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Chapter Sixty-Four
Let’s Get Out of Here
For once Clare ignored the call of the city and went directly from the dining hall to Numair’s, even knowing there was no point. That she’d left him in the palace and he wasn’t likely to make an appearance later. He hadn’t any of the other nights she’d come.
But she found Ida in the library, as she had so many other nights, and they settled into their typical routine: Ida made tea, they both chose a book, and then they read in silence while never once discussing their one mutual connection.
When Ida retired for the night, Clare went up to Numair’s room. She didn’t mean to fall asleep. She didn’t expect him to walk in late in the night, barely visible in the soft blue light from the wall flowers that illuminated the room, and she didn’t mean to wake silently at his entrance. Waking silently was an ingrained habit, and it wasn’t until he pulled off his shirt that it occurred to her to tell him she was there.
But the words of greeting never left her mouth because the fingernail marks down his back made something feral come out of her throat. He spun as she sat up and she saw the mark on his collarbone, another on his neck, saw the red flush that hit his cheeks, the shame that lit his eyes before he shut his emotions down and grabbed a clean shirt, pulling it on.
“What are you doing here?” he bit out. The caustic in his voice could have melted flesh. It bounced off her harmlessly. She understood it, that instinctual response to shame, even if she didn’t understand why the shame came in the first place.
Except she understood it was a response to her, to that sound she’d made, to the sudden urge she had to walk out of this room and hold his latest lover by her hair above some fathomless precipice. Until this moment, she’d never grasped why people who saw her scars wanted to get rid of them. The marks couldn’t harm her anymore. The pain they had caused had been gone long ago.
But she finally realized that they could hurt others. That seeing them could cause others pain. But even understanding didn’t change her resolve to never let the Song take hers from her, so she quelled the itch in her fingers that begged her to touch her fingertips to Numair’s skin and heal every single one of those marks.
“Well?” he demanded, his gaze unflinching, blood seeping through his white shirt from the scratches.
She shrugged and fell back against his pillows, forcing herself into the easy, taunting dynamic they spent most of their time together in. “I didn’t realize you had calling hours now. Should I leave and come back once I’ve sent an official letter requesting to see you, Highness?”
Her eyes dared him to say yes, because what she was really asking was, “Do you not want me here anymore?” and they both knew it. Was his renewed connection with her earlier only a misstep in that distance growing between them?
“No.” His shoulders sagged. “No, just…let me know you’re here, next time.”
Next time. “Okay.”
His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering in his cheek. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t looking at her, and she didn’t think he realized it when his hand came up to cover the mark on his neck. “You shouldn’t have to see that.”
She was off the bed and across the room before she realized she was moving. She didn’t touch him, but she stood close, until she looked up and his eyes couldn’t avoid her own. “Don’t you ever apologize to me for them. You understand? Not ever.”
He inhaled sharply, his lips parting, but he didn’t speak. His mouth pressed back into a line and he nodded.
“Good,” she said.
His eyes flicked from her to the bed, exhaustion written in them. “I’m tired.”
“Then go to sleep.”
“Will you be here when I wake up?”
“Do you want me to be?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will.” She forced him to take the bed by the simple expedient of claiming the chaise before he could. And she didn’t sleep again until she was certain that he was out, that he wasn’t faking the steady rise and fall of his chest.
And she stared at that fucking mark on his neck until it felt branded into her memory.
Clare woke to a very different Numair than the one she’d gone to sleep with. He was practically manic with energy, an almost boyish excitement on his face.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked, grumbling, as he deposited a tray with coffee and breakfast pastries onto the table beside her.
“Let’s get out of here.”
She shoved an entire chocolate pastry into her mouth and waited to see if his exuberance would lessen. It didn’t. She swallowed and said, “You want to go for a ride?”
He shook his head. “I want to get out of here. Out of the city. Away from everyone.”
