His voice, so like mine, whispering words of damnation to me. To her. To our child. My fingers tremble, clenched tight around my glass, the ice clinking against the sides. I downed the drink moments ago, but I need another one.
I need another one.
I need her.
Her, her, her.
It’s always fucking been her.
But he’s here. Whispering to me. And it isn’t real. I know it isn’t real. He’s dead, buried in an unmarked grave behind Sanctum. But right now, it doesn’t matter that he’s a fucking corpse. Right now, he’s in my head and he’s in my fucking room at our house, and I—
“Luce?” a voice whispers in the dark.
I flinch, sloshing the ice and the dregs of my drink over the edge of the cup as I leap out of bed, my heart racing. My eyes try to adjust to the darkness, but I can’t see anything and now I hear him all over again.
“You’re nothing. You are nothing. You will never be anything. Pammie never touched you, Lucifer. What woman in their right mind would want you, when they could have me?”
“Lucifer?” that other voice whispers and I back against the bed, my hand shaking so violently that the glass slips from my fingers, hits the floor with a thud, ice spilling across the hardwood.
But it didn’t shatter.
At least it didn’t shatter like that glass I threw at Sid’s head.
My chest caves as my father’s whispers grow louder. I clamp my hands over my ears, my pulse thudding too fast in my chest. The blow, and the memories, and the fear and disgust have my heart palpitating.
Stop.
I say it in my head, over and over, trying to hold onto something that’s real. My wife. Her love for me. She loves me. I know she loves me. She ran because she loves me. Because she loves our child and she won’t let him…she would never let him take that from me. From us. She’d never…
“Lucifer!” Someone’s fingers are around my arms and I flinch, dropping my hands from my ears and shooting them out, knocking into someone solid. Real.
I hear a feminine cry, a gasp of shock.
My eyes snap open and my vision seems to clear. I’m in my room, a light on in the hall, spilling past my doorway.
Illuminating Ophelia.
How did she get here? Why is she at my house? How long have I been home?
I’m breathing hard and I glance over my shoulder, see light streaming in through the blackout curtains of mine and Sid’s room.
What fucking time is it?
“Why are you…” I turn back to O, shaking my head, taking in what she’s wearing. A white, low cut top tucked into her jeans, high-waisted, showing off her thick thighs. Her blond hair is up in a braided bun, tied with a red bandana, matching the lipstick on her mouth. “What are you doing here?”
I run my fingers through my hair and realize I’m not wearing a shirt. I’m in black basketball shorts, bare feet. I take in the rocks glass, the spilled ice. The bottle of vodka tipped over on its side, thankfully capped.
What the fuck?
Glancing at my black nightstand, I see coke residue, and my fingers twitch, wanting to get to it. Dab it up, place it on my tongue.
But O is watching me.
And I still don’t know why the fuck she’s here.
“You called me,” she says quietly, darting her eyes past me.
I turn to see what she’s looking at. Oh. My cell phone, in the middle of the rumpled gray sheets. I don’t remember calling her. When the fuck did I call her?
Why?
Last night…it was late when we got back. Mav drove me here. Told me him and Ella would stay the night if I needed them, but I told him to fuck off. I don’t need him.
I need her.
Then it all comes flooding back to me. The fucking photo. Elijah’s guard. Dead.
Someone is following Sid.
Mav said Elijah and the 6 are going to try to talk to Jeremiah fucking goddamn Rain this morning, but I can’t be there.
My fingers curl into fists and O takes a step toward me, her white sneakers squeaking on my polished floor.
I even hired a housekeeper for Sid. She didn’t want one, told me it was a waste of money, but I insisted. I was gone a lot, odd hours, working for the fucking cult.