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“Why is it that you’ve never looked at me as if I’m breakable?” she suddenly asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I consider lying. Or simply not answering. But there is something so vulnerable in that small, soft voice of hers. It makes my heart clench painfully.
“Because I hate it when people look at me that way,” I reply instead.
She lifts her head, and I immediately miss the feeling of her warm cheek pressed against my chest. Confusion pulls at her brows as she turns those big gray eyes to me. “Why would anyone do that? I mean, look at you.”
As if to demonstrate her point, she runs her hand from my collarbones, over my chest and abs, and down to my waist.
And I damn near pass out from the feeling of her hand caressing my body like that.
“You’re…” She stares up at me, confusion still evident on her gorgeous face. “Perfect.”
My heart does a violent flip behind my ribs.
She slides her hand back up my stomach, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep a moan from escaping my mouth. Only once her hand is once more resting on my chest do I dare to breathe again.
“Who would ever look at you and think you’re breakable?” she says. It sounds more like a rhetorical question, but I find myself answering anyway.
“My parents.”
She blinks up at me, probably surprised by both my answer and the fact that I replied at all. Then a considering look blows across her features, and she tilts her head slightly. “Why?”
“Because they seem to think that I’m one wrong word away from becoming a serial killer.” Gazing up at the dark wooden ceiling, I blow out a long breath and slide my hand down the side of her ribs until it’s resting on her hip. “That my mind is one wrong word away from shattering like a fragile piece of glass. But it’s not. I’m not. So I know that you aren’t either.”
She falls silent. And I don’t dare to shift my gaze down to look at her, so I just continue watching the ceiling while I trace small circles on her hip with my thumb. My heart patters in my chest. I don’t even know what I want her to say. I don’t want her pity. And I don’t want her to try to reassure me that I’m normal either. Because I’m not. I am who I am.
So what am I hoping she will say?
“Isn’t a serial killer and an assassin basically the same thing, though?”
A surprised laugh rips from my chest. Tearing my gaze from the ceiling, I tilt my head back down to meet her gaze. She’s watching me with raised eyebrows.
I smile.
That was the best possible thing she could’ve said.
While continuing to stroke her hip, I chuckle softly. “Yeah, it sure is.”
She nestles closer to my body, her hand resting over my heart.
For a few seconds, only the winds blowing in the dark night outside break the silence. I swear I can feel Alina’s heart beating against my body. Or maybe that’s my own heart.
“Is it true?” I find myself asking.
“Is what true?”
“That your family doesn’t think you’re an asset?” My brows pull together in a scowl. “That they think the only way you can contribute to the family is by marrying some rich asshole that will secure an alliance for them?”
Pain and sadness flicker in her eyes. And I immediately regret asking. But she answers anyway.
“Yeah.” She heaves a small sigh that makes her warm breath dance over my skin. “But you know what it’s like. Legendary assassin families like yours and mine always have certain… expectations. A certain legacy that needs to be upheld.”
My mind briefly drifts to Jace, but I don’t say anything. I haven’t even talked to him about it yet.
So all I say is, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“So I don’t blame them for thinking that way.”
