Page 103 of 'Til All the Seas Run Dry

And with a swat on the backside from Magda, Jory went after Callum.

34

Callum lay on the bed in the dark, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, and feeling sadder than he’d felt in a long time. He’d had a friend once that referred to such a feeling as being “decadently depressed.” It certainly felt decadent, allowing his despair to roll over him in slow, viscous waves that left behind an oily coating of despondency.

He had everything. Everything money could buy. Everything a person couldfantasizeabout buying. And for what? The one thing he couldn’t buy was the thing he wanted so badly he could taste it. He could tasteher,could remember licking the flavors of seawater and wine out of her very mouth. He wanted her love. He wanted her smiles and her laughter, as freely as she’d given them to him so long ago. He wantedher.

Maybe he’d give it all away. Sell the houses, the cars, the businesses, the investments. Give Nat enough to run the new business for years without needing another cash infusion, even if it struggled—which it wouldn’t. He’d deposit enough money in Penny’s account that she’d never have to work again. She and her wife could summer in Greece and winter in Bali and drive their ridiculous RV all over the country without a care for how to pay for it. He’d give Robbie an equally large sum so that he didn’t have to take the odd jobs that had led him to Callum’s office and could instead do whatever the hell he wanted. Build a stilt house in Laguna Beach or move to Paris or get every single tattoo removed and redone. Whatever. And then he could give the rest to various philanthropic ventures where it could do immense good.

Maybe he’d only keep the house on the island in Scotland. The one he’d built where their little cottage had sat. He’d spend his days in the dark vault that he’d dug into the sediment with his own two hands. And he’d spend his nights sitting outside, listening to the surf pound the coast and feeling the wind whipping across his face. He’d stare out into an endless sea and wonder where in the hell she was beneath that inky surface. Whether she was happy. Whether she thought of him too. Even if only once in a while. He’d imagine her joyfully leaping above the waves and slipping through the water like a knife’s blade.

And he’d be miserably, decadently sad.

Fuck.

He imagined Robbie punching him lightly on the shoulder and telling him that he missed his calling as an emo band frontman. The door to the broom closet opened overhead, and a beam of light swept over the stairs as the trap door lifted. And then it was gone.

“Callum?” Jory called out, her bare feet padding down the steps.

“Aye.”

“Are you o—fuck,” she cursed as something fell over.

“Let me get a light?—”

“No, no! I’m fine! You want to be in the dark, we’ll be in the dark.”

“I dinnae want to be in the dark. It just made for the best ambiance for a pity party.”

Maybe Robbie would teach him to play guitar. This album was going to write itself.

She shuffled toward the bed, touching his arm before carefully climbing in one knee at a time. Jory settled her body on the bed next to his, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. She reached out and threaded her fingers through his, holding his hand. It feltso goddamn good, but only made the gaping wound in his chest feel even more cavernous than five minutes before.

“I think we should talk,” she said quietly, her voice warm and resonant in the cool darkness.

“It seems we should.”

She sighed.

“When were you going to tell me you’re giving Niamh the apartment?”

Another long sigh.

“I don’t know.”

He felt a spark of anger. “Really? In all of our texts and video chats, in all the times I’ve seen you? You couldnae mention it? That you were even considering such a thing?”

She was quiet for a long time. Finally, she whispered, “I was afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. Afraid,” she said with a huff. “You’ve lived a thousand lives. You’ve been a duke, for Christ’s sake. You’ve been everything. You’ve rubbed arms with royals and have businesses and houses and properties and are richer than Midas, and I have—” Her voice dropped off, like a stone hurled over a cliffside. A sudden leaving. “I have nothing but myself.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “When we were… before… I was going to beg my father to make you immortal. I was going to give you that, to give yousomethingfor all that you had given me. But I can’t give you that anymore. You’re already immortal. You already have that. You already have everything.”

“Jory, I?—”

“No,” she said sharply. “I need to say this. My father begged me not to stay on land with you. He prophesied that it would only bring me heartbreak. But I loved you. I might have loved you from the moment you opened your eyes. And so I stayed. I stayed on land to bewith you. And then you left.”