“You really shouldn’t be up yet.”
It’s a losing battle. I think she knows that, which is why George dutifully leads the way. I’m winded and sluggish, but I’malive. I don’t want to waste any more time.
We walk through halls that are actually beginning to look familiar. I don’t really know how to feel about that. I moved into my apartment the moment I received my first check from my new job. I had been saving, always saving, working retail and odd jobs after school for what felt like forever, but it was worth it. That new independence. Not having to worry about keeping my secret life hidden at home. And it was nice, but the apartment never felt like this.
George stops in front of a pair of leaded glass doors. The panes are full of light and green things in varying hues, a stone walkway stretching in either direction to circle a large conservatory. Warmth and the sweet smell of decomposition mixed with something rich and earthy filters through the cracks in the door.
“You aren’t coming?” A flutter skitters through my abdominal muscles when she shakes her head.
“Stick to the path,” she says, curling her fingers around one of the handles and twisting. The door swings inward with a soft creak. “Don’t trample my tomatoes. If it comes down to my two favorite F-words—fighting and fucking—do it in the mint patch. That stuff is impossible to kill.”
I flip her off, laughter shooting pain through my lungs when she returns the gesture.
The scents of earth and growing things fill my nostrils, dirt and clay, citrus and sage. The room is larger. Rows of leafy trees and vines spread out in all directions. The air is warm and humid, light magnified and diffused by the opaque walls and ceiling making up the space.
Charade sits on a stone bench on the opposite side from the entrance, draped languidly across its surface in what can’t be acomfortable pose. His head rests in the palm of one hand, fingers bracing his forehead on the bench’s arm and covering his eyes.
It hits me again, like it did in that crumbling study hours ago—how beautiful he is.
Then that vibrant gaze, mesmerizing in its brilliance, falls on me. Half-mooned shadows dance across the tops of his cheekbones. Stubble colors his jawline. It won’t be long before it’s considered a proper beard. His clothes, though clean, lack his usual care and precision.
When was the last time he slept?
“About time.” A small smile curls the corners of his mouth before he straightens, stretching his back and making room on the seat. “Live, die. Die, live. I didn’t think you’d ever make a decision.”
He sounds just like Charade, calculating and provocative, but the bite isn’t there. I look into his eyes and see my own mortality reflected there.
I want to say something playful or funny. Something to reassure us both that we’re alive, but for once I’m all out of sarcasm. I hesitate only a moment, then I launch myself at him. My arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close. His stubble scratches my cheek, and I close my eyes against the threatening overspill of tears, inhaling his scent with a heaving breath as his heat fills me.
“I would have died if you hadn’t been there.” Some remote part of my brain recognizes that I’m not only talking about that one night.
His voice is almost robotic and hollow, little more than a whisper. “You don’t know what I had to do to keep you alive.”
I shake my head. I knew from the moment I woke up, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it. The connection with our powers, the shared moments and memories. A dream that wasn’t just a dream. “You could have died.”
“I know.” His head drops to my shoulder, his breath warming the fabric of my shirt where his mouth rests against it.
Finally, his arms settle into the curve of my back. And in the weight and safety of his arms, I let the tears fall.
“It took days,” he whispers, the words as reverent as a prayer. “I lost contact each time I fell asleep, but every time I woke again, you looked better. Your complexion a little brighter. Wounds more healed.”
“You’re insane.”
“You ran because of me.”
I pull back to look at him, his arms tightening briefly before letting me go, as if he is as starved for connection as I am. My eyes trace the contours of his face, cataloging every familiar detail and savoring those that are new. My fingers sink into the soft hair framing his forehead, nails gently scratching as I sweep the hair back. He shudders under my touch.
My fingers linger at the nape of his neck, and I can feel him watching me but I can’t take my eyes off the fine line crossing the top of his lip, just to the right of his Cupid’s Bow. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and I cradle his head in my hand. I lean into his space slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants. Then our breath is mixing and my palm is pressing against the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“I ran because of this.”
My lips press against the scar in a chaste kiss, then drift downward to brush against the soft, full lips that have haunted me more nights than I care to count. He gasps at the contact and I swallow the sound. It turns into a low, throaty groan at the first sweep of my tongue against his.
For once I don’t let myself think of the consequences. I melt into him as he cups my cheek, the other splayed across my lower back, pressing me closer. He takes control, angling my head to allow him better access. My heart thunders in my chest as hedeepens the kiss. He caresses my arm, goose bumps trailing in its wake, and interlaces his fingers with mine.
“Wait.” I let out a noise of protest as he breaks the kiss. “We can’t.”
“I’m so sorry.” I pull back as though burned and rise to my feet. “I-I don’t know what I was thinking.”
