"I don't know what's going on, but there's one thing I'm absolutely certain of: Sebastian Michaelis is not human, and I have no clue of what his intention are or what he's capable of doing. "
♞
Bleak.
That, she determined, had become the word to sum...
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♞
Keeping with the theme of the night, Sebastian says nothing more to me than that, and our walk down to the kitchen is silent. When we get there, all he does is tell me to polish the silverware while he finishes up with anything that's left, and I'm again finding myself wishing he would do anything but than that.
All of that goes straight down the drain when he finally decides to break the prolonged silence.
"Your mother is deceased, yes?"
What the fuck, dude? I freeze in the midst of polishing a spoon, only barely stopping myself from chucking it straight at Sebastian, who's beside me wiping down the countertop."Um, wow. That — that's a very outlandish and invasive attempt at small talk, don't you think?"
"I wouldn't call this small talk, Rosalie," he says brazenly, looking to me in all seriousness. "I understand mother is deceased. What was her cause of death?" When I don't answer, he places the towel down and faces me, putting his hand on my waist and turning me around with eyes fading to fuchsia as he pries even further, "Hm?"
Irritated, I look off past his shoulder to avoid his gaze and involuntary vomiting all the information he's wanting from me. "There's no need for that, thanks. Why the hell are you suddenly so curious about the condition of my mom anyways? It's not like you care."
"I don't." His plain words, though they keep me in my senses with how often I've been letting emotions slip around him lately, come as a harsh slap to the face. Even though I'm clearly floored and next to tears, he continues. "How did she die?"
"She was murdered," I say flatly, prying his fingers off of me and trying to busy myself with anything possible to distract myself from the tears stinging in the back of my eyes even if it's just pacing around the kitchen like a lunatic. When was the last time it hurt this much to think about her?
"Murdered?" he asks so casually, as if this were friendly a conversation about the weather or how our days went. "On what charges?"
"I really don't feel like talking about this right now." My voice shakes when I say this, and I can't look up from my hands that have busied themselves with folding and refolding the dish rags, a slight tremble about them as I fling things around. I feel his presence behind me right before he places a cool, gentle hand above my own, and I whirl around, jerking my hand out from under his.
"What is your problem?" I seethe, feeling cornered against the island with how close he's standing to me. A few hours ago, I would've been beyond delighted, but now the carnal heat which would've taken over me is a growing pit of fury and grief.
"I would like to understand, that's all," is his sweetened response, that same pimp voice he uses on Mey-Rin lowered just the slightest bit so it comes off as tender, like he's murmuring intimate words instead of prying about my mother's cause of death.
