Clucking her tongue, she patted his knee. “You should really be talking with people, getting to know your constituents—”
“…they’re not my constituents, they’re still Uncle’s, and they will be for a long time, so I don’t know why I’m even here.” Cillian sat up, dragging one hand through his hair, propping his elbow against his upraised knee. “Mum, I…”
“Say it, dearest. Whatever it is.”
“Why won’t you let me grow up?” he demanded.
His mother’s lips thinned. “If you recall, I’ve been begging you to do just that.”
“No, you haven’t, because your idea of ‘growing up’ is doing exactly as you tell me in exactly the manner you approve of,” he bit off. “Which isn’t any different from just being a child, still clinging to your skirts and begging for scraps of affection just like Andrew and Stuart.”
“…you will not speak of your brothers so terribly,” she retorted. “I wasn’t aware I was such a cruel mother.”
“You aren’t cruel, but you are smothering me,” Cillian said with a sigh. “And you smothered them. It’s fine if they’re happy that way. I’m not.”
She drew herself up, folding her hands in her lap stiffly. “You’ll have to pardon me for trying to protect you. I’m speaking as an older and cooler head, Cillian—people fly too close to the sun, and their wings melt away.”
“Mine didn’t melt off. They were ripped off,” Cillian replied bitterly. “I had people who supported me. Who lifted me up. Who wanted to see me fly high. You’re the one who ripped me down. You’re the one who taught me it’s better to hide away from the world than do something that matters.”
“Was I?” Cool, aloof. Queen of the stone castle. Then she slipped a hand into her cardigan, and delicately withdrew an envelope addressed to him—and already opened. “Then perhaps you’d care to explain this.”