Ashamed at her wantonness, Luella scrambled for distraction.
When she’d gone to sleep, Az and Bastian had been there. "Where is everyone else?"
The sheets were rumpled on the bed, half-hanging off the edge of the mattress from her struggles. Dawn light pierced through the thin slits on the sides of the curtain.
"They had to leave early at the request of Vale. Bastian asked me to stay with you."
Her brow furrowed. From his words, she assumed he hadn’t been in the room with her. She eyed the rumpled sheets and cool, untouched floors. "Where did you sleep?"
"Outside," he answered simply.
"Outside? Did you not at least have a blanket? A pillow?"
He didn’t reply, jaw ticking.
She changed tactics, anything to distract herself from the want pulsing between her thighs and the feel of his hand on her skin. "Why did Vale call for them?"
"A meeting."
This time, Luella’s jaw ticked. "Do you ever answer plainly?"
The scarred side of Graves’s face twitched in dark mirth. "About our next steps. The Fallen who took you, they acted alone, but that doesn’t mean there are not others who wish you harm. Vale’s been scheming, as usual. He and Bastian think another ball will help show nothing is amiss." His hand twitched on her chest, forcing the chain to dig into her neck. "And that we are,strong and united," he quoted. Luella could almost hear Vale in the words.
"You do not agree?"
"I think staying quiet is always the better option as opposed to ostentatiousness."
She hummed in reply, thinking.
"Do you—do you wish to tell me about it?" Graves asked, tone softer than normal.
Luella sighed, shifting back against the pillows. Her wings trembled from her movement. She studied the dark feathers behind him, draped over his shoulders and commanding her attention. "I do not wish to speak of it. Some dreams are better left unspoken."
It had been an amalgamation of fear, unease, peace, and beauty. She loved it, yearned for it—yet feared it, at the same time. It was frightening to dance around it like she was doing. She was so scared that if she spoke of it, she would breathe life into her words, making it come to fruition.
However, she wondered if that would be a terrible thing.
Graves searched her eyes, then said, "Okay." With that one word, an invisible weight was lifted from her shoulders. He understood her—better than she did herself, perhaps. He weighed the amulet in his hands, brows scrunching, deep in thought. "How are your injuries?"
He asked her nearly every day, quietly sweeping into whatever room she was in—or sometimes, where she sat outside watching the sea and sky—murmuring the question, then quickly leaving once she answered. She always hated telling him, knowing he would leave soon after. Things were still tense between them.
"I’m fine," Luella answered. Her breath hitched as soft waves of unrest coiled inside her. She was coming to understand it was from the others. "What does your mother think—about another ball?"
"She agrees."
"But you do not?" Luella wanted to understand.
Suddenly, he shifted forward, hand firm against her chest. Through the thinness of her gown, she was acutely aware of her flesh, as if it yearned for his touch, tingling. The neckline dipped low, revealing the beginning, soft swell of her breasts; his hand brushed against her. Her wings rippled, as did his.
It brought an echo of a smile to her lips. Darkness and light—yet, concurrently, they were so similar. Did the Fallen hate the angels simply because their feathers were different? Or was it something more?
"Stop trying to distract yourself," Graves said. "It’s not working on you, and it’s not working on me." He tugged the amulet.
"W-what do you mean?"
He was so close, she could count the darker flecks of blue in his deep eyes, the individual feathers at the tops of his wings.
"I mean that you’re wanting," he murmured. His other hand lifted, hovering over her cheek.
