*Mirabelle*
I dress for supper in a rather somber mood. So the west wing isn’t entirely full of dying people. I feel like a fool… and I feel belligerent at the same time. Rhys is taking care of his patients’ bodies, obviously. But he doesn’t care about how tedious it is to lie in those beds, day after day.
Still, it’s hardly my business. We are ill-suited, and the idea that he might fall in love with me ever, let alone in two weeks, is laughable. Marriage is out of the question.
So I write a note to the Alpha, requesting that we leave the next day. I have to decide what to do with my life, and that means going back to my father’s house, first of all. The… perhaps a trip. Perhaps the Continent.
It sounds rather lonely… but then I have been lonely ever since my mother died.
Annoyed with
