Page 99 of The Immortal’s Mark

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“I am looking at the ceiling.”

“I can feel you not looking at the ceiling.”

“That is not possible.”

“And yet.”

Dumpling, disgruntled by the reduced sleeping space and the complete lack of attention being paid to him, relocates from the window to the pillow above our heads. He turns three times before collapsing with a sigh of feline contentment, one paw draped over the edge of the pillow in a way that brushes Ren’s hair.

His purring is the only sound in the room besides our breathing, which is too loud, too obvious, too there.

Tianlong watches from the windowsill. I can feel his ancient, knowing gaze even with my eyes closed. He doesn’t say anything. Somehow that’s worse. Three thousand years of wisdom, and he’s choosing now to be subtle.

The moon traces patterns on the floor through the gap in the shutters. Silver light on worn wood. Ordinary. Beautiful in the way ordinary things are beautiful when you’re lying next to someone who kissed you like the world was ending.

I don’t sleep.

Neither does he.

Chapter 644, continued: In which our heroine discovers that sharing a bed with a man she’s just kissed is significantly harder than killing one.

Why did I tell him to get in the bed.

Why did he listen.

Why do I want him to kiss me again.

Sometime in the small hours, Dumpling descends from the pillow and settles in the narrow space between us, collapsing with a sigh of feline contentment.

I turn my head. In the moonlight, I can see Ren doing the same. His eyes catch the silver light—dark and deep and full of something I can’t name.

“Your cat,” he says quietly.

“He’s not my cat.”

“You brought him from the palace. He sleeps on your pillow. He allows you to carry him in a basket, which is more tolerance than he shows anyone else.”

“Fair.”

“He seems to approve.”

Dumpling stretches between us, kneading the blanket with his claws. His eyes are half-closed, but I catch it—the slow blink. The one that means trust. The one cats give to people they’ve decided are theirs.

He’s never given me that blink before.

I look away before Ren can see whatever my face is doing.

“Two more weeks,” I say to the ceiling.

“Two more weeks,” he agrees.

“We should probably talk about what happened.”

“Probably.”

“Are we going to?”

“It seems unlikely.”

I almost laugh. Almost. Instead I close my eyes and listen to Dumpling purr and feel the warmth of another body close to mine and try not to think about how long it’s been since I let myself want something I couldn’t walk away from.

The poetry book is on the nightstand. Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll ask him which one he liked best.

Tonight, I just breathe.

Chapter 644: In which our heroine lies awake in the dark and admits, just to herself, that she doesn’t want these two weeks to end.

There. I’ve said it.

I’m never saying it again.